Page 4

Darcy immediately turned to Oliver.

“Oliver, there has been an alteration to our plans. We shall not be journeying to London today. is on his way here, most likely accompanied by his manservant. I shall confer with Mrs. Nichols and instruct her to ensure the house remains open for another day.”

Oliver’s countenance brightened briefly, though he quickly composed himself. He had served with in the regulars, and Antony, ’s manservant, had served in that regiment as well. Oliver would no doubt find the evening’s company to his liking.

“Very well, sir,”

said he.

“I shall begin unpacking some of the items—just sufficient for our stay of a single day.”

Darcy gave a slight nod and descended the stairs in search of Mrs. Nichols. Upon finding her, he directed that the house remain open for at least another day. Then, with no particular destination in mind, he mounted his horse and rode out from Netherfield.

A short while later, he found himself in the town of Meryton, his thoughts occupied by the day’s events.

He knew that he had little cause to remain in Meryton. was no child; should he find Netherfield empty, he would doubtless procure a room at the inn and return to London on the morrow—such inconvenience would mean little to a man long inured to the hardships of war.

Yet, here he was, lingering in the very town he had resolved to quit but the day before—for what purpose, he knew not.

With a sigh, he alighted from his horse and entered the postmaster’s office to dispatch an express to Bingley, informing him of his sister’s departure for London. ’s unexpected arrival was briefly mentioned, but he offered no hint as to when they might themselves return to town. He was resolved that his presence—or absence—in Meryton should in no way influence Bingley’s decision to return to Netherfield.

After leaving the postmaster’s office, Darcy made his way back toward the library. Yet, as he passed the tavern, a voice—familiar and unwelcome—caught his ear. He paused, compelled against his better judgment by the conversation within.

“Are you certain of this?”

came Wickham’s voice, marked by surprise.

“Aye, Mr. Wickham,”

answered a younger voice.

“I seen Molly. She says Mr. Bingley’s gone to London early this mornin’. She heard Miss Bingley tellin’ the housekeeper to shut up the house and send the servants away.”

“Why would they depart so suddenly, the morning after the ball?”

asked another voice, tinged with concern.

“And what of the servants?”

“Ah, my dear fellow,”

Wickham sneered, his voice thick with scorn.

“why should they trouble themselves with the fate of mere servants? They may lock the house up or return to London at a moment’s notice. I warrant Darcy is behind it all. He cares for no one but himself.”

“Aye, aye,”

came another voice.

“Your former friend and that harridan, Miss Bingley, were inseparable yesterday. She clung to him at every turn. I reckon they’ve had their fill o’ this place and are off to their fine houses in London.”

“Quite so, Johnny,”

Wickham replied.

“Though that harridan may cling to Darcy as she pleases, it will avail her naught. Darcy will never marry beneath his station. In truth, he is betrothed to his cousin—the heiress of a fine estate. Miss Bingley is but a mere distraction until the day he weds.”

“Are you certain, Wickham? That is low, even for your former friend—to make use of his friend’s sister in such a manner?”

“What friend, Johnny?”

Wickham returned with a bitter laugh.

“Darcy has no concern for friends, nor spares a thought for any but himself.

His father—now, he was a generous man.

I was his favoured godson.

Had Darcy inherited even a fraction of his father’s decency, I should not be in my present circumstances.

My life might have been very different.”

What followed was entirely in keeping with Darcy’s expectations.

Wickham, now convinced that Darcy had returned to London, proceeded to recount the familiar tale of grievance—the denied living—and was met, as ever, with murmurs of pity and expressions of indignation.

Darcy listened in silence, until a sudden remark pierced his composure and left him stunned.

"Aye, Mr.

Wickham," came a voice, rough.

"Yer old friend’s shown hisself plain enough—a man no better than we reckoned, after what he said of Miss Lizzy.

To call a gentleman’s daughter—such a fine young lady, mind ye—'merely tolerable,' and in a full room! ’Tis a shame no one had the courage to challenge him for it."

Darcy was struck dumb, the breath all but leaving him.

