Caroline Bingley and Louisa Hurst.
Bingley’s sisters stood before a display case of bracelets, Caroline’s voice carrying the particular tone she used when discussing Elizabeth, a honeyed venom poorly disguised as concern.
“—honestly, Lou, Icannotunderstand what Darcy sees in that little creature. She’s amusing enough, I suppose, but hardly the type of woman one imagines living at Pemberley.”
Darcy ducked behind a display of wallets, feeling remarkably foolish but committed to avoiding detection. Through the artfully arranged pyramid, he could see Caroline holding a tennis bracelet to the light.
“Charles says she’s clever,” Louisa replied in her languid drawl. “Though I dare say that’s not what gentlemen tend to appreciate in a lady.”
“I have no doubt she’sveryclever.” Caroline’s laugh tinkled like breaking glass. “The sort that writes little stories for housewives. How perfectly commercial. I’m sure it paysverywell.”
“William alwayshashad a charitable disposition,” Louisa replied.
And then they both cackled.
An assistant approached Darcy with a helpful expression, but he shook his head and motioned to Bingley’s sisters. The woman’s eyebrows lifted, but then she nodded once in reply and retreated to a respectful distance.
“Though I will say,” Caroline continued, her voice dropping to what she undoubtedly imagined was a confidential whisper but which carried across the marble floor, “she seems to have him quite thoroughly besotted. Did you see him at drinks last week? Checking his phone every five minutes like some lovesick schoolboy. I was quite embarrassed for him.”
Darcy considered the various exits. The main entrance would require walking directly past them. The side entrance was blocked by a cluster of tourists taking selfies. He was effectively trapped by two women whose combined weight couldn’t be more than Athena’s.
“Perhaps it will run its course." Louisa played with the three bracelets on her wrist. "These infatuations often do, you know. Particularly when the lady in question is so . . .differentfrom what one might expect.”
“Oh, but that’s what worries me. Darcy doesn’tdoinfatuations. When he commits to something, he’s horribly thorough about it. Look at that dull art he collects. Who hangs maps on the wall?”
“Those are John Cary engravings, Caroline. I believe one of them is of Derbyshire.”
“Well, they aredreadfullyboring. Along with his determination to read every book published before 1950, no matter how dull.”
“He does prefer the classics.”
“Exactly. Once he decides something is worthwhile, he’s immovable.”
Caroline held up the bracelet to catch the light, and Darcy caught a glimpse of her expression in the mirror behind the display case. She looked ready to step straight into one of Elizabeth’s novels as the main suspect.
A family with three small children wandered into the jewellery section, the children pressing their faces against every available glass surface while their parents engaged in damage control. In the confusion of wiping noses and fingerprints and apologizing to staff, Darcy managed to slip behind a pillar near the watch display.
“Well,” Caroline continued, raising her voice to be heard over a determined toddler, “I suppose we shall have to be patient. And supportive. What are friends for if not to help one see things clearly?”
He needed no help from her. Of any kind.
“Oh, Caroline.” Louisa sighed. “You’re not planning one of your interventions, are you? Remember what happened when you separated Charles and that pretty Lillian girl? He met Jane Bennet. Now he’s with someone even less suitable, and through her, Darcy has met this novelist person.”
“It’s her sister, of course she would want to . . . Well, I’m sure the younger sister is adequate, in her own way, but one does worry about Darcy making himself ridiculous.”
The tourist family moved on. Darcy seized his opportunity and made a swift exit through the side entrance, grateful for the blast of cold December air that hit his face as he exited to the street.
Bingley was the best of men. How he had survived growing up with his sisters remained one of life’s inscrutabilities, right up there with why train timetables were treated as works of speculative fiction.
Back in his flat, Darcy found himself no closer to a solution but considerably more agitated. Athena had commandeered the sofa in his absence and was not inclined to move so he could sit.
“I don’t suppose you have any suggestions.” He dropped into the chair opposite her.
She yawned, stretched one elegant paw, and settled back into her nap.
Darcy stared at the ceiling and tried to approach the problem systematically. What did Elizabeth like? What made her laugh? What did she use, wear, read, enjoy?
Books, obviously. But Elizabeth read widely—literary fiction, crime novels, history, science, gardening magazines she’d picked up in dentist waiting rooms. Her shelves were an eclectic mix that reflected a mind that found interest in everything. Buying her a book felt like bringing coals to Newcastle, and the risk of duplicating something she already owned was too high.
