Chapter Two

T he next morning, secure in the knowledge that Charles would not cross the threshold of Miss Bennet’s sick room, I attempted to break my fast.

I had barely lifted my first cup of perfectly brewed tea to my lips when chaos incarnate burst through our breakfast parlour door in the form of Elizabeth Bennet. Dear reader, I tell you with complete sincerity that she looked as though she had challenged every hedgerow in Hertfordshire to mortal combat—and lost.

I stopped, frozen in horror, as Miss Elizabeth Bennet traipsed into our breakfast parlour. Her face was flushed an alarming shade of red, her bonnet visibly in disrepair, and her petticoat... good heavens, her petticoat! It bore more mud than fabric at this point. Or what little mud not already affixed to her boots. Three miles! On foot! In this weather! It was beyond comprehension. I half expected to see a flock of sheep trailing behind her.

“Miss Elizabeth!” I nearly dropped my cup, which would have been a tragedy as it was my favourite Wedgwood. “What an... unexpected pleasure.” The word ‘pleasure’ had never been stretched so thin.

“Good morning, Miss Bingley.” She had the audacity to beam at us all, as if appearing at a gentleman’s house at dawn looking like something the gamekeeper’s dog had dragged in was perfectly acceptable behaviour. “I hope I’m not intruding?”

“Not at all,” I lied through gritted teeth. “Though I confess, we were not expecting visitors quite so... early. Or quite so...”

“Muddy?” she supplied helpfully. she actually twirled—twirled! — giving us all an excellent view of her ruined stockings and petticoats. The hem of her dress appeared to have absorbed half the county’s topsoil. “I walked from Longbourn.” Surely she had waded through a knee-deep creek of muck to render her hems so filthy. The chit had the audacity to smile, as if her bedraggled state was something to be proud of.

“Walked?” I echoed faintly. “In this weather? My dear Miss Elizabeth, were all the horses in Hertfordshire suddenly struck lame?”

“The exercise was most invigorating!” She seemed positively gleeful about her state of dishevelment. “I have come to inquire after my sister,” she announced, as if that explained everything.

Charles, ever the fool, jumped to her defence. “Caroline! Miss Elizabeth has shown great devotion in coming to check on her sister. It’s admirable, really.”

“Oh yes, brother dear. Terribly admirable. I’m sure Miss Elizabeth’s innovative approach to morning calls will be the talk of the county.” I added sotto voce for Mr Darcy’s amusement, “Along with her unique approach to morning attire.” I took a fortifying sip of tea.

“Caroline,” Louisa hissed behind her napkin, “do attempt to be civil.”

“I am being perfectly civil,” I whispered back. “I have not even mentioned that she appears to have brought half of Longbourn’s gardens with her on her hem.”

Mr Darcy, usually so composed, bore the queerest expression, as if caught between admiration and confusion. He was staring at our mud-spattered visitor with an expression I had never seen before—something between horror and fascination, like a man watching a shipwreck in progress.

“Miss Elizabeth,” he managed, his voice oddly strained, “your dedication to your sister is... commendable.”

I nearly inhaled my tea. “Oh yes, Mr Darcy. Commendable indeed.” Had the man completely lost his senses? Though I suppose there’s no accounting for taste when it comes to... rustic charm. I, of course, had to express agreement with him, but had he lost his mind?

As Miss Elizabeth was whisked away, leaving a trail of muddy footprints that would give Mrs Nickson apoplexy — to infect poor Jane with her peculiar brand of madness, I turned to my siblings. “Well! How thoughtful of Miss Elizabeth to bring us a piece of her ancestral estate. Perhaps we should have the servants preserve it as a souvenir?”

Louisa glared at me. “Caroline, please. She is our guest.”

“A guest?” I scoffed. “More like an invading army of mud and impropriety.” Charles and Louisa both huffed at that. Mr Darcy bore his usual inscrutable expression, but I hoped that he merely was silent to avoid disagreeing with his host.

The day proceeded to deteriorate with remarkable efficiency. The apothecary arrived—a dried-up little man who looked as though he had learnt his trade during the Crusades—and pronounced Miss Jane Bennet too ill to be moved. Charles fretted about like a mother hen, and Mrs Nickle pestered me endlessly about broths and tinctures, as if I had suddenly been appointed head nurse of this impromptu infirmary.

