Chapter 4: The Netherfield Ball Effect

It is a truth perhaps less universally acknowledged that the slowest-moving pieces in a game of chess often alter the board the most.

In the weeks following the Netherfield Ball, society in Meryton began to settle—outwardly, at least—into familiar rhythms. Invitations were sent and declined, morning visits resumed their gossip-laden pace, and the hedgerows turned brittle with frost. Yet I knew, beneath the surface of smiles and salutations, everything had begun to shift.

Charlotte Lucas, for one, had begun to bloom.

Not in the way one might expect—no sudden flush of coquetry or change of gown—but in conversation, in carriage, in the quiet pride of a woman who knew she was being *seen*. Mr. Bingley had begun to call more frequently at Lucas Lodge. At first under the guise of seeking Sir William's opinion on local tenants. Then for cards. Then merely to sit in the same drawing room where Charlotte read or poured tea.

And Jane Bennet—graceful, serene Jane—remained ever kind, but now at a distance.

I observed it all with cautious satisfaction. This had not been the path set out for them in the pages I once studied. But I, Lady Clara Ashworth—the only daughter of Baron and Lady Ashworth of Hertfordshire—had known for some time that stories need not always follow their first telling. Especially not when one had lived two lives to correct them.

"You do not find it strange?" Elizabeth asked me one morning after church, where Mr. Bingley had offered Charlotte his arm over the icy path.

"I find it… refreshing," I replied, careful to maintain the poise expected of a baron's daughter.

"Charlotte is my dearest friend, and I would wish her every happiness," she said slowly. "But I confess, I did not see this path. I thought—"

"Jane?"

She hesitated. "Yes."

I could not tell her the whole of it—that in another life, I had written an entire thesis on the misalignment of Darcy and Elizabeth, and argued that Jane's softness would lead only to disappointment. That I had died still believing Charlotte had deserved far more than a clergyman's charity.

"She deserves affection as much as Jane does," I said gently. "And perhaps she is better suited to Mr. Bingley than we once imagined."

Elizabeth said nothing for a moment. Then: "Perhaps."

---

The next interruption to the delicate social weave came, as expected, with the arrival of **Mr. Collins**.

His letter had preceded him by two days and was read aloud by my mother during breakfast with the same solemnity usually reserved for royal decrees.

"To think," Lady Helena murmured, pressing a hand to her breast, "that such a man—heir to Longbourn!—would deign to seek acquaintance with *us*."

My father murmured something unrepeatable behind his teacup.

Mr. Collins arrived with great ceremony and greater self-regard. He bowed too low, praised too much, and carried with him the awkward air of a man trying too hard to prove his worth. He spoke of Lady Catherine de Bourgh with reverence bordering on worship, and of his patronage as though it were a divine mission.

But the real revelation came the following morning, when he declared his intent to choose a wife among the Bennet sisters.

I was in the room when he said it, though hidden behind my embroidery hoop.

"It is my intention," Mr. Collins proclaimed, "to secure the future harmony of the estate by marrying one of my cousins. It is the most prudent course."

Mrs. Bennet beamed. "How very sensible of you, Mr. Collins."

He cleared his throat. "And having observed the manners and decorum of the eldest, Miss Bennet, I have decided to begin my attentions there."

I winced inwardly. This would not end well.

---

Jane, ever gracious, did not scorn his attentions, but neither did she encourage them. Elizabeth, for her part, was incredulous.

"He could not be more absurd if he tried," she said after supper, as we walked the garden paths.

"He is not trying to be absurd," I said. "He simply *is.*"

She laughed, but then frowned. "Do you think Mama will press the matter?"

"Unquestionably."

"And Jane?"

"Will be too kind to hurt him quickly."

"Then perhaps," she said slowly, "it will fall to me to intervene."

I almost smiled. "You've done it before."

---

The intervention, however, came in an unexpected form.

That Sunday, Mr. Bingley arrived early for the usual post-service tea at Longbourn. But this time, he was not alone.

Mr. Darcy accompanied him.

The household was thrown into subdued chaos. Mr. Collins nearly spilled his tea in his rush to perform a bow. Elizabeth's expression, though composed, grew taut.

Darcy, ever unreadable, offered a slight bow and said little.

It was Georgiana's sudden entrance—she had arrived the previous evening to stay with us at Ashworth—that shifted the mood.

"Miss Lucas," she said shyly to Charlotte, offering her a modest bouquet she had arranged herself that morning. "I hope you do not mind."

Charlotte, always composed, accepted it with genuine grace. "Not at all. Thank you, Miss Darcy."

Georgiana turned to Elizabeth next. "And I remember you spoke of Cowper. I've brought a volume, if you still wish to borrow it."

Something passed between them then. A softening. A reevaluation.

Mr. Darcy noticed.

---

As the men played billiards that evening and the ladies gathered in the drawing room, I found myself seated beside Elizabeth.

"Your Mr. Darcy is not quite the villain we thought," she said, not looking at me.

"He is no villain," I replied. "But he has much to unlearn."

"And you—are you always so wise?"

"Only when necessary."

She smiled. "It *is* necessary, more often than not."

I glanced across the room at Charlotte, who was speaking to Bingley again, and felt the strange stirrings of hope. Of purpose fulfilled. The story bent. Not broken.

But a new thread was forming.

A letter arrived the next day from **Rosings Park**.

Lady Catherine wished to make my acquaintance.

---

"I do not like it," Lady Helena said, though she pressed lavender water to her temples as she spoke. "It is too soon. Too formal."

My father raised a brow. "Would you rather she ignore our daughter entirely?"

"No. But she is a sharp woman. And Clara… Clara is clever."

"She must meet the world as she is," my father said simply. "Even the sharp edges."

I folded the letter slowly.

Rosings would come. But first—there was the matter of a man who could not take a hint, and a friend who might soon be forced into misery.

I had stepped into the story.

And now I had to protect the ones Austen had left behind.