He had regretted those words the instant they had escaped him.

Yet until now, he had remained steadfast in the belief that Miss Elizabeth had not heard them.

Indeed, he had taken pains to assure himself of this throughout the evening of the assembly, for his gaze had involuntarily followed her, marking her every movement.

She had merely rejoined her friends, conversing with an untroubled air, her manner in no respect altered.

Not once since that evening had Darcy discerned the slightest trace of resentment in her demeanour.

On the contrary, she had appeared pleased to engage him, offering lively debates and conversation that wholly engrossed him.

Could it be that those lively debates had served only to provoke him? Had she, from the first, been laughing at his expense?

Yet what disturbed him most was this: none but Bingley and Miss Elizabeth had stood close enough to hear those ill-timed words.

That they should now be spoken of publicly could mean but one thing—that she had indeed overheard them and, moved by just indignation, repeated them to others.

Above all, it confirmed a truth more grievous than he dared admit: she had never cherished the faintest regard for him, or worse, had always regarded him with disdain.

For none who held another in any measure of esteem would so lightly expose that person to the censure of the public eye.

Darcy turned away from the tavern, his countenance sombre.

The day had already been rife with unsettling revelations: first, the letters from his uncle and aunt, which had wholly unsettled his long-held convictions of duty and expectation;

and now, the painful realization that the one lady who had ever truly captivated him likely had disdained him—or perhaps even harboured hatred.

Amidst all this confusion, one truth remained beyond dispute: Wickham was a danger to the neighbourhood at large.

Darcy had no doubt that Miss Elizabeth had already heard Wickham’s version of events—and, worse still, had lent it credence.

Had she not, she would scarcely have spoken of the reprobate during their dance the day before.

It now fell to Darcy to bring the truth to light.

The task would not be easy, for nearly all who knew them favoured Wickham’s words over his own.

What Darcy required was proof, which, providentially, lay within his power to obtain.

All he needed was to dispatch an express to his man of business in London.

Thus resolved, Darcy turned and made his way to the post office to dispatch another express.

With this task accomplished, he set out for Longbourn.

Had it rested solely with him, Wickham should trouble no one beyond the morrow, and no further warning would be needed.

Yet Darcy was resolved that Miss Elizabeth must learn the truth of Wickham’s character directly from him—and that it be conveyed in the proper manner, through her father.

Little did Darcy suspect the day held further surprises.

As he approached the turning toward Longbourn, a figure sprang suddenly into his path, causing his horse to shy and rear with such violence that he was nearly unseated.

Had he not been a rider of skill and firm seat, he might well have been thrown.

Once he had regained control of the animal, Darcy fixed a cold, severe gaze upon the man who had so recklessly endangered him—only to behold Mr.

Collins offering an exaggerated bow.

"Mr.

Darcy!" cried Mr.

Collins, his voice shrill.

"It is an outrage, sir—a complete disgrace! That a man of my station—a clergyman under the distinguished patronage of Lady Catherine de Bourgh, your honoured aunt—should be subjected to such indignity! It is an affront, not merely to myself, but to your noble relation as well."

Darcy regarded him with undisguised incredulity.

Mr.

Collins appeared wholly unaware of how near he had come to causing a grievous accident—perhaps even the loss of life.

With effort, Darcy mastered his rising indignation, unwilling to let temper betray him into an unbecoming display.

“Indeed, Mr. Collins,”

he said at length, his tone deliberately cool.

“it would have been a grave affront to my aunt had you succeeded in causing my death by flinging yourself into my horse’s path.”

“Your death?”

exclaimed Mr. Collins, his countenance contorting into an expression of horror.

“Indeed, sir,”

replied Darcy.

“even a child might comprehend the danger of placing himself in the path of a horse. Though I understand you do not ride, the exercise of ordinary prudence is hardly beyond expectation.”

“Oh, forgive me, Mr. Darcy!”

cried Mr. Collins, dropping to his knees in a manner most theatrical.