By three o’clock, I was certain our ordeal was nearly over. While we were stuck with Miss Bennet, per the orders of the apothecary, she was out of sight in a guest room. I made what I thought was a masterful attempt to salvage the situation. I ordered the carriage prepared and pressed it on Miss Elizabeth with grace and elegance.

“Miss Elizabeth,” I said, with what I considered saint-like patience, “pray allow us to send you home in the carriage. We would not want you to... exert yourself unnecessarily.”

But before she could accept this perfectly reasonable offer, Jane’s weak voice floated up from her bed: “Oh, Lizzy, you will not leave me, will you? I depend upon you so...”

Charles heard Miss Jane Bennet speak of her reliance on “dear Lizzy” and had such concern at parting the sisters and just like that, my brilliant strategy crumbled. Social propriety demanded that I extend an invitation for Miss Elizabeth to stay, which she accepted with thoroughly suspicious gratitude. Likely she merely wished to impose on our superior kitchens for some decent meals to fatten up her scrawny frame.

“How delightful,” I said, my smile so fixed it threatened to crack my face. “Now we can enjoy Miss Elizabeth’s unique... perspectives for even longer. Though perhaps we should send for some additional cleaning staff?”

“Caroline,” Charles frowned, “do try to be kind.”

I waved a hand dismissively. “Oh, I am perfectly kind, Charles. In fact, I am considering taking up Miss Elizabeth’s novel approach to exercise myself. What do you say, Louisa? Shall we go wrestle with some shrubbery before dinner?”

Louisa looked horrified. “Caroline!”

I sighed dramatically. “No? Well, I suppose wecannot all aspire to such heights of... rustic charm.”

“Caroline!” Louisa cornered me with her most formidable older-sister expression. “You do yourself no favours with such remarks. Would you like to be known as the sharp-tongued spinster of the neighbourhood?”

“Better a sharp tongue than mud-caked stockings,” I muttered, but she seized my arm with surprising force.

“There is no need to be rude, Caroline. You need not give rein to your least charitable thoughts. Do you wish to be viewed as a shrew?”

A shrew! Louisa had truly lost her sense after her marriage. She no longer understood the pressure I felt to make a positive impression on the only eligible man within a hundred miles. I shook off her hand and took up a position to provide the best view of my figure directed towards Mr Darcy.

Louisa approached me and hissed “Sister dear. Your attempts to impress Mr Darcy will come to nothing if you persist in showing your worst nature.”

I turned away, adjusting my pose to best display my figure—which, I might add, was decidedly un-mud-spattered. “I merely wish to maintain some standards of decorum in this house. Is that so terrible?”

As a footman was dispatched to fetch Miss Elizabeth’s things—hopefully including some clean stockings—I consoled myself by planning extensive renovations to our morning room. Clearly, we needed more mirrors. Mr Darcy could not possibly have seen Miss Elizabeth’s bedraggled state from all angles, or he would surely have been properly horrified.

Heaven help us all. The Bennet invasion was officially underway, and I appeared to be the only one with sense enough to mount a defence.

One would think, after the dramatic displays of the previous evening, that the morning might offer some respite. One would be devastatingly incorrect.

Miss Elizabeth Bennet joined us for dinner, looking only marginally less dishevelled than she had earlier—though that is rather like saying a hurricane is marginally more pleasant than a tsunami. The mud had been cleaned from her hem, but her hair retained that wild quality that spoke of complete indifference to proper grooming. Or perhaps she merely had not yet learnt that civilised society possessed such innovations as combs.

Charles, predictably, launched straight into his concerned-host performance. “And how is dear Miss Bennet faring?” He leaned forward so eagerly I feared he might fall face-first into his soup. I suppressed a sigh of exasperation.

“I am afraid she is no better,” she said with all the gravity of a third-act tragedy.

“Oh, how dreadful!” I exclaimed, my voice dripping with feigned sympathy. “A bad cold is so shocking, is it not, Louisa?”

“Indeed,” Louisa agreed. “I absolutely detest being ill.” I fear Louisa missed the mark and took my words seriously.

