Page 77 of A Most Unwelcome Acquaintance

The visit continued another hour. Mrs. Bennet praised Netherfield, hinted at future dinners, and regretted that rain threatened before she had finished making herself comfortable. When the carriage arrived, Elizabeth called Sarah to her side.

Bingley mentioned the summerhouse while they waited in the hall. “I mean to have the path cleared next week. The view should be worth saving.”

Mrs. Bennet declared that every respectable estate required such a retreat and asked whether it could hold twelve people for supper.

“Perhaps six for tea,” Bingley said.

Caroline joined them. “The interior will require more than a few chairs. We must examine the plaster, paint the woodwork, and dress the windows with something that will not shut out the garden.

“You see why I have left it to her,” Bingley said.

Elizabeth looked through the glass doors toward the east lawn. She could not see the summerhouse from the entrance, but the path leading toward it disappeared behind a stand of yews.

“Was it built with the house?” she asked.

“Later, I think,” Bingley said. “No one has used it for years.”

“Then Miss Bingley has rescued it from extinction.”

Caroline accepted the remark as praise. “Neglect should not be mistaken for charm.”

Elizabeth glanced at Darcy. “No. They are often confused.”

He heard the reference to Longbourn and the lane. Caroline did not.

“The building is sound despite its appearance,” he said.

“A generous conclusion,” Elizabeth replied.

He could not tell whether she mocked him or offered peace. With Elizabeth, the uncertainty had begun to interest him more than it offended him.

Jane accepted Bingley’s hand as she stepped outside. Mrs. Bennet called for Lydia, who had returned to the drawing room for a glove. Elizabeth waited at the door with Sarah.

“You need not stand in the rain,” Darcy said.

“It has not begun.”

A drop struck the stone between them.

Elizabeth looked down. “I stand corrected.”

He almost smiled. “You admit correction with greater ease than I do.”

“That depends upon the correction.”

“Of course.”

She studied him, and he felt the old impulse to defend himself before she had accused him of anything.

Instead he said, “Has Wickham corrected the story?”

“Kitty says he has.”

“You do not believe her?”

“I believe Kitty. I doubt a correction travels with the same enthusiasm as the original.”

He could not dispute it. “No.”