Page 67 of A November to Remember

Mr Bennet resumed his seat. He found the silence that followed delightful. He much preferred Darcy’s brand of mute agony to Bingley’s endless, if charming, prattle.

“Would you care for the financial pages, sir?” Mr Bennet held out a section of the Morning Chronicle. “Consols are up, but turnips have taken a tragic plunge. Much like my hopes for a quiet afternoon.”

Darcy accepted the paper with a stiff nod. “Thank you.”

He opened it and held it up, effectively building a fortress of newsprint between himself and the rest of humanity. Mr Bennet appreciated it highly. It was, after all, the closest thing to peace the man was likely to get.

Elizabeth picked up the teapot from the tray on the side table. She walked over to their corner and leaned down, pouring the steaming tea into her father’s cup, the fragrance of the tea wafting through the air, carrying a promise of better things to come.

“Tea, Mr Darcy?” she asked, her voice sweetly innocent, though Mr Bennet suspected she knew perfectly well what she was doing to the man’s composure.

Mr Darcy lowered the newspaper just enough to expose his eyes. He glanced at the teapot, then at Elizabeth, then back at the teapot, as if he were standing at the edge of a cliff, debating the merits of jumping.

“If you please, Miss Elizabeth.”

She poured his tea with flawless grace and offered him the cup. “I trust your ride from Netherfield was pleasant? Not too many frightful encounters with the local mud?”

“The mud,” Darcy said, accepting the cup, his fingers brushing hers for a fraction of a second before he pulled his hand back as if he had touched a hot stove, “was... manageable. I thank you.”

“You are most welcome.” Elizabeth moved to her seat. Mr Bennet, watching the exchange like a connoisseur at a good play, appreciated it highly.

Before Darcy could retreat fully behind the financial columns, a loud commotion erupted in the hallway, the sound of a small animal being chased by a larger, more determined one.

“Hill, I do not care if they are having tea! He needs this immediately!”

Mrs Philips rushed in, her bonnet askew, her cheeks flushed, clutching a small, delicate parcel wrapped in tissue paper. She spotted Viscount Keathley and hurried to him with single-minded focus, trampling on Kitty’s foot in her haste.

“My lord!” She held the parcel out to the viscount. “I stayed up half the night! I finished it! Do not tell me you have forgotten!”

The viscount set down his teacup and accepted the parcel, his face brightening with delight. “Mrs Philips. You are a woman of your word. And a woman of matchless speed. And, if I may say, a woman of considerable talent. I was beginning to fear I would have to face life with nothing but my own, sadly inadequate, handkerchiefs.”

He peeled back the tissue paper with care. Resting in his palm was a square of fine white linen, bordered by lace so intricate it defied both eyesight and reason.

“Magnificent.” He held the handkerchief up to the light, his voice hushed. “The detail. The tension of the thread. It is a masterpiece. The Prince Regent does not blow his nose into such artistry. And I have seen his handkerchiefs. They are... adequate.”

Mrs Philips flushed the colour of a peony. “I remembered you saying how much you despised Brussels lace, my lord. I used the very finest threads. Only the finest for you!”

“I shall wear it in my breast pocket this very moment.” He folded the handkerchief and tucked it over his heart, executing a bow that would have been excessive at a coronation and was therefore perfectly suited to a drawing-room in Hertfordshire. “You have my eternal devotion, madam. And my firstborn child, if you ever require a dowry. Or a reference. Or a small, uninhabited island.”

“Oh, my lord!” Mrs Philips giggled, collapsing onto the sofa next to her sister, fanning herself vigorously. “Did you see it, Sister? He called it a masterpiece! A masterpiece!”

“I saw it, and I am very proud of you, Sister,” Mrs Bennet whispered loudly, though her eyes were fixed firmly on the viscount. “Now, do sit quietly. The hour approaches. And do try to contain your excitement, or you shall give the game away,” she hissed.

Mr Bennet watched the spectacle from his armchair. He had long since accepted that his life was a farce. A nobleman, gushing over a handkerchief made by a country attorney’s wife. A Dragoon colonel, feeding his middle daughter lemon tarts as though she were a discerning racehorse. A wealthy northern gentleman, afraid that his eldest daughter might bite his fingers.

And beside him, the master of Pemberley, hiding behind the Morning Chronicle, sneaking glances at Elizabeth over the top of the page every time she so much as shifted in her seat. The paper trembled slightly in his hands, as if it, too, were nervous.

Mr Bennet took a sip of his tea. He leaned over, tapping the edge of Darcy’s newspaper.

“Mr Darcy.”

Mr Darcy lowered the paper, his expression guarded. “Yes, Mr Bennet?”

“When the clergyman arrives,” Mr Bennet said in a dry murmur, “and he begins to speak of closets, I recommend finding a fixed point on the opposite wall and counting backwards from one hundred. It is the only way to survive without losing one’s will to live. Or one’s mind. Whichever goes first.”

Darcy stared at him. Slowly, the guarded tension in his jaw relaxed, and the left corner of his mouth twitched upward. “I shall keep that in mind, sir.”

“Excellent.” Mr Bennet picked up the remainder of his newspaper. “Now, let us enjoy the quiet. I suspect we do not have much left.”