“Who does not, dear?” I muttered into my wine glass. Though I had to admit, if illness brought eligible gentlemen rushing to one’s bedside, perhaps the Bennets were onto something.

We repeated our concerns a few more times for good measure before I promptly forgot about the matter entirely. After all, there were far more pressing issues at hand - such as ensuring Mr Darcy did not spend too much time gazing at Miss Elizabeth’s “fine eyes.”

The moment Miss Elizabeth excused herself to check on her sister—probably to ensure Jane maintained the perfect level of theatrical invalidity—I turned to our dining companions with barely contained glee.

“Well! Shall we discuss our dear guest’s... unique approach to morning calls?”

“Caroline,” Louisa warned, wielding her dinner knife with uncomfortable precision. “Indeed, it must be quite worrying for Miss Elizabeth. I do hope Jane recovers soon.”

I pressed on, determined to make my point. “That petticoat! Six inches deep in mud! I have not seen such a determined assault on cleanliness since the pig escaped into the parlour at Lady Metcalf’s last summer.”

Charles set down his fork with exaggerated calm and predictably, agreed with my sister. “Your picture may be very exact, Caroline,” said he, “but this was all lost upon me. I thought Miss Elizabeth Bennet looked remarkably well when she came into the room this morning. Her dirty petticoat quite escaped my notice.”

“Of course, dear brother,” I patted his hand as one might comfort a particularly dim child. “You were too busy composing sonnets to her sister’s sneezes.”

Turning to Mr Darcy—who had been suspiciously quiet—I lowered my voice to a confidential murmur.

“You observed it, Mr Darcy, I am sure, and I am inclined to think that you would not wish to see your sister make such an exhibition.”

"Certainly not,” he replied, though his eyes held an alarming twinkle. Not to be deterred, I took that as encouragement.

“To walk three miles, or four miles, or five miles, or whatever it is, above her ankles in dirt, and alone, quite alone! What could she mean by it? It seems to me to show an abominable sort of conceited independence, a most country-town indifference to decorum.”

“Caroline,” Louisa interjected firmly, “this is most unbecoming. We ought to be gracious hosts, not gossips.”

I felt a flush of irritation at my sister’s attack. “I am merely pointing out the impropriety of her actions.”

“It shows affection for her sister,” Charles said, backing up Louisa. Finding no support with my siblings, I turned to a certain sympathiser with my view.

“I am afraid, Mr Darcy,” I added, undeterred, in a half whisper, “that this adventure has rather affected your admiration of her fine eyes.”

“Not at all,” he replied with alarming promptness. “They were brightened by the exercise.”

A short pause followed this speech. I had no witty retort prepared for him taking the side of the trollop. Might he be sincere in his admiration? Impossible. He must be joking. But Mr Darcy was not a man known for frivolity. Mr Darcy’s sense of humour, while it existed, rarely extended to matters of propriety. Good heavens, had the man been enchanted?

Refusing to be deterred, I pressed on. “Well, regardless of her eyes—though I am sure they are very fine when not obscured by hedge clippings—with such a family and such connections, I fear poor Jane’s prospects are rather limited. Did you know their uncle is an attorney in Meryton?”

With no one taking up the topic, I continued, “and another is in trade and lives near Cheapside!”

Charles, predictably, came to their defence. “If they had uncles enough to fill all Cheapside, it would not make them any less agreeable.”

“But it would certainly lessen their chances of marrying well,” Mr Darcy observed, finally giving me something to work with. I seized upon this morsel of sense like a drowning woman clutching at a life raft. I gave it my hearty assent and indulged in further mirth for some time at the expense of our dear friend’s vulgar relations. My energy soon flagged with no assistance from the others in our party.

At Louisa’s insistence, we two ladies went up to see Jane for ourselves. She was clearly ill, her face ashen, her hair lank and unkempt, and a handkerchief constantly at her nose. I prepared to remove myself for fear of contagion, but Louisa restrained me, insisting on asking a litany of questions about Jane Bennet’s health.