“Forgive me! My devotion to your esteemed aunt quite overcame me, and in my distraction, I lost all sense of my surroundings. It was not intentional—no, not in the least! Never could I dream of causing you harm, Mr. Darcy. Her ladyship would be most unforgiving—indeed, I daresay she would disown me entirely!”

He concluded with a shudder so expressive it bordered on the absurd.

“Good heavens, Mr. Collins,”

said Darcy sharply, his manner betraying unmistakable exasperation.

“Pray rise from the road and do not make a spectacle of yourself. Tell me—what has so incensed you on my aunt’s behalf? And whither, may I ask, were you going in such haste?”

At that moment, another person appeared. Darcy turned to regard her, recognising her immediately.

“Miss Lucas,”

he said, inclining his head.

“it is a pleasure to see you.”

“Mr. Darcy,”

she returned, dropping a curtsy. But whatever further remarks she had intended were cut short, as Mr. Collins hastily interposed.

“Mr. Darcy,”

he began.

“I presume you are bound for Longbourn. I must caution you, sir, that you are venturing into society most unsuitable for a gentleman of your elevated standing. I urge you to avoid their company entirely, for they abound in artifice—full of cunning and misrepresentation. They show no proper reverence for your rank, nor respect toward that of your noble aunt. Pray consider how they have comported themselves toward one of my station—the future master of Longbourn!”

Miss Lucas lifted her brows ever so slightly, her expression tinged with amusement. Darcy, who had borne Mr. Collins’s speech with mounting irritation, now found his patience quite exhausted.

“Mr. Collins,”

said he.

“I do not recall granting you leave to direct my movements. I assure you, the people of Longbourn—though you may suspect them of artifice—are known for their hospitality and consideration. I cannot imagine they would have slighted you without cause.”

“Slighted?”

cried Mr. Collins.

“Mr. Darcy, I have been made to endure a most grievous affront. Miss Elizabeth herself—”

He paused for effect, his eyes turning toward Miss Lucas, as if to draw from her some sympathetic acknowledgment.

“She rejected my proposal in terms most uncivil—a most glaring disregard for the advantages I am able to offer as heir to Longbourn and vicar to your esteemed aunt!”

Darcy stiffened.

“You proposed to Miss Elizabeth Bennet?”

“Indeed, Mr. Darcy,”

returned Mr. Collins.

“I did, just this morning. I came to Hertfordshire, as you will doubtless be aware, upon your aunt’s most sagacious advice, to repair the estrangement that had long existed between my late father and my cousin. With her customary wisdom, she counselled me to select one of my fair cousins as my bride. After careful deliberation, I deemed Miss Elizabeth the most suitable, and accordingly thought it fit to make her an offer of marriage.”

“And?”

Darcy prompted, scarcely able to credit what he heard.

“She refused me, Mr. Darcy,”

cried Mr. Collins, shaking his head with affected solemnity.

“Even after I had graciously enumerated the many advantages of such a connection. I impressed upon her the honour I was bestowing—the singular distinction of enjoying the patronage of your most noble and generous aunt, Lady Catherine de Bourgh. I persevered, knowing well that young ladies often reject proposals they secretly intend to accept. Yet that impertinent, ungrateful girl spurned me outright! And, to heighten the insult, her father had the unpardonable audacity indeed to support her in such folly! It is a disgrace—a most grievous affront to a man of my station.”

Darcy drew breath at last, unaware he had been holding it. The idea of Miss Elizabeth with Mr. Collins defied all reason. So absorbed was he, he failed to notice Miss Lucas’s gaze, fixed steadily upon him, noting every change in his countenance.

While Darcy remained thus, unsettled by Mr. Collins’s disclosures, Miss Lucas politely intervened.

“Mr. Collins,”

she said.

“I believe we were on our way to Lucas Lodge, were we not? Mr. Darcy doubtless has engagements of greater import, and we ought not to detain him longer. His time is of considerable worth.”

Mr. Collins, still visibly indignant, turned to the young lady.

“Dear Miss Lucas,”

he began.

