Page 52 of A November to Remember

Jane was presently residing in the company of two immense fortunes. Mr Bingley had five thousand a year, a sweet disposition, and a high likelihood of being bullied by his sisters into abandoning Hertfordshire. Furthermore, if he married Jane, she would be subjected to Miss Bingley for the rest of her natural life.

Lord Keathley, however, was an aristocrat. He was wealthier, he appreciated lace, and he lacked sisters. The viscount was the zenith of matrimonial achievement. Yet, to Mrs Bennet’s immense frustration, Jane was still devoted to Mr Bingley’s golden-haired smiles, and Lord Keathley was doing nothing to press his advantage. Subtlety, Mrs Bennet decided, would be required. She must secure Mr Bingley as an absolute certainty, while simultaneously manoeuvring the viscount into a trap of his own making.

Around her, the breakfast parlour was in uproar.

“If Captain Carter has purchased a new saddle, Kitty, it does not mean he intends to ride past this house,” Mary stated, addressing her boiled egg, her hand resting on her book of sermons. Mary always used books this way—a thick barricade against the reality that she had neither Jane’s angelic beauty nor Elizabeth’s sparkling wit. Yet today, there was a flush of pink on her cheeks. “Dr Fordyce explicitly warns against the idle speculation of young women regarding the equestrian habits of men in scarlet.”

“Dr Fordyce did not see the saddle, Mary,” Lydia snapped, snatching the last muffin from the basket before Kitty could reach it. “It has silver buckles. A man does not buy shiny silver buckles to ride in secret. He buys them to be admired.”

“Perhaps he bought them to blind his creditors,” Mr Bennet murmured from behind his newspaper.

“You are absurd, Papa,” Lydia declared, stuffing half the muffin into her mouth. “Silver buckles mean he is going to call. I am going to trim my yellow bonnet. Mamma, may I have a new ribbon for my yellow bonnet?”

“No, you may not, Lydia, do not bother me, I am calculating.” Mrs Bennet waved a hand dismissively.

“Calculating what?” Kitty asked, coughing into her napkin.

“The price of hothouse roses in February,” Mrs Bennet answered distractedly.

Before Mary could offer a moral reflection on the vanity of winter florals, Hill appeared in the doorway. The housekeeper was carrying a small salver, and on it rested a folded note, sealed with blue wax.

“A note, ma’am,” Hill announced, her voice cutting through the bickering. “Brought by a groom from Netherfield.”

Everyone fell instantly silent. Lydia stopped chewing, Kitty gasped, and Mary looked highly suspicious.

Mrs Bennet snatched the note from the salver with the speed of a striking cobra. She broke the wax seal, her eyes darting quickly over the bold, elegant script.

My dear Mrs Bennet,

The weather has cleared, and the tea at your sister’s house is, I recall, unparalleled. I find myself in desperate need of cake and conversation this morning at eleven o’clock. Do join us. There is much to discuss regarding slow-moving gentlemen.

Yours in deep conspiracy,

Viscount Keathley.

Mrs Bennet’s heart performed a joyful leap. He was summoning her. The Alliance was convening.

“What does it say, Mamma?” Lydia leaned across the table, dragging her sleeve through a plate of crumbs. “Is it from Mr Bingley? Are they giving a ball? Tell us it is a ball! I must have a new ribbon if there is a ball!”

“It is not a ball, Lydia, do calm yourself, you will upset the cream.” Mrs Bennet folded the note and tucked it into the bodice of her gown, a location she deemed impenetrable to her daughters’ prying eyes. “It is a polite inquiry regarding... a recipe. From the cook.”

“A recipe,” Mr Bennet repeated, the newspaper lowering two inches. “The Netherfield cook sent a groom to inquire about a recipe?”

“Yes. For syllabub,” Mrs Bennet lied, lifting her chin to an angle of supreme dignity.

“I thought you said Mrs Meddle was an arrogant woman who thought she knew everything about boiled meats,” Kitty pointed out.

“She does know everything about boiled meats, Kitty, do keep up. But she is notoriously weak on syllabub. I am going to Meryton to consult with my sister on the matter. Hill! Tell the stables I require the carriage.”

“The carriage, Mamma?” Kitty asked hopefully, dropping her fork. “Lydia and I wish to walk to Meryton! You can take us in the carriage! It is too muddy to walk!”

“I will do no such thing. I am in a hurry, and you take far too long to tie your bonnets. You will walk, and you will not bother your aunt, for she and I have urgent, private business concerning... the syllabub.”

Mr Bennet lowered the newspaper. He folded it with deliberate care and placed it beside his empty plate. He looked at his wife, his eyes gleaming with amusement.

“The carriage,” Mr Bennet said, his voice as dry and crisp as autumn leaves. “I see. Tell me, Mrs Bennet, are the horses not wanted on the farm today?”

Mrs Bennet froze, her hand hovering over her teacup.