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Chapter Fifteen

E lizabeth had never been so grateful for soup.

It gave her something to look at. Something to do. Something to contemplate, however briefly, while Lydia shrieked across the table about a lieutenant’s dancing legs and her mother pointed at everything that shimmered.

She sat beside Mr. Darcy.

The supper arrangements had been fixed, as was the custom, before the ball began.

And as the guest with whom she had danced the supper set, Mr. Darcy was now her dinner companion for the duration.

This had seemed almost tolerable during the music, when their connection was purely mechanical—turn, bow, retreat. But now—

Now, with Darcy on her left, Lydia and her partner on her right, and Miss Bingley shooting darts from the opposite end of the table, Elizabeth had begun to suspect some celestial punishment was at work.

Lydia was speaking far too loudly about a recent walk with the officers.

Kitty kept giggling behind her hand at jokes no one else could hear.

Mary was describing the piano concerto she meant to play at the end of dinner with solemn detail to a neighbor who looked increasingly desperate for wine.

Her mother and Lady Lucas, meanwhile, had taken to gesturing toward Mr. Bingley’s end of the table with such enthusiasm that her bracelets clinked every time she mentioned “fortunes” or “excellent connections.”

Elizabeth sipped her wine and tried to remember what dignity felt like.

Beside her, Darcy had stiffened to the posture of a man attempting to fuse with the back of his chair.

He was doing his best imitation of an inanimate object—one with high cheekbones and better-than-average tailoring.

Elizabeth could not blame him. If she were not related to the noisiest half of the room, she would have fled to the card tables.

She took another sip. Then, in a tone pitched for him alone, said, “I must wonder, Mr. Darcy, why are you still here?”

He turned his head, slow and guarded. “I beg your pardon?”

“Well, Hertfordshire is not known to be a gold mine of débutantes. Add to that the unfortunate fact of my own residency here…”

“A fact I forgot until my arrival.”

She arched her brows. “I will believe that when good sense becomes the height of fashion.”

He set his spoon down. “Excuse me?”

“I mean that you probably remember how many drops of water the vicar splashed on your head at your christening. You have never forgot a thing in your life.”

He picked his spoon back up and looked down at his soup. “You may believe that if it amuses you.”

“Oh, greatly. But why are you still here? It seems an unlikely enough place to begin with, and I had assumed, after so many unsuccessful outings, you might have taken your search to livelier fields.”

He exhaled in a way that sounded a little like a growl—neither amused nor offended. “And yet, here I remain.”

“Stubbornness?”

“Lack of imagination.”

Elizabeth tapped the edge of her plate. “Surely that cannot be the whole of it.”

He gave her a sidelong glance. “The dowager thought it would be… strategic. Bingley’s natural ability to forge social connections, combined with Hertfordshire’s proximity to London…”

“Ah. That does sound like her.”

“And I had no better ideas.”

She raised her brows. “That may be the most honest thing you have said all evening.”

“It is early yet.”

Elizabeth arched a brow. “So it was by command?”

“By suggestion,” he corrected. “With the usual force.”

That earned the barest curve of her lips. She skewered a bit of carrot and considered the angle of Miss Bingley’s disapproval.

“And now that you are here,” she asked lightly, “do you find it… instructive?”

“Instructive,” he repeated.

“Certainly. I imagine it is useful to test your tolerances.”

“My tolerances?”

“For volume. Impropriety. Turnips. That sort of thing.”

Darcy looked down at his plate. “All… character-building.”

She laughed, soft and low.

The room buzzed around them. Glass clinked, someone laughed too loudly, and the smell of overcooked trout wafted from a distant platter. Elizabeth leaned slightly toward him—not so far as to suggest intimacy, but enough to be heard without effort.

“You should go to London. December approaches,” she said. “Soon you will be out of time.”

He did not look at her.

“I know,” he said quietly.

Her eyes narrowed. “Do you?”

He turned then, just slightly, to face her. His expression was composed—but not neutral. There was something behind it she could not quite name.

Before she could press the point, Lydia burst into laughter over something Captain Carter had said at the card table, loud enough to draw a glance from several guests.

Mr. Bennet, without lifting his gaze from his plate, remarked dryly, “Lydia, if you must assess the militia’s anatomy, do wait until pudding. It is better received with custard.”

Darcy went red.

Elizabeth pressed her napkin to her mouth.

“Well,” she said softly, “so much for that.”

