Chapter 3: In Which Netherfield Brings the Promise of Change

It began, as so many matters of import do, with a whisper.

Netherfield Park, long let and longer empty, had at last found a tenant. That detail alone was sufficient to turn heads and stir speculation in parlours and drawing rooms across the county. But when the name "Mr. Bingley" was added, and to it the description "a single man of large fortune from the North of England," the entire rhythm of Meryton society was upended.

In the drawing room of Ashworth Hall, I observed my mother lean forward, a faint smile playing at her lips.

"A single man of fortune," she said, as if pronouncing a blessing. "How agreeable. And no connections to speak of?"

"Trade," replied my father drily, folding the newspaper. "His wealth is newly acquired, but I daresay the amount renders that irrelevant to many."

"Indeed," Lady Helena replied with delicately feigned indifference. "And he intends to settle in Hertfordshire?"

"For now, at least. The property is let for a term of a year, but there is talk of longer. He is accompanied by his sisters. No mention of a wife."

She spoke casually, yet I knew her mind had already begun making calculations. In her world, fortune was not something to be admired—it was to be married.

---

The first opportunity to observe Mr. Bingley came at the Meryton assembly, which was to be held scarcely a fortnight after his arrival. The entire town buzzed with anticipation, and no household more so than that of Mrs. Bennet, who had declared it "the most fortuitous turn of events since Lydia took her first steps toward womanhood."

Though I had not yet been formally "out," my presence at such events had become expected, if not conventional. I was considered clever, well-mannered, and just young enough not to be a threat to the eligible ladies—or a target for the eligible men. It was a state of being I rather enjoyed.

The assembly room in Meryton was not large, but what it lacked in elegance it made up for in animation. By the time we arrived, the Bennet girls were already present, radiant in their best muslins, their eyes dancing with curiosity.

Mr. Bingley was, as expected, a model of affability. He moved through the crowd with cheerful ease, his countenance open, his manners easy and unaffected. He danced nearly every set and declared the local ladies "charmingly pretty."

His sisters—Miss Caroline Bingley and Mrs. Hurst—were less gracious. Dressed with impeccable London taste, they carried themselves with the air of women who considered their temporary surroundings barely tolerable. I watched them observe the room, eyes alighting only on those who might serve their ambition.

And then—Mr. Darcy entered.

---

He stood taller than most, his dark coat tailored impeccably, his brow already furrowed with distaste. Though I had seen him before—spoken with him even—this was his first true appearance in society within the county.

A ripple passed through the assembly at once. Conversation slowed. Curiosity sharpened.

"There he is!" Mrs. Bennet stage-whispered to her neighbour. "Mr. Darcy of Pemberley—ten thousand a year! Imagine!"

From my corner seat beside Charlotte Lucas, I watched as the room's attention pivoted from the affable Bingley to the aloof Darcy. He did not dance. He barely smiled. When Bingley attempted to encourage him toward the floor, he refused with quiet but firm reserve.

And then, the moment from the novel played out before me.

"She is tolerable, I suppose, but not handsome enough to tempt me."

I heard the words clearly. He had said them to Bingley—carelessly, as though unaware that Elizabeth Bennet stood within earshot. Her back stiffened ever so slightly, though she pretended not to hear.

I felt a tightness in my chest. So it begins, I thought. The pride. The misjudgement. The wound.

Yet Elizabeth did not flinch outwardly. Her smile remained. And when Jane turned to ask if she was well, she merely nodded and returned to her conversation with a young officer.

It was my first time seeing the Bennet sisters as they had truly been written—alive with personality, flaws, and unspoken strength.

---

After the assembly, Meryton's gossip could have powered a fleet of carriages.

"Did you see how Mr. Bingley danced with Jane twice?"

"Miss Elizabeth looked quite radiant—but Mr. Darcy! Such arrogance!"

"I declare, I would not marry a man with ten thousand a year if he spoke to me in that fashion!"

