Page 66 of A November to Remember

Mary closed her sheet music, her posture straightening.

Mr Bennet folded his newspaper and stood with a sigh; the influx had begun once again.

Hill opened the doors, stepping aside to admit the visitors. The volume of tall, broad-shouldered men entering the room contracted the space to the size of a thimble.

Bingley came in first, his nervous energy propelling him into the room. He hesitated halfway, his eyes darting to Jane. He swallowed hard, stopped a very safe distance away from her chair, and executed a stiff bow.

“Miss Bennet,” he managed, his voice tight. “I trust you are well.”

Jane rose and curtsied, offering a microscopic inclination of her head, her expression cool. “I am. Thank you, Mr Bingley.”

Bingley flushed to the tips of his ears as the silence stretched. He pivoted, his gaze seeking any available refuge before settling on the younger sisters.

“Miss Kitty! Miss Lydia!” he blurted, crossing the room to stand near the window seat. “And Miss Mary! How delightful to see you all. I... I noticed a flock of exceptional ducks on the way here. Magnificent creatures. Do you ladies enjoy waterfowl?”

Lydia stared at him as if he had grown a second head. “Ducks, Mr Bingley?”

“Fascinating,” Bingley babbled, looking everywhere but at Jane. “Very... buoyant. And the weather! The weather is superior today. There is a shortcut through Oakfield Lane that saves seven minutes. I timed it. Twice.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam was holding a large box tied with string. He ignored Bingley’s ornithological panic, walked to the sideboard, deposited the box next to the mountain of cucumber sandwiches, and turned to the pianoforte.

“Miss Mary!” He executed a bow that managed to be both formally correct and entirely too pleased with itself. “I have procured lemon tarts from Meryton. The baker attempted to sell them to the mayor, but I threatened him with my sabre. The man wept. I did not.”

Mary curtsied to the man and stared at him in confusion. “You denied the mayor his pastries?”

“The mayor”—the colonel grabbed a sandwich and bit into it with gusto—“has no appreciation for the finer things in life. You, however, have a refined palate. I remembered your disquisition on the virtues of lemon zest during our last visit. It was... enlightening.”

Mary’s cheeks turned a shade of pink that her mother had never once succeeded in producing with the aid of a pinch. “That was... very kind of you, Colonel.”

“Kindness has nothing to do with it.” He wiped crumbs from his mouth. “I am a man of sense. And sense demands that lemon tarts be consumed by those who appreciate them.”

Elizabeth turned to Mr Bennet. “Papa, I believe the colonel has just declared war on the mayor of Meryton.”

Mr Bennet chuckled. “A war I am happy to fund, if it means more lemon tarts for us. Though I suspect the mayor will retaliate by raising the tax on tea.”

Kitty leaned over to Lydia. “He brought her pastries again. Is that what courting is?”

“I think courting is supposed to involve poetry.” Lydia pitched her whisper at a volume that carried to every corner. “But tarts taste better.”

Viscount Keathley approached Mrs Bennet, his movements fluid, unhurried, and designed to suggest that the world adjusted its pace to suit him. He took her hand.

“My dear Mrs Bennet. You are a vision in green. It is precisely the shade of a young, hopeful leaf. Or perhaps a very expensive emerald that has just been polished by the tears of its previous owner.”

Mrs Bennet preened, patting her curls. “Oh, Lord Keathley, you are too kind. I have been in such a state of nerves all morning. The arrival is imminent!”

“The dreadful clergyman.” Lord Keathley lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, leaning so close his cravat nearly dipped into her tea. “I have prepared my finest expressions of boredom. If he attempts to discuss shelving, I shall feign a tragic illness. If he mentions Lady Catherine, I shall feign death. If he so much as directs his attentions at your daughters, I shall challenge him to pistols at dawn.”

“We are united in our suffering.” Mrs Bennet gripped his arm. “Though I suspect your expressions of boredom are far more entertaining than mine. Mine tend to involve fainting and smelling salts.”

“Naturally.” His grin widened. “One does not survive my mother’s dinner parties without learning to appear fascinated while thinking of more pleasant things. Such as napping. Or drinking. Or napping while drinking.”

Mr Darcy was standing by the door, his eyes sweeping the room as if performing a complex mathematical calculation involving the square root of social agony. His gaze landed on Elizabeth, who was standing by the hearth, watching him with a mixture of amusement and challenge. Mr Darcy’s shoulders tensed as if bracing for a blow. He bowed stiffly and took a step closer to her. Then he seemed to reconsider the entire concept of movement and altered his course by fifteen degrees to walk towards Mr Bennet’s corner.

He settled into the armchair next to Mr Bennet’s and stared straight ahead at the fireplace, his spine so rigid it could have been used to measure the angle of a right-angled triangle.

“Good afternoon, Mr Darcy,” Mr Bennet offered, his voice laced with dry amusement, having long since given up on sanity.

“Mr Bennet,” came the clipped reply.