Page 22 of One Good Sonnet

The Netherfield party was invited to Longbourn to dine some days before Christmas. Mrs. Bennet had managed to discover several dishes favored by Mr. Darcy and Mr. Bingley. Even Mr. Hurst would have something he preferred on the table: expensive port.

Elizabeth felt unaccountably flustered as the day progressed. The storms had kept the gentlemen from calling, and during their days apart, she had managed to convince herself that Mr. Darcy did not care one jot for her and was using her for his pleasure. Her own sentiments protested her mind’s conclusions, and the resulting tumult inside her had given her more than one megrim.

Jane, on the other hand, was absurdly content. She spoke warmly of Mr. Bingley. The lively, affectionate Jane of earlier years was emerging from behind the reserve she had so carefully maintained.

“I do hope our sisters behave themselves,” Jane said to Elizabeth as they dressed for dinner.

“There is bound to be some awkwardness. Kitty and Lydia are not at all circumspect in their speech. Mary may be parsimonious, but she is polite.”

Elizabeth wore dark green silk. It was an unusual color for an unmarried lady, but it made her skin look luminescent and brought out the green flecks in her eyes. She wore a garnet cross and matching earrings. A green ribbon was woven through her dark curls.

Jane wore blue silk with cream embellishments. A pearl necklace and earrings completed her ensemble.

They went down together. Mrs. Bennet discussed last-minute preparations with Hill. One by one, Mary, Kitty, and Lydia came in, each attired in their favorite evening clothes. Mr. Bennet came last; he was rather put out about having to don his finery for dinner instead of his usual garments.

“We are all here. Good.” Mrs. Bennet clapped her hands. “Let us work to keep Mr. Bingley speaking with Jane. I am sure a proposal is imminent.”

Jane rolled her eyes, and Elizabeth smothered a smile. Yes, Mr. Bingley had certainly awakened Jane from her dismal sleep.

They heard the knocker, and everyone fell silent. Hill announced their guests one by one, and they entered the room.

Miss Bingley stood a little off to the side, her nose in the air and wrinkled in distaste. Mr. Hurst stood with his wife and was unusually attentive. Mr. Darcy and Mr. Bingley quickly joined Elizabeth and her sister after greeting Mr. and Mrs. Bennet.

Dinner was announced soon thereafter, and they filed into the dining room. Mrs. Bennet’s finest silver and china had been used, and beeswax candles were lit and lined down the center of the table.

The food smelled divine, and they took their seats. Mrs. Bennet had placed Jane and Bingley together—that was not surprising. But she had also placed Mr. Darcy beside Elizabeth. Mama is not as unaware of his attentions as I thought. She had not paid Mr. Darcy much attention, given her focus on her eldest, but apparently she had noticed.

Mama was being subtle, which Elizabeth appreciated. Unfortunately, that meant Elizabeth would be pushed to accept an engagement if an offer came, even if she decided against him. Her heart protested the very thought, and she resolved not to think of it.

Mr. Bingley began discussing the book of sonnets Jane had shared with him, and the conversation turned to poetry.

“I am not well read, but even I can admire a well-written verse,” Mr. Bingley declared.

“Poetry quality varies depending on the writer,” Miss Bingley sniffed disdainfully. “There are some truly gifted poets out in the world, but I have yet to meet a simple person who can compose a worthy verse.”

“I cannot agree, Miss Bingley!” Mrs. Bennet cried. “Why, when Jane was only fifteen, there was a gentleman who called upon her while she stayed with my brother Gardiner. He was so much in love with her. Nothing came of it in the end; however, he wrote some verses to her, and very pretty they were.”

Jane’s fork clattered to her plate. Elizabeth glanced nervously at her sister. Hoping to diffuse the tension, she spoke hurriedly. “And so ended his affection. I am sure that many have been overcome in the same way. I wondered who first discovered the efficacy of poetry in driving away love!”

Darcy cleared his throat beside her. “I have been used to consider poetry the food of love.”

“Of a fine, stout, healthy love, perhaps. Everything may nourish what is strong already. But if it be only a slight, thin sort of inclination, I am convinced that one good sonnet will starve it completely.”

She turned to look at him. He smiled, though it had a pained quality. Her efforts to spare her sister were fruitful, however, and the conversation moved to happier things.

Elizabeth could not help but notice Mr. Darcy’s lack of verbosity after that. She wondered at his pique and sought to tease him out of his doldrums.

“There is no shame in misremembering Shakespeare, sir,” she teased.

“I beg your pardon?” Darcy asked.

“Poetry is not the food of love. Music is. It is from Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night, or What You Will.”

“Ah. Yes, I had forgotten that. Are you an enthusiast of the Bard’s work?”

“He had talent, to be sure. I prefer his comedies, and Twelfth Night happens to be a favorite.” She had read it more times than she could count.

“Is it? What about the play enthralls you so?”