Page 9 of A November to Remember

Mrs Bennet’s spoon halted over her cup. “Who has?”

“Mr Bingley. He left four days ago.” Elizabeth kept her voice neutral, as if speaking of the weather. “Business, apparently. He will return.”

“Business,” Lydia repeated, loading the word with the contempt available only to the fifteen-year-old facing an incomprehensible adult world. “What sort of business does a man with five thousand a year have? He already has all the money.”

“That is not quite how money works,” Elizabeth said.

“He will return.” Mrs Bennet recovered with impressive speed, the spoon resuming its motion. “He must return. He has danced twice with Jane.”

The newspaper rustled. From behind it came Mr Bennet’s pleasant, papery voice; he had evidently decided that the day offered sufficient entertainment after all: “Last I heard dancing twice is not legally binding in this county.”

Mrs Bennet waved him away. “Oh, Mr Bennet, you delight in vexing me. You always delight in vexing me, especially when I am attempting to plan for the happiness of my children.”

“I should not dream of interfering with happiness,” he replied. “I only suggest that Mr Bingley might be permitted to propose before you choose the soup.”

“The soup matters,” Mrs Bennet declared with great feeling. “People remember soup.”

“The soup at my wedding shall be white,” Lydia announced from the lower end of the table. “Or pink. Can soup be pink?”

“No one wants pink soup.” Kitty appeared uncertain, though, wondering if pink soup, once properly trimmed, might have possibilities.

Elizabeth stared at her teacup. Under the table, her fingers pressed against her palm, and she thought, not for the first time that week, of a man with a very good coat and an insufferable mouth.

Tolerable.

She pressed her fingers harder.

Not handsome enough to tempt me.

She was indifferent to Mr Fitzwilliam Darcy. She thought about him barely at all. Certainly not while trying to sleep nor at breakfast. He had gone to London with his friend, she was glad of it, and she thought about it no further.

He was standing twelve inches from the wall. The musicians were playing a reel. I had been sitting with Charlotte and he had said it as though I were a moderately acceptable soap.

A second and entirely unnecessary review of the Christmas-versus-Valentine’s-Day question began. Lydia contributed the intelligence that Valentine’s Day was warmer and therefore better for muslin. Kitty countered with the observation that Christmas had more cake, prompting a ten-minute digression on the relative festivity of fruit cake versus almond tart. A merciful creak of the garden gate finally announced a visitor.

Charlotte Lucas appeared at the parlour door in her dark green gown. She was seven-and-twenty, sensible past the point of fashion, and had a quality that Elizabeth had prized since childhood: she saw things clearly, and spoke only of the necessary portion of what she saw.

“Good morning. I come bearing an invitation.” Charlotte settled into a chair and produced from her reticule a small folded card. “Papa is giving a card party at Lucas Lodge on Saturday evening. He has asked me to extend it personally.”

The effect on Mrs Bennet was immediate and comprehensive. Her spine straightened, her eyes brightening. “A card party! How perfectly timed. We have been in far too quiet a way this past week, shockingly quiet, and I said to Mr Bennet only yesterday—”

“You did not say it to me,” said the newspaper.

“—only yesterday that what we needed was society. Will it be a large party, Charlotte dear? Might the Netherfield party attend?”

“I believe Papa has sent cards to everyone in the general neighbourhood,” Charlotte said.

The general neighbourhood settled over Mrs Bennet like a warm blanket, and she pulled it tight with both hands. “The general neighbourhood,” she breathed. “How delightful. How extremely—Jane, do you hear? A card party. On Saturday.”

“I heard, Mamma.” Jane kept her face pleasantly neutral. She was very good at it; she had been practising since approximately the age of four.

“Mr Bennet.” Mrs Bennet addressed the newspaper. “You shall come.”

“I shall not.”

“Sir William has the new case of brandy in, I believe?” Mrs Bennet threw her best card on the table.

Charlotte, to her credit, did not glance at Elizabeth. “I believe there is a new case, yes. He has put it in his study, instead of the cellar.”