“pray forgive my abrupt departure. But should Mr. Darcy intend to call at Longbourn, I must, of course, consider it my duty to accompany him. One cannot be too cautious when entering a household such as the Bennets’. My patroness, his aunt, would surely expect no less.”

Darcy stared, incredulous. Did the man truly imagine he required support?

“Mr. Collins,”

Darcy said, striving to keep his tone measured.

“if you have offered to escort Miss Lucas to her home, I should think it most improper to abandon such an engagement. I am sure my aunt would be grievously displeased by any breach of your word. As for myself, I am well able to keep company at Longbourn. Pray, do not let me detain you.”

Mr. Collins appeared momentarily at a loss.

“Mr. Darcy, are you quite certain?”

he asked, adjusting his cravat with a nervous hand.

“Your aunt—”

“As I have already explained,”

Darcy interrupted firmly.

“my aunt would not wish her vicar to forgo a promise made to a lady.”

Mr.

Collins wore a ludicrous countenance of mingled guilt and hesitation.

He seemed torn between the desire to appear indispensable to his patroness’s nephew and the claim Miss Lucas held upon him.

Meanwhile, Miss Lucas gently yet firmly guided him toward her home, a subtle, unmistakable gleam of exasperation in her eyes.

Darcy observed the scene with momentary perplexity.

He had considered Miss Lucas as a sensible young woman; yet, for a curious moment, he wondered whether she might be endeavoring to secure Mr. Collins for herself.

Once the pair had departed, Darcy turned his steps toward Longbourn.

Rather than continue on horseback, he chose to walk.

As he approached the gates, a low sound reached his ear—soft and broken—followed swiftly by another, unmistakable voice.

“This is absurd, Jane!”

cried Miss Elizabeth.

“Miss Darcy is but a young girl; Miss Bingley speaks nothing but falsehoods. Be assured, Mr. Bingley bears no regard for Miss Darcy.”

Darcy started at the mention of his sister’s name. What could Miss Bingley have done? Of what was Miss Elizabeth speaking?

“Consider it, Lizzy. Mr. Darcy is his friend; it is only natural that Miss Darcy should often be in Mr. Bingley’s company. There is nothing in this letter that ought to surprise us. Miss Bingley meant kindly, I am sure—to forewarn me, and to spare me greater pain,”

Miss Bennet added, her voice tinged with sorrow.

“But she is too late.”

Darcy heard Miss Elizabeth’s voice, softened with sympathy—“Oh, Jane.”

He perceived the matter at once.

Miss Bingley, it seemed, had written to Miss Bennet with the aim of dissuading her from Bingley, and had, by some means, drawn Georgiana into the scheme.

Darcy struggled to master his rising indignation.

To involve his sister’s name thus was not only imprudent but dangerously injudicious.

Should the letter fall into indiscreet hands, Georgiana’s reputation might sustain irreparable injury.

Yet as his indignation grew, so too did a disquieting awareness.

He had entirely misjudged the situation.

That Miss Bennet regarded Bingley with genuine affection could no longer be doubted—and he had been exceedingly blind to imagine otherwise.

Had he sought to divide them, he would have committed a most grievous error.

Darcy considered approaching the ladies to inquire about the letter—perhaps to speak with Miss Bennet herself, and learn what had been written.

But the notion was soon dismissed.

It was far more proper to apply to Mr.

Bennet himself.

As a fellow guardian, he might express his concern and make his request.

Resolved upon this course, Darcy passed the two ladies and proceeded to the gates of Longbourn.

The housekeeper, Mrs.

Hill, showed him the way to Mr.

Bennet’s study.

“Mr. Darcy, pray come in,”

said Mr. Bennet, his eyes showing some surprise at the unexpected visitor.

“I must apologize for this unlooked-for visit, Mr. Bennet,”

said Darcy.

“It was a decision made but moments ago. If this be an inopportune moment, I shall gladly call again at a more convenient time.”

“By no means, Mr. Darcy. Pray, do take a seat,”

replied Mr. Bennet.

“Would you prefer tea, or perhaps a glass of wine?”

“I shall have tea, Mr. Bennet,”

said Darcy, watching the housekeeper depart after closing the door behind her.

