Page 168 of A Debt Inherited

The intelligence moved through the ladies with all the speed proper to an unmarried gentleman and five thousand a year.

Charlotte Lucas slipped to Elizabeth’s side with a look of affectionate mischief. “Unmarried, certainly. Handsome and rich as well, I daresay.” She levelled a conspiratorial stare at her mother, who inclined her head, spread her fan, and put it to use.

Elizabeth’s lips curved. “Then we must hope he brings a party of like friends.”

Jane glanced down, hiding a smile.

“His name is Bingley,” Charlotte said, with a knowing look. “My father has already practised the introduction twice before the glass.”

“Then the gentleman is fortunate,” Elizabeth said. “Few men enter a county so well rehearsed.”

Charlotte’s smile warmed. “And you are fortunate to come to-night. The whole room has been waiting to see who would claim the first dance.”

“Then the whole room must prepare for disappointment. I mean to stand by Jane and look severe.”

“You will fail before the second set.”

“I shall fail gracefully.”

Mrs Bennet’s fan opened with a soft snap. “Lizzy, my dear, severity does not become a young lady in a silk gown. Let others look severe. You may look pleased.”

Elizabeth turned her head at the gentleness beneath the correction. Her mother did not fuss with her sleeve, did not demand colour in her cheeks, did not thrust her forward as bait for any stranger with an income. She only looked at her—quickly, searchingly—and then looked away before gratitude could embarrass them both.

The room filled and shifted around them. Neighbours came in twos and threes, all smiles, glances, and softened voices, as though civility might repair what rumour must never touch. Everywhere Elizabeth heard the same words return in altered order: Netherfield, young, rich, unmarried, handsome, party from town.

The old amusement rose within her, cautious but alive.

She had thought herself done with such rooms. Not by vow, not by tragedy spoken aloud, but by that private alteration which makes former pleasures appear to belong to some other girl. Yet here stood Jane beside her, bright with relieved affection; here her mother accepted compliments and her father watched every door and made disinterest look like wit.

Perhaps a room might become survivable by degrees.

Jane leant close again. “You are doing very well.”

“I am standing still. That is hardly an accomplishment.”

“It is to me.”

Elizabeth could not answer. She looked instead towards the musicians, who had begun to lift their bows. The first notes hovered, then faltered as a stir rose near the entrance.

The doorman stepped aside.

Conversation loosened, thinned, and gathered again.

The Netherfield party stood framed in the light from the hall. The foremost gentleman, fair-haired and open-faced, looked upon the room as though Hertfordshire had presented itself for his particular delight. Beside him stood a fashionable lady with an air of decided consequence; another, no less elegant, leant towards a gentleman whose posture did not conceal his curiosity. A younger lady, of delicate figure and plainly new to such notice, kept her hand lightly upon the arm of a taller gentleman. Behind them, an officer in regimentals surveyed the room with the quiet authority of command.

The entrance had all the confusion Meryton could desire: silk, jewels, bows, whispers, and rank guessed wrongly before anyone had crossed the threshold.

“Bingley,” Charlotte whispered near Elizabeth’s ear. “The fair one. Mr Charles Bingley from Scarborough.”

Elizabeth followed her glance. “He looks pleased with his bargain.”

“And why should he not? He has rented a handsome house and entered a room determined to admire him.” Charlotte’s voice dropped lower. “The lady with the fine orange silk is Miss Bingley. Mrs Hurst, his elder sister, stands beside her husband.”

“Then the younger lady?”

“Miss Darcy.”

Elizabeth stilled.