Mr. Bingley, on the other hand, was universally praised. "What a delightful young man," said my mother, only a little too loudly. "And so attentive to Jane Bennet! I do hope he calls soon."

He did. And frequently.

Over the course of the following weeks, the Bingley-Jane connection flourished gently, like spring crocus peeking through frost. Jane's gentleness suited Bingley's good humour. He admired her with unspoken devotion; she received him with quiet warmth. It was, by all appearances, a match destined for mutual contentment.

But I had read ahead. I knew obstacles were yet to come.

---

During these weeks, I made further efforts to insert myself gently into the peripheries of the tale. Not to interfere directly—but to remain available.

Georgiana Darcy, shy as ever, wrote me weekly. I responded with letters full of stories, poetry, and carefully chosen wisdom. I had begun to notice that what Georgiana craved most was not advice, but companionship that bore no burden of expectation.

Charlotte Lucas and I spoke often, usually when she could slip away from the endless speculation surrounding Jane's romantic progress.

"She is fortunate," Charlotte said once, as we walked the path between Lucas Lodge and Longbourn. "To be both lovely and beloved."

"She is also kind," I said. "That should not be overlooked."

"Kindness," she murmured, "has its value. But it does not secure proposals."

I knew then—long before Mr. Collins was ever mentioned—that Charlotte had already begun to steel herself for a life not shaped by romance, but by realism.

---

My path crossed Elizabeth Bennet's more frequently now. At first, she treated me with polite amusement—an intelligent child was, after all, still a child. But over time, our conversations grew longer.

"I confess," she said to me once, "I did not expect you to know so much of Tacitus, or to have opinions on the quality of Meryton's music."

"And I did not expect you to enjoy the company of your younger sisters," I replied.

She laughed—an honest, melodic sound. "I do not always enjoy it. But I do endure it."

In time, I became something to her that few were—an equal in thought, if not in age. I asked after her stories. I praised her turns of phrase. I suggested a few female poets she might admire.

But I did not warn her about Darcy. I could not. That would be too much—a violation of the integrity I had sworn to preserve.

---

It was early November when we received an unexpected invitation.

"A ball at Netherfield?" my mother said with barely concealed delight. "How very grand of Mr. Bingley. Of course we must attend."

"And you, Clara," she added, "must look your best. You are not too young for admiration."

"I am more concerned with observation," I said, and escaped before she could tighten the ribbon at my waist again.

The Netherfield Ball would be a turning point. I knew it as surely as I knew the smell of old vellum. Here, Darcy would dance with Elizabeth. Here, Caroline Bingley would begin her campaign of disdain. Here, Wickham—if he appeared—might begin his slow deception.

I was thirteen. I had time. But time, in this world, moved with the swiftness of a single dance.

---

The night of the ball, Netherfield was dressed in gold and candlelight. The guests glittered. The sisters preened. The room vibrated with anticipation.

Mr. Bingley danced with Jane again—twice. Darcy, though initially silent, did indeed ask Elizabeth for a dance. She accepted, her eyes sharp with humour.

They moved together like mismatched prose—graceful, yet tense. He spoke stiffly; she replied with wit. Their repartee was strained and shining, like a sword just drawn.

I watched from the edge of the room, arms folded, heart tight.

Is this truly love? I wondered. Or just a collision of personalities too proud to bend?

As the evening waned, I found myself alone near the hearth. Georgiana approached.

"You saw them," she whispered, glancing toward her brother and Elizabeth. "Do you think… he likes her?"

"I think he is intrigued," I replied. "And confused. Possibly both."

She exhaled. "He's not often confused."

"No," I agreed. "But perhaps it's good for him."

---

As we departed that night, Lady Helena remarked, "The Bennet girls were dressed well. Jane, especially. And Mr. Bingley seems quite struck."

My father said only, "There will be consequences. There always are."

And I, seated quietly between them, looked out the window at the moonlit trees and thought:

The story has begun in earnest now.

And I am no longer a reader.

I am in it.