When we finally departed, Elizabeth would not quit her at all. Late in the evening, when she had the comfort of seeing her sister asleep, she came downstairs herself. She was immediately invited to join us in a game of loo, but declined saying her sister might require her. Probably worried about betting away her quarterly allowance in a single hand. Mr Hurst looked at her with astonishment, as he never refrains from betting as he enjoys taking our money while he lives off of Charles’s generosity.

As the evening wore on, I found myself increasingly irritated by Miss Elizabeth’s continued presence in our home. When she declined again to join our card game, preferring a book instead, I sharpened my sword.

“Miss Eliza Bennet despises cards,” I announced to the room. “She is a great reader and has no pleasure in anything else.”

“I deserve neither such praise nor such censure,” she replied, with infuriating composure. “I am not a great reader, and I have pleasure in many things.”

“Like tramping through mud, no doubt,” I muttered under my breath. The sharp pain in my ankle suggested Louisa’s aim with a well-placed kick had improved since our schoolroom days. I consoled myself by plotting to have the morning room redecorated in shades that would make Miss Elizabeth’s complexion look particularly sallow. If we must endure this invasion, I would at least ensure the battlefield was tilted in my favour.

Miss Eliza Bennet pretended to read some dusty tome of Mr Darcy’s. More vexing still was the way Mr Darcy’s eyes kept straying in her direction like compass needles drawn to magnetic north. Clearly, I would need to develop a sudden passionate interest in whatever medieval manuscripts he favoured. Eager to reclaim his attention, “I am astonished,” I announced to the room at large, “that my father left so small a collection of books. What a delightful library you have at Pemberley, Mr Darcy!”

“It ought to be good,” he replied, his gaze still magnetised by Elizabeth’s profile. “It has been the work of many generations.”

“And you have added so much to it yourself,” I persisted, wondering if I should fetch a book and wave it about like a flag. “You are always buying books.”

His response was frustratingly vague. “I cannot comprehend the neglect of a family library in such days as these.”

Was this a hint? Should I begin expanding Netherfield’s modest collection? I made a mental note to order several hundred incomprehensible volumes at the earliest opportunity. But perhaps I ought to divert attention from the library to the building itself. Netherfield was a privy next to Darcy’s estate.

“Charles,” I pivoted smoothly, “when you build your house, I wish it may be half as delightful as Pemberley.”

“With all my heart!” Charles replied with all the restraint of a child at Astley’s circus, “I shall buy Pemberley itself if Darcy will sell it.”

“I am speaking of possibilities, Charles,” I said through gritted teeth, my patience wearing thin.

“Upon my word, Caroline,” he laughed, “I should think it more possible to get Pemberley by purchase than by imitation.”

Desperate to find a more productive conversation, I was inspired to touch on the topic which had managed to extract a slight smile from my quarry in the past. I inquired of Mr Darcy, “Is Miss Darcy much grown since the spring? Will she be as tall as I am?”

“I believe she will,” he replied, his eyes flickering yet again to Eliza. “She is now about Miss Elizabeth Bennet’s height, or rather taller.”

I nearly dropped my paper dry scone. Was he deliberately attempting to vex me? Was there no topic which would not draw him back to that vixen? Next he’d be comparing his sister’s accomplishments to Elizabeth’s mud-walking.

“How I long to see her again!” I effused, determined to reclaim control. “I never met with anybody who delighted me so much. Such a countenance, such manners, and so extremely accomplished for her age! Her performance on the pianoforte is exquisite.”

Charles, demonstrating his usual gift for missing the point entirely, chimed in: “It is amazing to me how young ladies can have patience to be so very accomplished as they all are.”

“All young ladies accomplished! My dear Charles, what do you mean?” I cried. The poor, boy. My brother would be dazzled by anyone with blonde hair, blue eyes and a shapely figure, regardless of whether she could even write her name.

“Yes, all of them, I think.” He beamed like a proud father in his nursery. “They all paint tables, cover screens, and net purses. I scarcely know anyone who cannot do all this; and I am sure I never heard a young lady spoken of for the first time, without being informed that she was very accomplished.”

I sunk back in my chair. Charles was hopeless. Did I dissuade him of this foolishness, or simply give up on him? I straightened my back again, conscious of the impact of slouching on my bosom.

“Oh yes, brother dear,” I muttered sotto voce . “And I suppose breathing in and out counts as an accomplishment these days?”

