Page 65 of A November to Remember

...I shall arrive, if it is not inconvenient, on Monday the eighteenth of November, by four o’clock.

If it is not inconvenient. The convenience had never once been enquired after; the date had simply been issued, in the same breath as the humility. Mr Bennet had read that sentence and understood that the household needed to be prepared. He had thought briefly to withhold the news. However, if Mrs Bennet was loud by nature, a Mrs Bennet taken by surprise would be audible to the West Indies.

And today was Monday the eighteenth.

Mr Bennet consulted his watch, found the hour agreeably advanced, and experienced the pleasant tightening of anticipation that other men reserved for the first day of pheasant season. He might even have purred.

He unlocked the door, ready to face the storm head on.

The drawing-room was a carnival of agitated fabrics and female industry. Mrs Bennet was standing by the window, surrounded by Kitty and Lydia, surveying the driveway.

“Four o’clock.” Mrs Bennet tapped her fan against the glass. “It is nearly two. We have two hours to ensure this house appears prosperous but not so prosperous that he feels comfortable overstaying his welcome. Hill! Did you hide the good silver?”

Hill paused in the doorway, a tray of teacups balanced effortlessly in her hands. “Under the floorboards in the pantry, ma’am, exactly as instructed. Along with the last of the Madeira and your best shawl.”

“Excellent.” Mrs Bennet spun around, her skirts flaring. “Mr Bennet! You are out of your cave. I trust you are prepared to welcome the man who intends to cast us all into the hedgerows.”

“Not this afternoon, I hope.”

Mrs Bennet made a sound that proved optimism had limits.

“I am prepared to offer him tea, my dear.” Mr Bennet took his usual armchair, arranging his newspaper over his knees. “I leave the hedgerows to your capable imagination. Though I must ask, Hill—why are there approximately forty cucumber sandwiches piled on that sideboard? Are we expecting a famine?”

Hill’s face remained a mask of flawless apathy. “Colonel Fitzwilliam is expected, sir.”

“Ah.” Mr Bennet contemplated the ruin of his grocery bills. “Of course. The man eats enough for a regiment. Does he chew with his mouth open as well?”

Hill’s lips twitched, just once. “No, sir. But he does talk with it full.”

“Then we are saved from the worst of it,” Mr Bennet said. “Though I suspect my purse is not.”

Since Jane and Elizabeth had returned from their Netherfield confinement, Longbourn had ceased to be a private residence and had become a very expensive public house for the wealthy. Mr Bingley arrived daily, all politeness, though he had yet to make any formal declaration of his intentions.

Where Mr Bingley went, the others followed.

Darcy was there constantly, circling Elizabeth like a very tall, very brooding moon that had temporarily forgotten how to emit light, much less conversation.

Then there were the brothers.

Viscount Keathley had a strange camaraderie with Mrs Bennet and her sister, Mrs Philips. They spent hours huddled in corners, whispering about lace, local scandals, and, Mr Bennet suspected, the best methods for disposing of bodies. The viscount, for his part, seemed to be enjoying every minute of it.

The colonel had simply moved in. He entertained Kitty and Lydia with scandalous tales of London society that widened their eyes, praised Hill’s sandwiches until the woman blushed, and had achieved the impossible: he had made Mary smile. Not once, but twice. Mary currently sat at the pianoforte, not playing a mournful dirge but watching the door with the reverent expectation of a devotee awaiting the arrival of a deity whose primary miracle involved pastries and an inexplicable interest in her.

“The butcher’s bill alone,” Mr Bennet said, snapping his paper open, “will require me to sell a horse. Or Jane.”

“Papa!” Jane protested, though her smile ruined the effect.

“Fear not, my dear. Your value has increased since your connection to Netherfield. You are now worth at least two horses.”

Elizabeth turned a page without raising her gaze from her book. “And what of my value, Papa? Am I still only worth a single, sad nag?”

Mr Bennet considered. “A spirited mare, perhaps. One with a tendency to kick.”

“How flattering.” Elizabeth’s mouth curved. “Very well. I suppose it is an improvement from ‘tolerable.’”

The sound of carriage wheels outside saved Mr Bennet from having to defend his valuations further. Lydia leaped onto the window seat, pressing her nose to the glass.

“They are here! Mr Bingley has a new coat! And the colonel is carrying a box—it is a pastry box!”