Mr. Bennet settled into his chair, his eyes narrowing with a quiet scrutiny. Though not entirely at ease beneath the elder gentleman’s gaze, Darcy returned it with composure.

“Mr. Bennet,”

began Darcy.

“I shall not detain you long. If you will permit me, I shall come directly to the point.”

“Pray do, Mr. Darcy.”

“When I first resolved to come here, I had but one reason for doing so. Yet I now find myself with three matters to discuss. If you will permit me, I shall speak of them in order.”

“Pray, proceed,”

said Mr. Bennet.

“Yesterday,”

continued Darcy.

“I had the fortune of dancing with your second daughter. During our dance, she mentioned the name of an individual—one with which I am, alas, all too familiar, though I would much have preferred it otherwise.”

Mr. Bennet leaned forward slightly with a knowing look.

“May I assume that this individual is Mr. Wickham?”

Darcy nodded gravely.

“Indeed, Sir.”

“Very well,”

said Mr. Bennet, settling back into his chair.

“And what can you tell me of this gentleman?”

“Wickham is no gentleman,”

said Darcy, with vehemence.

“I have ample cause to know this, and it is my duty to warn you—and all who reside in Meryton—against him. I am acquainted sufficiently with his character and conduct that I should be negligent to remain silent.”

Mr. Bennet arched his brow, a look of curiosity mingled with amusement crossing his features.

“Indeed! That is a grave accusation. You must understand, Mr. Darcy, that Mr. Wickham has a tale to tell of you as well. Why, then, should we place our faith in your words?”

Darcy drew a deep breath. This conversation, after all, promised to be difficult.

“Sir,”

he said.

“I am well acquainted with Wickham’s tale of woe, wherein he asserts that I denied him the living bestowed by my father. Yet it was he who voluntarily relinquished it, choosing to study law and accept a monetary settlement instead. I was relieved, for I knew he was ill-suited to the clergy. I willingly bestowed upon him three thousand pounds, in addition to the thousand left by my father’s will. In exchange, he surrendered all claims to the living. Yet, three years hence, upon the vicar’s death, he returned to petition once more. He claimed his situation was dire and declared his intention to be ordained. I am certain, Mr. Bennet, that you will not fault me for having refused him.”

Mr. Bennet’s eyes widened.

“Four thousand pounds in three years? The man must have led a thoroughly dissolute life. Pray, Mr. Darcy, are there any further vices in Mr. Wickham, beyond the obvious ones of gambling and drink?”

Darcy sighed in resignation.

“Sir, I presently provide for three of Wickham’s children near Pemberley. He seduced those young women under false promises of marriage, fully aware that their youth rendered them unable to resist his advances. Furthermore, I hold debts of his amounting to six hundred pounds, all from Derbyshire. I have no doubt that he has amassed a similar sum since his arrival here.”

Mr. Bennet rose from his chair.

“Then I must ask, sir—why is such a man still at liberty? Why has he not been confined to the debtor’s prison? And why did you not warn us of him before?”

Darcy’s eyes fell, and a shadow crossed his face, for the question struck painfully near a truth he could not escape. He had known Wickham’s vices—known them well—and yet had done nothing. It had indeed been his duty to warn others.

“Your anger is most just, Mr. Bennet,”

he replied at length.

“All I can offer in explanation is this: I feared for one dear to me. Wickham’s malice might, with but a single word, render that person’s life miserable. In seeking to shield that person, I kept silence.”

Mr. Bennet slowly sank into his chair.

“And what has changed, then?”

he asked, his voice softer, though no less sharp.

Darcy’s expression softened.

“I have since perceived that, in shielding one, I allowed Wickham to do great harm to many. It was a grievous error to remain silent. I have therefore instructed my man of business to forward every document in my possession that may bear against him. Moreover, my cousin, Colonel Fitzwilliam, arrives at Netherfield this evening and will readily attend to the matter. If all proceeds as I trust, Wickham will no longer be at liberty to injure another. I shall see that he is made to answer for his misdeeds at last.”

