Page 8

“ T o whom do you write so secretly, sir?” Miss Bingley’s whining voice rose from the card table, and Elizabeth glanced up from her book.

Mr. Darcy looked startled. He hastily slipped the half-written sheet of paper under the next before replying.

“It is no secret. I am writing to my sister.”

Elizabeth kept her head down, watching him out of the corner of her eye, as he attempted to deflect Miss Bingley’s transports of delight for Miss Darcy.

Elizabeth hid a smile. Whatever he had been writing would be irreparably smudged by now, she considered, and she wasn’t surprised a few minutes later, to see him lift the sheet, fold it and slide it into the inside pocket of his jacket.

She returned her attention to her book. Whoever he had been writing to would have to wait until later. Mr. Darcy would undoubtedly decide to write the letter when next undisturbed in his chamber — and would burn the smudged version, if it was such a secret.

She smiled to herself; it would be much more interesting to guess at to whom he was writing than to continue reading this book.

He was much too honourable to have to write begging letters for gambling debts, she thought. So, perhaps a mistress? No. Somehow she knew he would not keep a mistress. Or did she?

She sniffed and turned the page, forcing her mind to the dull text. She wasn’t interested in his correspondence, anyway.

But as he had admitted to be writing to his sister, they all now had to listen to Miss Bingley and her sister arguing over the accomplishments needed to be considered a lady.

She smiled at the book on her lap when Mr. Darcy responded to his friend after Mr. Bingley eulogised with a list of everything all ladies could do.

“Your list of the common extent of accomplishments has too much truth. The word is applied to many a woman who deserves it no otherwise than by netting a purse or covering a screen. But I am very far from agreeing with you in your estimation of ladies in general. I cannot boast of knowing more than half-a-dozen, in the whole range of my acquaintance, that are really accomplished.”

Miss Bingley jumped to agree with him. “You are so right, Mr. Darcy. A woman must have a thorough knowledge of music, singing, drawing, dancing, and the modern languages, to deserve the word; and besides all this, she must possess a certain something in her air and manner of walking, the tone of her voice, her address and expressions.”

Elizabeth smiled mischievously as she noticed Mr. Darcy’s frown.

“All this she must possess,” he agreed. “And to all this she must yet add something more substantial, in the improvement of her mind by extensive reading.”

The temptation was far too great. “I am no longer surprised at your knowing only six accomplished women, Mr. Darcy. I rather wonder now at your knowing any.” Elizabeth arched her brow enquiringly at him.

Mr. Darcy spun round on his chair with an expression of astonishment. “You are very severe upon those of your sex, Miss Elizabeth.”

She shrugged slightly. “ I never saw such capacity, taste, application, and elegance as you describe united in one lady.”

She dropped her gaze to her book, ignoring his look of surprise, and in the background, the other ladies protested loudly at her comment.

Certainly, she herself possessed few of the listed accomplishments, and she hugged her secret to herself. She was, in truth, more of a lady than they might ever have met. A lady in hiding. She must be careful, still, or her father might not permit her to continue to live at Longbourn.

It was fortunate that Mr. Hurst called those at cards back to the game, and after a few moments Mr. Darcy seemed to recollect his task and returned to his letter.

Elizabeth sat quietly, returning to the intriguing question of whom he could have been writing to when interrupted by his hostess.

It could hardly be something nefarious; he would not write so in a public room, so what could he possibly be doing? She bit the corner of her lip. Perhaps it was something to do with business and he didn’t want his correspondent known about.

No. Business letters would be written in the mornings, in the library, surely?

Elizabeth sighed and tried to return her interest to the book.

If only Jane would be well enough to return to Longbourn soon.

Elizabeth had been here only a day, and it was a day too many.

She pushed the wish aside. Jane was improving, she knew.

Perhaps another two or three days. Then she could ask Papa for the carriage, and they could be at home.

She could go out for a long walk over the hills, knowing Jane would relax once safely at home.

After another half-hour, she admitted defeat and excused herself to the party. She was reminded of the smudged letter when there was a rustle from the folded sheet in Mr. Darcy’s waistcoat pocket as he bowed at her departure, but she kept her countenance politely blank until she reached the hall.

Climbing the stairs, she wondered again to whom he had been writing. Not knowing, she would be vexed, she knew that. But she must forget it. She wasn’t likely to discover ever to know.