They fell quiet for a moment. Darcy returned his attention to his plate. Elizabeth traced the rim of her glass with one fingertip.

Then she spotted something across the table—Wickham, speaking to Mrs. Goulding, gesturing with easy charm.

She turned to Darcy.

“What did he do?” she asked.

Darcy’s knife paused mid-cut.

“I beg your pardon?”

“What did Mr. Wickham do to you?”

He blinked. Actually blinked.

“You speak,” he said slowly, “as though the guilt is already assigned.”

Elizabeth lifted her glass to her lips. “Is it not?”

“You are quite prepared to condemn a man without a trial.”

She sipped. “I was raised on novels. Trials are for dull people, like those who insist on memorizing Latin grammars.”

His mouth twitched again. But the amusement faded quickly.

“You are so willing to take my part,” he said, not as a boast, but as a curiosity.

“I do not trust easily,” she said. “But I have seen you insult people to their faces. I cannot imagine you fabricating kindness behind their backs.”

He looked at her for a long moment.

Then he leaned slightly closer. “It is not a story I will tell here.”

“I do not need the story.”

Darcy tilted his head. “No?”

“I merely require the villain.” She set down her glass. “And I think I have found him.”

There was a flicker of something in his expression. Not relief. Not triumph. Something stranger. Something quiet and unsettled.

“I shall hate him forever,” she added. “Only because it makes good copy for my journal.”

Darcy made a sound. Not quite a laugh. Not quite a sigh.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“You look amused.”

“I am merely confused.”

“By me?”

“Constantly.”

She grinned. “Good.”

T he retiring room at Netherfield was a sanctuary of soft candlelight and murmured conversation, its rose-hued wallpaper and gilded mirrors casting a gentle glow over the assembled ladies.

A few maids lingered discreetly, offering assistance with shawls and hairpins, while the air was perfumed with lavender and a trace of rosewater left by recent guests.

Elizabeth stood before a large mirror, her reticule open on the nearby table as she dabbed a touch of powder to her nose. Around her, the room buzzed with subdued excitement, snippets of conversation floating like perfume in the air.

"Did you see how Mr. Darcy danced with Miss Latimer? So graceful."

"Graceful, yes, but I heard he barely spoke a word to her."

"Well, that is his way, is it not? Still, he has danced more tonight than ever before."

"They say he's the most eligible bachelor in the county."

"No, the country . Ten thousand a year, and a house in Derbyshire. My cousin says it is the size of a cathedral."

"I heard he is only still here because he has not made his choice yet."

"Because he cannot decide, or because he already has and we are all too late?"

"Miss Markham said he asked for tea and then said ‘thank you.’ Twice."

A ripple of delighted laughter followed. Elizabeth, seated now in a quiet corner, bit the inside of her cheek to keep from joining them.

"I think he is shy."

"Shy? No—he is calculating. He is taking notes on us, I am sure of it."

"Do you think he might be about to propose? Perhaps tonight?"

"To whom? Miss Latimer?"

"Not likely. He bowed and walked away from her as if he could not get across the room fast enough."

"Perhaps Miss Brereton, then?"

"Too short. And she giggled during the minuet."

"Miss Goulding?"

"No dowry."

Elizabeth had begun to smile before she realized it. She retrieved her journal from her reticule and opened it in her lap, her pencil tapping once against the page before she began to write:

Pink gown asked if Pemberley had a conservatory. He said yes. Conversation ended. She smiled like she had won something.

Green gown laughed before he finished his sentence. Possibly before he began it.

Yellow brought up winter estates. Twice. As though she has had one in mind since birth.

Pink #2 tried hounds, then embroidery. I suspect root vegetables are next.

Grey gown curtsied so low I feared she might take root. She has not reappeared.

Two young ladies in muslin spent ten minutes speculating whether he prefers fair or dark hair. A third asked if his estate borders a lake.

The prevailing theory is that he is a man in search of a bride.

If they only knew how right they are! I fancy a third of the ladies here would throw their slippers at him or swoon at his feet in such a way that their gowns “fail”.

Perhaps it would not be the worst thing to happen to him. With the power of decision taken from him, he might finally satisfy the will he has been running from since I have known him.

As she penned her thoughts, Charlotte approached, her expression a mix of amusement and curiosity.

"Eavesdropping, Lizzy?" she teased.

Elizabeth looked up, feigning innocence. "Merely observing. It is a skill every good satirist must hone."

Charlotte chuckled. “Well, your observations seem to be in high demand tonight.”