Chapter Text
It was a quiet day at Longbourn.
Well, that was a complete lie. If any of the days at Longbourn were completely quiet, Lizzie would automatically want to know who had the audacity to kidnap her sisters and quite possibly her mother too.
Let’s rephrase.
It was as quiet as a day could ever possibly get at the Longbourn estate in Hertfordshire. The house was buzzing with an excitement that had been present since the alarm chimed at 5 o’clock sharp that morning. In Lizzie’s opinion, there was no good reason to be shouting so loudly at what she still thought was such an ungodly hour, but she supposed that the occasion did indeed merit such enthusiasm.
It was exactly three days until the starting of the annual week-long financial conference, where big wigs and rich investors from all over the country would start pouring into Hertfordshire, bolstering the tourism industry with their lodgings, sightseeing, and appetite. The Bennets themselves benefitted entirely from the last item on that list.
Each year the conference was hosted by a Mr. Charles Bingley, an incredibly wealthy tradesman who, following in his footsteps of his father before him, annually rented out Netherfield Park as a rustic conference hall. Coincidentally, Netherfield Park was a mere ten minutes drive from Bennet’s Bakery, Cafè, and Tea Emporium, and whether it was for the pastries, the drinks, or the exceptionally large selection of teas, conference-goers would always stop in both before and after the conference for a bite to eat.
Needless to say, Mr. Bingley could be equated to a god of good fortune in the eyes of the Bennets.
But, no matter how much one could hope, dream, or pray to this “Divine Mr. Bingley”, he could no more make the conference start sooner than he could actually hear their prayers. So, as it was, the entire Bennet family was left to stew in their anticipation. (Yes even their father too, whose tranquility often balanced out their mother’s animation.)
The buildings of Longbourn Estate presently, like most estates of its size, were split into two parts. The entire right side, once a horse stable, was now the aforementioned fully functioning cafè. Normally the Bennets would leave the almost immaculate cleanliness to said cafè, but with the arrival of the conference-goers coupled with the springtime weather, Mrs. Bennet had long ago decided that this time of year would also herald spring cleaning for the entirety of the estate. So the past two weeks, as always, had been a lesson in patience for the Bennets and a few of their employees as they thoroughly scrubbed Longbourn clean and made it presentable for both company and customers.
That, however, had reached completion two days ago, and now with very little to do besides the routine baking and serving their regulars, it seemed that the Bennet household and employees were struck with an abundance of excess energy that was dying to be let loose.
One of the prime ways that this form of energy was relieved amongst the persons at Longbourn Estate was in the form of gossip. Oodles and oodles of gossip. The main focal point not being about the conference itself, but manifesting in the form of discussion of its patron, Mr. Bingley.
Mr. Charles Bingley was, in all forms of the word, quite the catch. He and his sister, Caroline Bingley, at the death of their father, had taken over the family business in trading. With the iron fist of the younger and wit and charm of the elder, the siblings were constantly able to turn a large profit with their company, making them both incredibly wealthy individuals. His charisma and general good-naturedness followed him out of the realm of business talks, and his youth and good looks only added to what seemed to be a honeypot of a man. It was due to these characteristics that many a person all over Hertfordshire were trying to catch his eye.
This was the type of gossip that Miss Charlotte Lucas, an employee and family friend of the Bennets, divulged to a still bleary-eyed Elizabeth at six o’clock in the morning.
“Of course, I’m not running around like a chicken with my head cut off trying to spruce myself up for a phantom,” She said with a huff, “You should’ve seen the look on Lily Porter’s face when I told her it was useless to go and doll ourselves up for a man we probably won’t even meet. It’s like dressing to the nines for a fictional character.”
Lizzie grumbled, her muscle memory leading her to one of the cafè’s many electric kettles, “And that is how we know you will never rise to great heights as a cosplayer. Besides, Lily Porter was most likely wondering why you had chosen a place as inconvenient as the register of the grocery store to stop and lengthily chat.”