Darcy, finally stirring from his Elizabeth-induced trance, attempted to inject some sense into the proceedings. “Your list of common accomplishments has too much truth. The word is applied to many a woman who deserves it no otherwise than by netting a purse or covering a screen. I cannot boast of knowing more than half-a-dozen truly accomplished women in my entire acquaintance.”

“Nor I, I am sure,” I agreed. At last Mr Darcy was defending me!

“Then,” Miss Elizabeth piped up, “you must comprehend a great deal in your idea of an accomplished woman.” She had only joined the conversation to redirect Darcy’s attention to herself. I would correct that.

“Yes; I do comprehend a great deal in it.” Serious as ever, Darcy spoke plainly.

I absolutely beamed. Mr Darcy had at last spoken of his admiration for me. I stood head and shoulders above any of the country misses in this backwater. Both literally and in accomplishments. I saw my opportunity to put Miss Eliza in her place. “Oh, certainly,” I cried as his faithful assistant, “no one can be really esteemed accomplished who does not greatly surpass what is usually met with,” I glanced at Mr Darcy, anticipating his admiring gaze. He continued to look surreptitiously at Miss Eliza. I pressed on. “A woman must have a thorough knowledge of music, singing, drawing, dancing, and the modern languages, to deserve the word.” Dare I suggest that I rendered a perfect description of myself? I hoped I was not too subtle for Mr Darcy. It was, if I do say so myself, a masterful self-portrait. Subtle as a brick through a window, perhaps, but desperate times call for desperate measures.

Mr Darcy said nothing.

Nothing for it, I would go in for the kill.

“Besides all this, she must possess a certain something in her air and manner of walking, the tone of her voice, her address and expressions, or the word will be but half deserved.” He could not but see how well suited I am to him. But no. I was ignored and the provincial chit wished to speak again.

Elizabeth, apparently determined to be thoroughly provoking, merely laughed. “I am no longer surprised at your knowing only six accomplished women. I rather wonder now at your knowing any.”

I gasped. The audacity! The impertinence! The... the way Darcy was actually smirking at her comment! How dare she insult me so! My accomplishments, my elegance, how could she deny my superiority! While I fumed, Darcy smirked!

“Are you so severe upon your own sex as to doubt the possibility of all this?” said he—he, always so stoic, nearly broke into a grin at this country bumpkin challenging him! She dared to disagree with him, the grandson of an earl, the scion of an ancient lineage. He surely would put her in her place…

But she went on! “I never saw such a woman. I never saw such capacity, and taste, and application, and elegance, as you describe, united.” HOW DARE SHE!

I was compelled to cry out against the injustice of her implied doubt, and protested that I knew many women in London who answered this description. But Mr Hurst called me to order, with bitter complaints of my inattention to the stupid game. As I turned away, to fume in silence, Mr Darcy, to my dismay, went on.

“All this she must possess,” he had to add; “and to all she must yet add something more substantial in the improvement of her mind by extensive reading.” What the devil was this? I had not yet taken up his foolish book. Extensive reading? Now I had to actually read his dusty tomes rather than just admire them from afar? What next—should I take up astronomy? Learn Greek? Write philosophical treatises?

I caught his meaningful look at Elizabeth and nearly cursed with indignation.

When Elizabeth finally quitted the room, I could contain myself no longer. “Eliza Bennet is one of those young ladies who seeks to recommend themselves to the other sex by undervaluing their own,” I sneered.

“Caroline!” Louisa exclaimed. “That is quite unkind. Miss Elizabeth has been nothing but pleasant.”

Mr Darcy’s response was even more galling. “There is meanness in all the arts which ladies sometimes condescend to employ for captivation. Whatever bears affinity to cunning is despicable.”

I fell into a sullen silence, contemplating his words. At least he had remarked on how cunning Miss Eliza was, with her pretension to reading and her teasing flirts. She strove to captivate him, for a certainty. Yet she did not flatter him. She did not even agree with the man when she might easily show herself as an agreeable lady. I could not fathom what Mr Darcy meant by engaging with her when she employed such tricks.

Here I was, accomplishing myself to death, while Elizabeth Bennet tramped about the countryside collecting mud and contradicting everyone, and somehow she was the one drawing his attention.

