Elizabeth’s laughter returned, soft and musical, yet Darcy noted that it did not linger as long this time. “That, Mr. Darcy,is simply a matter of principle. I make it a point never to be predictable.”
“You succeed admirably,” he said, his lips curving into a faint smile.
For a moment, her smile softened into something less playful, more contemplative. But then her gaze flicked away again—this time toward her sisters. Lydia’s shrill laughter rang out from the far side of the room, and Elizabeth’s expression tensed almost imperceptibly. Darcy followed her gaze once more, wondering what thoughts swirled behind her eyes, what weight she carried that she would not share. When her attention returned to him, her smile was firmly in place, though it no longer reached her eyes.
Their conversation lulled as the servers cleared away their plates. Darcy caught himself studying Elizabeth as she turned her attention to the room again, her gaze sweeping over the other guests with quiet observation. There was a thoughtfulness to her, an intelligence that shone through in every glance, every word. She was not merely clever; she was perceptive, and he had no doubt that she saw more of the world—and of him—than most people ever did.
But tonight, there was something else in her expression, something Darcy could not quite name. A flicker of hesitation, of conflict, as though she were at war with herself. Each time she let her warmth show, it seemed quickly followed by a moment of retreat, as though she were reminding herself of some invisible boundary she dared not cross.
The inconsistency left him restless. What was holding her back? Why did her openness feel so fleeting, her joy so tempered? She had never been thus before. Was something troubling her this evening? It… it could not be Wickham, could it? An almost possessive ire shot through him at that idea. Darcy shot a glare across the dining room, but Wickham was not evenwithin ready line of sight, and furthermore, Darcy had not seen him approach Elizabeth all evening.
He longed to ask, to understand, but he knew better than to press. Instead, he kept his silence, hoping that if he waited, she might offer him a glimpse of whatever thoughts weighed on her so heavily.
Darcy’s attention drifted to Elizabeth’s face as her gaze wandered across the room, settling on her sisters. Miss Lydia and Miss Catherine were giggling loudly with their partners, their behavior drawing amused—and disapproving—glances from the surrounding guests. Miss Mary, seated near Mr. Collins, was speaking with displeased urgency about something or other, her voice carrying across the room with unrestrained earnestness.
Elizabeth’s expression tightened slightly, though she did not sigh or frown. Instead, there was a faint set to her jaw, a frustration she was clearly attempting to conceal. Darcy noted the flicker of something deeper in her eyes—sadness, perhaps, or resignation. She did not meet his gaze at first, but when she finally turned and caught him watching her, her lips curved into a faint, self-deprecating smile.
“One cannot account for younger sisters,” she said quietly, her tone wry but tinged with something softer. “One is concerned for them, of course, but… well, they cannot entirely be managed.”
Darcy hesitated, considering her words. “You speak from experience.”
She gave a small shrug, her gaze drifting briefly back to the table where Lydia had now spilled something onto the floor. “Lydia is lively, and Kitty follows where she leads. They mean no harm, but sometimes… sometimes I wonder if they understand how their actions reflect on the rest of us.”
Darcy inclined his head slightly, his voice low as he replied, “You are not alone in such concerns.”
Elizabeth glanced at him, her expression shifting subtly. There was curiosity in her eyes now, mixed with a hesitation he had not seen before. She seemed to weigh her next words carefully before speaking.
“And your own sister,” she began, her tone softer now, “has her situation improved? I recall you mentioned she was visiting a family she had not wished to travel with. I hope her spirits have… recovered.”
Darcy blinked, momentarily caught off guard by the question. He had not expected her to remember such a detail, let alone ask about it with such genuine concern. For a moment, he said nothing, unsure how much to reveal.
“I have promised her that I will collect her next week and return to London with her, to spend the rest of the winter with our Matlock relations.”
“Ah.” She nodded, and there was in her expression some sort of mixture of approval and regret. “I imagine that pleased her.”
“I hope so. For now, she is managing. Though I fear her reluctance to go with that family was not entirely unfounded. Georgiana is… sensitive. Shy. She finds it difficult to adapt to unfamiliar company.”
Elizabeth nodded thoughtfully, her gaze steady on his. “That is understandable. I imagine it is difficult to feel at ease in such situations, especially for someone so young.”
Darcy hesitated again, the words catching in his throat. There was something about Elizabeth’s manner—her empathy, her quiet curiosity—that made him want to share more. He leaned slightly forward, lowering his voice as he continued. “She has had… experiences that make her wary of others. I wish I could shield her from such things, but I know it is not entirely within my power.”
Elizabeth’s brow furrowed slightly, her tone growing even softer. “Tell me, Mr. Darcy… what is she like?”
The question hung between them, and Darcy felt an odd tightness in his chest. He rarely spoke of Georgiana in such detail, even to Bingley. But the sincerity in Elizabeth’s expression—the absence of judgment, the quiet understanding—compelled him to answer.
“She is…” He paused, searching for the right words. “She is kind. Gentle. Perhaps too gentle for her own good. She has a talent for music and a love for reading, though she can be painfully shy in company.”
Elizabeth smiled faintly, her eyes softening. “She sounds lovely.”
“She is,” Darcy said quietly. “But her kindness makes her vulnerable. She sees the good in everyone, even when it is not deserved. And I fear there are those who would take advantage of that.”
Elizabeth’s expression grew serious, her gaze steady. “She is fortunate, then, to have a brother who sees the world more clearly.”
Darcy met her eyes, struck by the quiet conviction in her voice. “I do what I can,” he said after a moment. “But there are times when I wonder if it is enough.”
Elizabeth leaned forward slightly, her fingers brushing the edge of her glass. “I think, Mr. Darcy, that it is enough to care. To try. That is more than many would do.”
Darcy felt the weight of her words settle over him, their sincerity cutting through the noise of the room. She spoke with such ease, such clarity, and he found himself wondering—not for the first time—how it was that she seemed to understand so much of what he could never say.