“Oh come off it Lizzie, you love the gossip just as much as I do, and you know exactly well that Lily Porter would sell her soul at the chance to talk someone’s ear off. You’re just grumpy that you weren’t the one to put her tail in a twist.”
She couldn’t deny it, mainly because it was true.
Lizzie saw that someone, most likely her heaven-sent sister, Jane, had already filled and turned on the kettle, which was now steadily keeping the water hot and ready. She continued the conversation, grabbing a cup and searching for the jasmine tea she knew they just restocked.
“You know, I bet he stalks people for fun . . . or has killed someone. There’s absolutely no way anyone can be that perfect without having some sort of dark release.”
Charlotte rolled her eyes, “Don’t be so cynical,” then she glanced around conspiratorially, setting the stage for what Lizzie knew would be either an outlandish theory or something that would be alarmingly right on the nose. “Maybe he’s trying to cope with his father’s death. He and his sister were pushed into such a grand position at an early age. He may possibly be trying to be perfect to live up to crushing expectations.”
Lizzie blinked, not having ingested enough caffeine to even begin batting around the conjecture that had just come out of her friend’s mouth. She shook her head.
“And you think I’m the cynical one. Where’s my tea, I feel dead.”
Charlotte sighed fondly, making her way over to the green teas.
“Even after all that morning routine and shower you still look dead.” She handed her a small teabag, filled with the sharp floral scent of jasmine. “Maybe if you tried drinking coffee, you’d wake up faster. Besides, I haven’t even told you the best part yet. Apparently, Bingley is bringing someone new this year.”
“First of all, screw you, my tea is wonderful. Second of all, it’s a conference. New people always come because of Bingley.”
“No, Lizzie you don’t understand. He’s apparently bringing a friend to the conference for him to ‘get some air.’”
“And what is so important about that?” She dropped the teabag into the cup and turned to the hot water, intent on finally getting her tea. “Remember Mark Willoughby and his competitive gaming phase? It took us and his mother to drag him out of his room for 'fresh air' that lasted longer than five minutes.”
“Yes, but Mr. Bingley’s friend has one specific quality that Mark didn’t have,” Charlotte said expectantly.
Lizzie sighed and turned around with her now full cup, knowing that if she wanted to hear the rest of the story she would have to indulge in her friend’s theatrics.
“And what does this mysterious and fantastical friend of Mr. Bingley’s have that our own dear Mark doesn’t?”
Charlotte looked like the cat that got the cream.
“Money. Lots and lots of money. A great deal more than Mr. Bingley’s own fortune in fact. So great that if he wanted to he could probably buy this entire town and everyone in it.”
“Charlotte, that’s both slavery and illegal. And besides, I thought the megarich liked to keep their whereabouts secret. How do you even know this to begin with?”
They both made their way around the counter, choosing to sit down at one of the cafe's many tables to continue their conversation.
“Well, you know Mrs. Rockwell?”
“I highly doubt there’s anyone who doesn’t know who she is, being the head caretaker of Netherfield Park and all.”
“Well, I’m friends with her granddaughter, Eva, who works at Netherfield park. As it happens, when Mr. and Ms. Bingley came to have a final check on Netherfield, an employee overheard them talking about our prosperous fellow quite excitedly. He then told Eva, who then in turn told me.”
Lizzie took a slow sip of her jasmine tea, she'd let it steep for a bit longer than necessary, but even so she reveled in the strong and slightly bitter taste of the flowers.
“Has anyone ever told you your supply chain of gossip is too long?”
Charlotte smiled, “I’m quite certain that you’re the only one who has the gall to complain”
Lizzie chuckled behind her cup, “Even so, how do you know that nothing was lost in your game of telephone? Do you even have a name?”
“I’ll have you know that my information is highly credible. Besides, I always fact-check to be sure. And yes, I do have a name. He’s called Mr. Darcy.”