Later, Elizabeth returned with news of her sister’s worsening condition. I saw another opportunity. Her report of Miss Bennet’s condition was a melodramatic tour de force. Her fever, her this, her that. I would play along and call her bluff.

“We must send for a physician from town,” I insisted. “No country doctor could possibly be of use.”

But Miss Eliza would only accept a visit from the apothecary. It was settled that Mr Jones should be sent for early in the morning, if Miss Bennet were not decidedly better. Charles was quite uncomfortable, and I declared that I was miserable. I was, however, the cause was the presence of the Bennet sisters, not the condition of their health.

Charles fretted and fussed over the Bennets, giving poor Mrs Nicklet all sorts of orders for Miss Bennet’s comfort.

“Come, Louisa,” I said with forced brightness, “let us soothe our misery with a duet.” Perhaps if we play loudly enough, we can drown out the sound of my dreams shattering.

Louisa gave me a reproachful look, but joined me, nonetheless

As we played, I watched Mr Darcy with growing despair. Something had to be done about these Bennet sisters, and soon. Though at this rate, I would probably have better luck trying to teach the pigeons in the garden to play whist.

Upon the third day of what I had taken to calling the Bennet invasion—though Louisa insists I ought not— as I sat in the breakfast parlour, attempting to enjoy my morning repast, the door burst open to admit none other than Mrs Bennet and her two youngest daughters. I was struck quite motionless, toast suspended midair at the incursion. “Good heavens,” I whispered to Louisa, “the entire Bennet clan has descended upon us.”

“Caroline,” Louisa admonished, “do attempt to be civil.”

The matron and her gawking offspring trooped up to the sickroom, returning post haste to work on Charles.

I plastered on my most gracious smile as Mrs Bennet approached.

My sweet, biddable brother spoke to them. Had Mrs Bennet had not found Miss Bennet worse than she expected?

“Indeed, I have, sir,” was her answer. “She is a great deal too ill to be moved. Mr Jones says we must not think of moving her. We must trespass a little longer on your kindness,” she said. Her smirk - which I found most telling - did not go unnoticed.

“Removed!” cried Charles. “It must not be thought of. My sister, I am sure, will not hear of her removal.” I perceived the steely glint in my brother’s eye—he can be remarkably stubborn when it suits him—and knew I had no choice but to force myself to be hospitable.

“You may depend upon it, madam,” said I. I must play the gracious hostess, however much it pained me, “Miss Bennet shall receive every possible attention while she remains with us.”

Mrs Bennet was profuse in her acknowledgements and gratitude, She then expanded upon her attack with praise of the dreadful estate we were stuck in. “I do not know a place in the country that is equal to Netherfield. You will not think of quitting it in a hurry, I hope, though you have but a short lease.” Not, sadly, short enough.

“Whatever I do is done in a hurry,” replied Charles, with rare insight, “and therefore if I should resolve to quit Netherfield, I should probably be off in five minutes. At present, however, I consider myself as quite fixed here.” Charles apparently thought his flightiness ought to be praised.

“That is exactly what I should have supposed of you,” said Miss Eliza. I could not determine whether she was now attempting to flirt with Charles or insult him.

“You begin to comprehend me, do you?” Whatever her scheme, Charles took the bait.

“Oh, yes—I understand you perfectly.” Miss Eliza smiled that shrewish smile which she appeared to use to good effect.

“I wish I might take this for a compliment; but to be so easily seen through, I am afraid, is pitiful.” Why Charles, you are less dense than I feared.

“That is as it happens. It does not necessarily follow that a deep, intricate character is more or less estimable than such a one as yours.” At this further flattery by Miss Eliza, Charles grinned. Fortunately, Mrs Bennet for once took charge.

“Lizzy,” cried her mother, “remember where you are, and do not run on in the wild manner that you are suffered to do at home.” Her remarks deterred neither Charles nor her wild daughter, but I was astounded to learn that anyone had ever endeavoured to check the chit.

Charles was not deterred. “I did not know before,” said he immediately, “that you were a studier of character. It must be an amusing study.”

