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It is a truth universally acknowledged that the master of Pemberley must be in want of a companion. As the morning sun peeked through the curtains of my bedchamber, that sentiment, once a source of mild amusement, now weighed heavily upon my heart. Today, Elizabeth, alongside her esteemed relatives, the Gardiners, were to visit. My mind was awash with the hope and trepidation of a schoolboy rather than the composed master of a grand estate.
Upon their arrival, they were shown into the saloon—a room of cool, northern aspect, where the summer’s light danced upon the oaken floor. There, amidst the grandeur of Pemberley, Miss Darcy received our guests with a civility that belied her inner turmoil. The poor girl’s shyness, I fear, oft gives the unfortunate impression of aloofness, which could not be further from the truth of her gentle nature.
Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley offered their greetings with a perfunctory air, their courtesies falling just shy of genuine warmth. It was Mrs. Annesley who rose to the occasion, her genteel manners and agreeable conversation bridging the gap left by the others’ reticence. With her aid, Mrs. Gardiner and, at intervals, Elizabeth herself kept the discourse flowing, much to my sister’s relief, who ventured only the briefest of sentences amidst the fear of committing some social misstep.
I was absent when they first arrived, detained by the estate’s affairs. Upon entering the saloon, I was met with a tableau that set my heart racing: Elizabeth, resplendent in her simplicity, stood conversing with my sister and Mrs. Annesley, her poise and grace underscoring the awkwardness of the others.
The conversation naturally fell to me to sustain, and I made mention to Elizabeth, “They will join me early to-morrow,” referring to Bingley and my sisters, “and among them are some who will claim an acquaintance with you—Mr. Bingley and his sisters.”
Her response was a modest bow, her attention flitting between myself and Miss Bingley, who observed us with a scrutiny I found most displeasing.
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It was not long before Bingley himself made his entrance. His easy demeanor and unaffected cordiality were a breath of fresh air, his inquiries after her family both friendly and general. To my satisfaction, Elizabeth’s response was polite and equally unreserved, a testament to her forgiving disposition.
As we engaged in conversation, I found myself acutely aware of Elizabeth’s every glance, every gesture, her presence commanding my attention in a manner I could scarcely control. The room was alive with the undercurrents of unspoken thoughts and subtle glances, the connection between Bingley and Elizabeth palpable even as they spoke of trivial matters.
Miss Bingley’s civility did not last; her remarks thinly concealed the jealousy and spite that I knew all too well. “Pray, Miss Eliza, are not the ——shire militia removed from Meryton? They must be a great loss to your family,” she said with a sneer that did not escape my notice, nor the distress it caused Elizabeth.
I saw the color rise to Elizabeth’s cheeks, her composure briefly faltering under the weight of the insinuation. Yet, she replied with a steadiness that filled me with admiration: “They are removed into ——shire, I believe.” Her voice was even, though the implication behind Miss Bingley’s words was clear to us both.
In due course, refreshments were served, and the party congregated around the table, the variety of fruits providing a welcome distraction from the tension. I took the opportunity to speak with Elizabeth, to express my genuine desire for her and her relatives to join us for dinner at Pemberley. It was an invitation offered from the deepest reaches of my heart, a chance to share with her the hospitality of my home.
The visit, though brief, was a revelation. As they departed, I was left with a sense of satisfaction and longing. The image of Elizabeth at Pemberley, so natural and yet so profound, lingered in my mind.
In the privacy of my study, I reflected on the events of the morning. The sight of Elizabeth engaged in conversation with Georgiana, the subtle interplay of looks and words—all served to solidify my resolve. She must know the depth of my affection, the sincerity of my intentions. My hope was that the forthcoming dinner would provide an opportunity to further demonstrate my esteem for her.
Yet, as the day drew to a close and I prepared for the evening, I could not shake the feeling that Elizabeth’s visit to Pemberley was a turning point, a moment in time that might herald the beginning of a new chapter in our acquaintance—one that I fervently wished would lead to a more intimate connection.
Fitzwilliam Darcy