Mr. Bennet nodded slowly.

“Very well, Mr. Darcy. I must thank you, on behalf of us all, for seeing to the removal of such a man—though I confess it should have been done much earlier. In truth, I never wholly credited his tale of the withheld living. He was far too smooth-tongued, his account too studied to be believed outright. Moreover, the vicar here informed me that Mr. Wickham has never once attended service—a most telling omission for one who once aspired to holy orders.”

“As I mentioned, Mr. Bennet,”

said Darcy steadily.

“Wickham is not ordained—he is no man of God. Were he so, with his fluency and charm, he could have easily secured another living; for such preferments are often bestowed upon men of far lesser abilities.”

“Ah, I see you have had the pleasure of meeting my cousin, Mr. Collins,”

Mr. Bennet remarked with dry amusement.

Darcy, though somewhat discomposed, gave a resigned nod.

“I have had that honour, sir. I should also inform you that his patroness is none other than my aunt, my mother’s only sister.”

“Good Heavens, sir!”

exclaimed Mr. Bennet.

“Does he know of this connection?”

Darcy merely nodded.

“In that case, Mr. Darcy,”

said Mr. Bennet.

“perhaps it is best we move on to your next matter when we have some privacy—my cousin may return at any moment. You mentioned you had three points to discuss.”

“Indeed, Mr. Bennet,”

replied Darcy.

“Would you mind summoning your two eldest daughters?”

Mr. Bennet raised his brows at this strange request, but rose and rang the bell.

Elizabeth

Elizabeth found herself reflecting on a series of events as disagreeable as any she had yet endured. It had commenced the previous evening with the eagerly anticipated ball at Netherfield, where Mr. Wickham—who had promised to stand up with her—was conspicuously absent. She was thereafter obliged to dance with Mr. Collins, whose awkward steps and ceaseless discourse rendered the engagement a trial of patience. He trod upon her feet with such frequency and force as to imperil her new slippers—a gift from her dearest Aunt Gardiner.

To her further mortification, she was next engaged with Mr. Darcy. Though she could not deny the elegance of his dancing, she had resolved never to stand up with him, and the breach of that resolution afforded her no satisfaction. Yet even this was not the worst of the evening, for the behaviour of her family, at almost every turn, proved a source of deepest embarrassment.

The morning brought her no relief; Mr. Collins had made her a most disagreeable proposal of marriage, which she had declined in the plainest terms. The interview had left her fatigued and thoroughly vexed. She was then compelled to endure her mother’s lamentations for nearly an hour. At last, she escaped the house, only to find her elder sister, Jane, sunk in evident despondence. She had received a letter from Miss Bingley which had very nearly extinguished her hopes of happiness with Mr. Bingley.

Elizabeth could hardly suppose that even the most cynical of authors would have devised a day so replete with vexation.

As she sat upon the Garden bench, the letter from Miss Bingley clutched in her hand, she was at a loss how to comfort her sister. Her earlier attempt to persuade Jane of Miss Bingley’s insincerity had met with little success. Just as she was about to renew her efforts, a maid approached.

“If you please, Miss, your father wishes to see you in his study. Miss Bennet as well,”

said the girl.

Jane rose and extended her hand. Elizabeth handed over the letter, which Jane folded carefully and tucked into her pocket. The sisters then proceeded toward their father’s study in silence.

At the threshold, Jane opened the door but stopped short, her hand still upon the latch.

“Mr. Darcy!”

she exclaimed, in a tone of mingled surprise and confusion.

Elizabeth, close behind, drew up short. Had Mr. Darcy not gone to town? Was that not precisely what Miss Bingley had asserted in her letter? What, then, was he doing here—in their father’s study?

“Miss Bennet. Miss Elizabeth,”

said Mr. Darcy, rising and bowing with his usual formality.

Elizabeth, though still discomposed, and Jane, equally astonished, curtsied and took their seats.

“Jane, Lizzy,”

said Mr. Bennet.

“Mr. Darcy has come to lay before me certain particulars. He and I have already spoken on one point, which I shall address in due time. For the present, however, he wishes to speak with you both. Let us hear him.”