“Yes; but intricate characters are the most amusing. They have at least that advantage.” I feared Miss Eliza was playing chess whilst my brother was not quite mastering draughts.

Darcy apparently caught on to the game. “The country,” he said, “can in general supply but few subjects for such a study. In a country neighbourhood, you move in a very confined and unvarying society.” I watched in dismay as Elizabeth and Mr Darcy engaged in what could only be described as verbal sparring, their eyes locked in a way that made my stomach revolt. Her manner of discourse bore no similarity to proper flirtation, yet I observed—much to my dismay—that Mr Darcy appeared thoroughly enchanted by this extraordinary exchange.

“But people themselves alter so much, that there is something new to be observed in them forever.” Miss Eliza was quick. I had to acknowledge that. I could not say for certain what she was about, but she somehow had both gentlemen in her thrall. I thought, but did not say, ‘ Indeed, Miss Eliza, one might say the same of young ladies who discover a sudden talent for witty discourse when particular gentlemen are in attendance.’

I swear Louisa read my mind. She again kicked me under the table. “Caroline, be kind,” she whispered. What? I had not even made a peep.

The conversation descended into further chaos. Mrs Bennet began extolling the virtues of country life and boasting about her acquaintances. She utterly missed the mark, “Yes, indeed,” said she, apparently offended by Darcy’s manner of mentioning a country neighbourhood. “I assure you there is quite as much of that going on in the country as in town.” I was intrigued. Exactly what manner of “that” was Mrs Bennet referring to? What could possibly happen in this flea-bitten environs which might be remotely amusing?

Darcy, after looking at her for a moment, turned silently away. I was certain he resisted the urge to provide Mrs Bennet with a spectacular set down. Or perhaps he was bored. Mrs Bennet, who fancied she had gained a complete victory over him, continued her triumph—

“I cannot see that London has any great advantage over the country, for my part, except the shops and public places. The country is a vast deal pleasanter, is not it, Mr Bingley?” One thing I must say for that lady, she knew her audience. Charles would no more disagree with her than climb up to dust the dingy chandelier.

“When I am in the country,” he replied, “I never wish to leave it; and when I am in town, it is pretty much the same. They have each their advantages, and I can be equally happy in either.”

“Ay, that is because you have the right disposition.” Mrs Bennet beamed at Charles, her new favourite. “But that gentleman,” she continued, looking daggers at Darcy, “seemed to think the country was nothing at all.”

“Indeed, mamma, you are mistaken.” Miss Eliza was blushing for her mother. “You quite mistook Mr Darcy. He only meant that there was not such a variety of people to be met with in the country as in town, which you must acknowledge to be true.”

“Certainly, my dear, nobody said there were but as to not meeting with many people in this neighbourhood, I believe there are few neighbourhoods larger. I know we dine with four-and-twenty families.”

I directed my eye towards Mr Darcy with a very expressive smile. He maintained his stoic countenance, despite the ample provocation.

Miss Eliza, desperate to change the topic, asked mother her if Charlotte Lucas had been at Longbourn since her coming away.

“Yes, she called yesterday with her father. What an agreeable man Sir William is, Mr Bingley—is not he? so much the man of fashion! so genteel and so easy! He has always something to say to everybody. That is my idea of good breeding; and those persons who fancy themselves very important and never open their mouths quite mistake the matter.” Mrs Bennet’s unsubtle jab at Mr Darcy missed its mark by a furlong. That gentleman was looking away as if wool gathering. The conversation went on.

“Did Charlotte dine with you?”

“No, she would go home. I fancy she was wanted about the mince-pies. For my part, Mr Bingley, I always keep servants that can do their own work; my daughters are brought up differently. But everybody is to judge for themselves, and the Lucases are a very good sort of girls, I assure you. It is a pity they are not handsome! Not that I think Charlotte so very plain; but then she is our particular friend.”

“She seems a very pleasant young woman,” Charles could never stand a conflict, no matter how mild or irrelevant.

