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“Indeed, she does not. In fact, she is insistent that I could do far better. Miss Bennet is the daughter of a gentleman. Marrying her would elevate our family, even if she has little dowry and connections to trade.”

Darcy had long since stopped caring about such things. His family had pressed him to marry for so many years, especially his aunt, Lady Catherine de Bourgh. He had finally insisted they stop, or he would run off with the first lady he encountered. That had been enough to silence them. Ultimately, the decision on who he would marry was his alone, and the Darcy name carried enough weight to counter anything as menial as connections to trade.

“I look forward to the opportunity,” he finally responded.

Nature conspired against them, and so their journey to Longbourn did not occur. The rains were heavy, and the roads were wet enough to make travel by carriage difficult. Instead, they were locked in Netherfield House for days while the heavens blessed the lands with moisture.

Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst were much engaged in planning the ball, but the former tried her best to be in Darcy’s company as much as possible. Darcy, in turn, was polite but cool. He had no interest in her beyond her status as a friend’s sister.

Bingley described the previous weeks and how he and Miss Bennet had come to know each other. The more Darcy heard about the young lady, the more he thought she and Bingley were suited.

“She is not a fortune hunter,” Bingley said in protest when Miss Bingley declared her brother’s latest angel could be nothing but.

“You cannot know that. The estate is entailed, and the ladies are virtually dowerless. I am certain Mr. Darcy agrees with me.” Miss Bingley turned to him, waiting for confirmation.

“You are asking me to form an opinion on a woman I have yet to meet. I would not do your brother a disservice by making premature judgments.”

His answer placated her, though she did not look satisfied.

Thus, the days proceeded until at long last, the skies cleared.

5

Miss Bennet Is Much Altered

The day before Netherfield’s ball, the rain had subsided enough for Darcy and Bingley to ride to Longbourn. Darcy could not account for the familiarity the name of the estate evoked. It was strange; he could not recall anyone in Hertfordshire beyond Bingley. Still, the feeling lingered. He attributed it to the anticipation of seeing Miss Elizabeth Bennet again. The lady had entranced him. He had never met such a lively soul, and his natural reserve had eased in her company, allowing him to speak with her as though they had known each other for years.

Darcy did not possess the ability to converse with others of limited acquaintance. How a man of the world had ended up so deficient in his education, he did not know. His cousin, Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam, often teased Darcy about his inability to be easy in company.

“There is Longbourn,” Bingley said, pointing through the trees.

Darcy pulled himself out of his woolgathering and followed Bingley’s finger. It was a handsome, red-stone building with ivy climbing around the door. Trees surrounded the main house; they would offer shade in the warm season, but were now bare of leaves. Darcy could also see a walled garden around one end of the house, and he wondered how it would look in summer, in full bloom.

A few windows had been bricked over to avoid taxes. Darcy thought of Pemberley and its rows and rows of windows. He could afford the cost. Clearly, the Bennets could not.

He and Bingley dismounted and handed their reins to a waiting groom. The young man led the horses away, and Darcy followed Bingley to the door.

An older gentleman answered and welcomed them into the vestibule.

“How are you today, Mr. Hill?” Bingley asked as he handed the butler his things.

“I am very well; thank you, Mr. Bingley.” Mr. Hill’s demeanor was more animated than was proper for a butler, but Darcy could easily excuse it; they were in the country, after all.

They followed Mr. Hill down the hall, at which point a woman—Darcy assumed she was the housekeeper—took over.

Mr. Bingley’s enthusiasm took over. “No, Mrs. Hill, allow me to introduce my dear friend,” he said in a low, conspiratorial voice as they reached the double doors. With his always charming smile, he burst into the room, intoning, “Mr. Bingley and his much awaited friend, Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley.”

Darcy stepped forward as Bingley began the introductions. He saw her before Bingley had a chance to say her name.

It was obvious to him that Miss Jane Bennet recognized him, too. Her smile froze on her face, and her eyes widened in shock. Her mouth dropped open slightly as her cheeks flushed.

Darcy felt his own cheeks heating rapidly. This was Bingley’s angel? Oh, dear. What was he to say now? Memories from seven years before flooded his thoughts.

“Darcy? You look ill—are you quite well?” Bingley’s concerned tone brought Darcy back to the present.

“I—that is, I am quite well. It is only…Bingley, Miss Bennet and I have met before.” He turned to Miss Bennet and bowed. “It is a pleasure to see you again.”

Miss Bennet curtsied in return. “Indeed, Mr. Darcy. Welcome to Longbourn.”