Elizabeth turned to Mr. Darcy, who appeared decidedly ill at ease; his posture was rigid, and his eyes did not meet hers. It was plain he would rather be elsewhere. Yet, with visible effort, he straightened, and, after a moment’s hesitation, met her gaze at last.

“Miss Elizabeth,”

he began, his voice low.

“I scarcely know how to begin. On the evening of the assembly—when I first arrived—I spoke words within your hearing that were insulting, ungentlemanlike, and wholly unworthy of me. That they were not intended for your ears is no excuse. I ought never to have spoken them, however provoked or discomposed I may have been. You ought never to have been subjected to such language. There is no defence I might offer; I behaved most improperly. All I can do is offer my most earnest apology, and hope that you may one day forgive me.”

It was, indeed, a gracious and sincere apology—one that Elizabeth had scarcely expected to receive. So surprised was she that she remained silent, gazing at him; and it was only when Jane gently tapped her hand that she became aware of her own silence.

“Mr. Darcy,”

she said at last.

“I thank you for your apology, and you have my forgiveness. It was regrettable that I should have overheard those words. Eavesdroppers seldom hear good of themselves, and I ought not to have given them any heed.”

“Miss Elizabeth, you could not have avoided those words, for I made no attempt to soften my voice. I am not at ease among strangers, and I generally refrain from dancing unless acquainted with my partner. On that day, I was much discomposed by an unresolved matter left behind in London, and was therefore ill-disposed to company. I ought not to have attended the assembly, but certain circumstances compelled my presence against my wish. Yet none of these considerations can excuse my conduct. I should never have spoken in such a manner—this is the plain truth.”

“Indeed, Mr. Darcy,”

said Mr. Bennet dryly.

“I can certainly understand your reluctance to dance, for I am much of the same mind. However, had I been present at that assembly and heard your words, I daresay I might have had a few choice words for you.”

“I quite understand,”

replied Mr. Darcy.

“Had anyone insulted my sister thus, I too would have responded in like manner.”

“May I ask, Mr. Darcy, why you should find yourself ill at ease among strangers?”

Elizabeth inquired.

“You are a man of education, well acquainted with the forms of society, and no stranger to gentlemen of every rank and condition. It seems unlikely, then, that the art of conversation should be wanting—especially as I have observed you to take part in it on more than one occasion during my stay at Netherfield.”

“Were those conversations on the weather, the size of the room, or the latest fashions, Lizzy?”

Mr. Bennet interjected with a quiet laugh.

“As you may know, such trifles are the usual fare at these assemblies. I can well understand why Mr. Darcy might choose to avoid them.”

“You are severe, Papa,”

replied Elizabeth with a look of mock reproof.

“How can you speak so broadly, when you so seldom grace such events with your presence?”

“Ha! I attended many such gatherings in my youth, my dear,”

said Mr. Bennet with a knowing smile.

“And I daresay the subjects of conversation remain much the same.”

“Mr. Darcy,”

said Jane suddenly, causing Elizabeth to start.

“were you ill at ease among strangers because of their expectations of you? Not for what you are, but for what you hold?”

Elizabeth perceived a flicker of surprise in Mr. Darcy’s expression at her sister’s unexpected inquiry, before he bowed his head with visible reluctance.

“Do you refer to my ten thousand pounds a year, my estate, the ridiculous supposition that I possess half of Derbyshire, or perhaps even my family connections? If such be your meaning, then yes, Miss Bennet,”

he replied, his voice tinged with resignation.

Elizabeth recalled the whispers of ten thousand pounds that had followed the Netherfield party’s arrival at the assembly. If Mr. Darcy were habitually shy among strangers, such a reception could scarcely have lessened his discomfort.

Good heavens—whence had that notion arisen? Could Mr. Darcy indeed be shy?

Elizabeth observed him as he fixed his gaze upon her sister. A silent understanding passed between them, speaking more than words could express. When it ended, Mr. Darcy’s countenance softened with evident relief.