I forced a smile—probably the least convincing one I’d ever mustered. “Just... reflecting on my own country Christmases, Miss Elizabeth. Perhaps I have not appreciated them fully.”
She raised an eyebrow but said nothing, while Bingley launched back into his enthusiastic ramblings about the pond and skating, and then, I think he said something about hosting a ball.
“I say,” Hurst exclaimed, “where is that footman?”
I froze, my eyes rolling to the corner where Ewan had been standing. He was gone, and the glass with him… by whatever mercies prevailed.
Bingley looked about curiously and then frowned. “Indeed, I had not noticed. He must have stepped out. Something amiss, Hurst?”
Hurst pointed to the sideboard, where the bottle of claret and all those glasses had once stood ready to replenish the ones on the table. “Shoddy business, this. The wine is all gone.”
Eleven
Elizabeth
The morning of ourdeparture from Netherfield had finally arrived, and I could not remember the last time I had felt such overwhelming relief. While Jane had been the perfect patient, slowly regaining her strength, the rest of my stay had been something akin to a fever dream. And the strangest part of it all was, of course, Mr. Darcy.
He had spent the last few days lurching from one awkward interaction to the next, and I still couldn’t make heads or tails of him. At dinner, I would catch him glaring—notatme, precisely, but just past me, as if something dreadful lurked over my shoulder. His eyes would dart back and forth like a man watching a duel no one else could see. If anyone else noticed this behavior, they certainly didn’t say a word. And on the rareoccasion someone did seem to notice, Miss Bingley would wave it off with one of her insufferable explanations.
“Oh, Mr. Darcy is always so very deep in thought,” she would say, with that saccharine smile of hers. “His mind is simply elsewhere.”
“Elsewhere” was the understatement of the century.
The most uncomfortable encounter, by far, had been in the library yesterday. A rainy afternoon, and both of us had wanted to read—simple enough—but the air had felt as thick as porridge. He’d fidgeted the entire time, flipping pages and scowling at the book as if it had wronged him. Every now and then, he would look up and glance at me—or near me—with that same intense, searching expression, as though waiting for me to do something... unexpected.
I’d asked if he was enjoying his book.
He’d nearly dropped it, stammered something incomprehensible, and promptly resumed glaring at the spine like it had insulted his ancestors.
It had been a long few days.
As Jane and I made our way downstairs to the waiting carriage, I felt lighter with every step. The suffocating atmosphere of Netherfield, the endless politeness that masked so many undercurrents, and—above all—Mr. Darcy’s increasingly strange behavior, were all things I would be happy to leave behind.
I glanced at Jane, who, though still pale, was clearly much improved. She smiled at me, her calm and serene demeanor a stark contrast to the whirlwind of confusion I’d been living in. At least one of us had had a normal stay here.
When we reached the hall, the others were there to see us off. Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst stood with their usual expressions of polite detachment, though Miss Bingley was doing her best to appear genuinely concerned for Jane’s health. Mr. Hurst seemedto be staring off into the distance, probably lost in a dream about the next meal. Only Mr. Bingley seemed sincerely glad for Jane’s recovery, stepping forward to offer his warmest wishes for her swift return to full health. He was the one beacon of normalcy in this odd household.
And then there was Mr. Darcy.
He stood a little apart from the others, hands clasped behind his back, his posture rigid as ever, but... different. For the first time in days, he wasn’t glaring at invisible threats, wasn’t flinching or darting nervous glances everywhere. Instead, he looked at me—reallylooked at me—as if I had something he wanted but couldn’t bring himself to ask for.
It was strange, unsettling even, but there was a flicker of something else in his expression too—something that almost resembled... interest? No, not quite. Curiosity, perhaps. Disapproval, probably. I couldn’t say for certain, but whatever it was, it made me pause.
For all the oddity of his behavior, for all the discomfort he had caused me, I found myself feeling a shred of sympathy for him. This was not a house full of particularly warm or understanding people—apart from Mr. Bingley, who was lovely but oblivious to anything more nuanced than polite conversation. Whatever mental malady Mr. Darcy suffered from, it clearly wasn’t something the others had noticed or cared to comment on.
As Jane stepped into the carriage, I heard Mr. Bingley’s voice again, full of genuine concern. “I do hope you’ll recover fully soon, Miss Bennet. Your health is of the utmost importance to us all.”
Jane smiled warmly at him, and he gave a small, almost bashful bow before stepping back.
Then it was my turn.
Mr. Darcy approached, his eyes meeting mine with that same strange intensity I’d noticed earlier. There was somethingflickering behind them, something unreadable but definitely there. He bowed, far more formally than I’d expected him to manage, and for a brief moment, he held my gaze longer than was proper. And for once, he did not swat at shadows or jump at the sound of his own voice.
I wasn’t sure what to make of it. His expression was... softer than usual. Less guarded. Almost... vulnerable?
But just as quickly, he straightened, his usual air of aloofness snapping back into place like a lock clicking shut. Without another word, he turned and walked away, leaving me standing there, more confused than ever.
As Jane and I settled into the carriage, I couldn’t help but feel a strange mix of relief and curiosity. Relief to be leaving the oddities of Netherfield behind, yes, but curiosity about what, exactly, had broken inside Mr. Darcy to make him behave in such a manner.