“Oh dear, yes; but you must own she is very plain. Lady Lucas herself has often said so and envied me Jane’s beauty. I do not like to boast of my own child; but to be sure, Jane—one does not often see anybody better looking. It is what everybody says. I do not trust my own partiality. When she was only fifteen, there was a gentleman at my brother Gardiner’s in town so much in love with her, that my sister-in-law was sure he would make her an offer before we came away. But, however, he did not. Perhaps he thought her too young. However, he wrote some verses on her, and very pretty they were.” Lord save us, we were now to be treated to Mrs Bennet attempting to render Jane more palatable on the basis of some ‘gentleman’ attempting to win her when she was a child. I squeezed my eyes closed to relieve the urge to gape at her.

“And so ended his affection,” said Miss Eliza, her tone impatient. It was oddly satisfying to see that one suffer. Her mother’s effusions embarrassed her, as they would any decent person. She attempted to divert attention from her mother with further blather. “There has been many a one, I fancy, overcome in the same way. I wonder who first discovered the efficacy of poetry in driving away love!” This nonsense roused Darcy from his stupor.

“I have been used to consider poetry as the food of love,” said Darcy, his voice soft in a way I had never heard before.

I gripped my teacup so tightly I feared it might shatter. Indeed, he had not been wool-gathering, but merely waiting to reengage with his favoured sparring partner.

“Of a fine, stout, healthy love, it may. Everything nourishes what is strong already. But if it be only a slight, thin sort of inclination, I am convinced that one good sonnet will starve it entirely away.” Miss Eliza’s fine eyes sparkled as she gazed at Darcy. I felt a pang in my back teeth and attempted to cease clenching them with quite so much force.

Darcy only smiled. It was not a smile of disdain, nor one of polite indifference. It was a sort of smile I had not before seen on Mr Darcy and it puzzled me exceedingly.

I was not in the least troubled, however, to observe Miss Eliza appear to tremble lest her mother should be exposing herself again.

Mrs Bennet began repeating her thanks for Charles’s kindness to Jane, with an apology for troubling him also with Lizzy. He turned his eyes on me with such a glare as forced me to be civil also and say what the occasion required. I expertly performed my part, indeed, with much graciousness, and, heaven be praised, Mrs Bennet was satisfied, and soon afterwards ordered her carriage.

Upon this signal, the youngest of her daughters put herself forward. The two girls had been rudely whispering to each other during the whole visit; and the result of it was that the youngest should tax my brother with having promised on his first coming into the country to give a ball at Netherfield.

It was the taller of the two little baggages. The overly endowed, flirtatious one. The Lord only knew what possessed her mother to bring her into public at an early age. She had high animal spirits, and a sort of natural self-consequence, which the attentions of anything in trousers had increased into an appalling self-assurance. She was very equal, therefore, to address my hapless brother on the subject of the ball, and abruptly reminded him of his ‘promise’ saying “it would be the most shameful thing in the world if he did not keep it.”

His answer to this sudden attack was delightful to her mother’s ear and a painful shock to mine. He could not be serious.

“I am perfectly ready, I assure you, to keep my engagement; and, when your sister is recovered, you shall, if you please, name the very day of the ball. But you would not wish to be dancing while she is ill?” His capitulation was as swift as a debutante’s first waltz.

Preening, Miss youngest and least civilised Bennet declared herself satisfied. “Oh yes—it would be much better to wait till Jane was well; and by that time, most likely, Captain Carter would be at Meryton again. And when you have given your ball,” she added, “I shall insist on their giving one as well. I shall tell Colonel Forster it will be quite a shame if he does not.”

“Oh, how delightful,” I said, my voice dripping with sarcasm. “Nothing would please me more than to open our home to every officer and country miss within ten miles.”

I fear only Louisa heard my contribution. “Caroline!” Louisa hissed. “You forget yourself!”

As the Bennet battalion finally took their leave— praise Providence—Miss Elizabeth fled upstairs in well-deserved humiliation. I rather enjoyed watching her mortification, I must confess. I turned to Mr Darcy, determined to salvage the morning. “Well, Mr Darcy, what did you think of our visitors? Surely the charming company of those ladies surpasses the delights of a certain pair of ‘fine eyes,’”

To my utter dismay—though I maintained perfect composure—he merely smiled. “I found the experience most... illuminating.”

I collapsed onto the sofa, wielding my fan like a weapon against vapours. Illuminating indeed. Like a house ablaze on Guy Fawkes Night.