Page 6 of Mr. Darcy and the Mysterious "Miss B"
“Mama, please,” Jane said. “I could never presume to criticise Mr Bingley’s choice in friends. That would be most improper.”
Elizabeth watched the exchange with growing unease. Her mother’s spirits seemed to be reviving with remarkable speed—the prospect of Jane catching a wealthy husband was proving more effective than any of her usual remedies.
“And what of Mary?” Mrs Bennet turned to her middle daughter. “Did you dance, my dear?”
Mary straightened in her chair. “I danced once, Mama. With Mr Quinn—the new clergyman.”
“Once is better than nothing,” Mrs Bennet said with obvious disappointment. “Though you must try to be more animated next time, Mary. Gentlemen prefer ladies who appear to enjoy themselves.”
“And Kitty?” Mrs Bennet continued her interrogation.
“I danced twice,” Kitty replied. “With Mr Denny and Mr Carter.”
“Very good, my dear. See Mary? Two dances is a minimum,” Mrs Bennet said with pointed satisfaction. “Which reminds me—where is Lydia? Surely, she danced the most of all of you. She always does. Given this was the first dance since—since…” She paused, took a deep breath, and forced a smile. “I am sure she too was a triumph.”
The silence that followed was telling. Elizabeth exchanged glances with Jane whilst Mary shifted uncomfortably in her chair.
“Actually, Mama,” Mary said with her characteristic bluntness, “Lydia did not dance at all this evening.”
Mrs Bennet’s face went blank with shock. “Did not dance? What do you mean she did not dance? Lydia always dances. She is the liveliest of all my daughters, surely, she must have longed to dance after this wretched period of mourning.”
“She refused every partner who asked her,” Mary continued. “She sat in the corner for most of the evening and barely spoke to anyone. She was quite sullen, I am afraid.”
“Refused?” Mrs Bennet’s voice cracked. “But why? Was she unwell? Did something happen?”
Elizabeth’s chest tightened. “She has not been herself since Papa died, Mama. None of us have been, but Lydia…” she trailed off, unable to voice her growing concerns about her youngest sister.
Mrs Bennet’s excitement crumbled, replaced by the haggard appearance that had become all too familiar these past months. “My poor Lydia. She loved her dear Papa so very much. He spoiled her terribly, but she brought him such joy.”
The room fell quiet; each woman lost in memories of the man who had shaped their lives in ways both wonderful and complicated. Elizabeth remembered how Papa would chuckle at Lydia’s antics whilst chiding her for her more outrageous behaviour. He had indulged her far too much, but his love for his youngest daughter had been genuine.
“Perhaps we should speak with her tomorrow,” Jane suggested.
“Yes,” Mrs Bennet agreed, some of her energy returning. “Yes, we must help her. But tonight, let us focus on happier news. Jane, tell me more about Mr Bingley. Do you think he might call upon us?”
Jane blushed prettily but said nothing. Elizabeth could see the hope in her sister’s eyes and prayed their mother’s confidence was not misplaced.
“Now then,” Mrs Bennet continued, her mood shifting once again, “tell me more about this dreadful Mr Darcy. What does he look like? Is he as handsome as Mr Bingley?”
Elizabeth suppressed a sigh. “He is tall, dark-haired, well-dressed. I suppose some might consider him handsome, if they could overlook his superior attitude.”
“Rich men often develop superior attitudes,” Mrs Bennet observed with the wisdom of someone who had spent years studying the behaviour of the gentry. “They are so accustomed to deference that they forget common courtesy. Still, it is no excuse for rudeness to my daughters.”
“I hardly think it matters, Mama,” Elizabeth said. “I doubt we will see much of Mr Darcy during his stay in the neighbourhood. He made it quite clear that country society holds no appeal for him.”
“Good riddance,” Mrs Bennet declared. “We do not need such people around here. Jane shall do very well with Mr Bingley, and that is all that matters.”
As the conversation continued, Elizabeth’s thoughts drifted to the evening’s events. She replayed her brief encounter with Mr Darcy, not with embarrassment, but with a kind of curious detachment. His comment about her being ‘tolerable but not handsome enough to tempt him’ had been rude, certainly, but it had also revealed something about his character—or lack thereof.
***
After another hour of discussion and speculation, the sisters finally dispersed to their own chambers. Elizabeth walkeddown the corridor, her mind still occupied with the evening’s events and tomorrow’s uncertainties.
She paused outside Lydia’s door, hearing nothing from within. Part of her wanted to knock, to try once more to reach her youngest sister, but she suspected Lydia needed solitude to process her grief in her own way.
Instead, Elizabeth continued to her own room, where she sat at her small writing desk to record the day’s events in her journal. As she wrote, her thoughts kept returning to the contrast between Mr Bingley’s genuine warmth and Mr Darcy’s cold arrogance. How could two friends be so different in temperament?
A soft knock at her door interrupted her writing. “Come in,” she called, and Jane entered, already dressed in her nightgown.
