Influence & Grace | Mr. Darcy [PPZ]

VII

seven | 07.

NETHERFIELD.

    Elizabeth and Mary finally arrived at Netherfield, their breath hitching with the exertion of their brisk walk. The estate loomed before them, a grand structure framed by a sweep of lush gardens that stretched on either side.

Elizabeth moved with purpose, her gaze sharp as she glanced at the ornate iron knocker set against the heavy wooden door.

Without hesitation, she lifted her hand and struck the iron against the wood, the sound reverberating through the still morning air like the tolling of a distant bell.

The silence that followed felt unnaturally long. No one came to answer. Elizabeth's jaw tightened with impatience, and she rapped on the door again, harder this time.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the door swung open with a creak that seemed to echo through the silence.

A tall, thin man stood in the doorway, his dark eyes narrowing as he took in the sight of the two sisters standing before him, their skirts muddied and their cheeks flushed with exertion.

He regarded them with a look that seemed to wither the very air around him, his mouth set in a tight line. "What is the meaning of this?" He demanded, his voice low and clipped, as though their presence were a personal affront.

    But Elizabeth was not to be deterred. She pushed past him with a single-minded intensity, her shoulders squared, her chin held high.

    "We are here to see our sister; Jane Bennet." She declared, her voice making no room for argument as she swept into the entryway, her eyes already scanning the grand, high-ceilinged foyer beyond.

    Mary followed close behind, her heart pounding as she took in the opulence of the space—the polished marble floors, the gleam of gilded frames lining the walls, the faint, lingering scent of incense that spoke of a household accustomed to luxury and leisure.

    The man, his expression still reading displeasure, stepped aside with a reluctant sigh, clearly realizing that his protests would fall on deaf ears.

    He shut the door with a soft click and turned to lead them through the sprawling corridors, his back rigid.

    They were ushered into the dining room, a stuffy room where the light filtered haphazardly through the tall windows, casting jagged, golden stripes across the elegant furnishings.

    The room was filled with the muted clink of porcelain and the soft murmur of conversation.

    Mr. Darcy, Mr. Bingley, his two sisters, and one of the sisters' husbands were seated around a beautifully set breakfast table, the remnants of their meal spread before them on delicate china plates.