“About the lady.”
Darcy’s shoulders straightened. “Which lady? Miss Elizabeth?”
Bingley smiled like a man with a secret too fine to keep. “No! Miss Jane Bennet.”
Darcy’s stomach uncurled, and his mouth twitched. “Ah.”
“I have secured her blessing to court her. And her father’s, and, naturally, her mother’s. I will be calling often—veryoften, I hope.”
Darcy tried for a smile, but he had burned through every ounce of warmth in London. What emerged was a faint, tired curve of the mouth. “I told you that you misread her.”
“You did,” Bingley agreed. “And I am very glad I listened.”
Darcy reached for the brandy again, this time with purpose. “I am pleased for you, Charles.”
Bingley clapped him on the shoulder. “Go to bed. You look like death. I will see you in the morning.”
Thehousehadfinallysettled.
Dishes had been cleared, chairs straightened, and Mr. Collins—thankfully—had taken himself off to bed after yet another long-winded grace. Now only the low creak of floorboards overhead and the distant ticking of the hall clock gave any sign of life beyond the drawing room, where Elizabeth sat with Jane in comfortable quiet.
A pile of half-folded linen rested between them. Jane was methodical—neat corners, soft hands. Elizabeth’s pile had already toppled twice, and the sheet in her lap had somehow acquired a corner torn along the seam. She blamed Collins. No one could fold after a dinner like that.
But the quiet was welcome. Needed, even.
“I used to dream of a house like this,” Elizabeth murmured. “Warm. Noisy. A little unkempt.”
Jane smiled faintly. “Unkempt is kind. You have seen Mama’s ribbon drawer.”
“I have seen her kitchen.” Elizabeth smirked. “I am fairly certain your cook keeps a poultry ledger more meticulous than the Home Office.”
Jane laughed—a soft, surprised thing—and folded another pillowcase. “Hill is efficient, but I think it is ratherin spiteof Mama thanbecauseof her.”
Elizabeth snorted a silent chuckle, then went still, her eyes glazing a little as she watched Jane’s hands. “My father’s house is beautiful,” she mused. “Marble floors. Carved panels. A garden so vast we once lost a French tutor in the yew maze for half a day.”
Jane looked up, one brow raised in curiosity. “It sounds lovely.”
“But cold,” Elizabeth added. “And too quiet.”
Jane chuckled and tossed her folded linens aside. “I did not know such a thing could exist.”
Elizabeth shook her head. “My mother could not bear it. She left for Devonshire when I was nine. She said she would rather listen to seagulls than my father’s opinions. I visited her, of course. Back and forth, for a time. And she comes to London on occasion—she was there when I was presented at Court. But neither of them… truly wanted company. Certainly not mine.”
Jane’s face softened with sympathy.
“I was not neglected,” Elizabeth said quickly. “Not really. I had governesses and chaperones. I had all the tutors I could ask for, a private education worthy of a son rather than a daughter. I was introduced. Danced. Made friends.” She paused. “But friends cannot replace family. Not forever.”
“Surely your parents care for you,” Jane supplied hopefully. “Not all are capable of expressing their feelings, but I cannot think they were entirely ambivalent toward you.”
Elizabeth lifted one shoulder. “No, I was useful. Sometimes. Mother would send me lists of things to look for when I went shopping, Father would use my friendships to strengthen his alliances…”
“Surely there was more than that!”
Elizabeth looked down, fingering a loose thread on the coverlet. “I doubt my mother even knows I am not in London. As for my father, he has supposedly received letters purporting to be from me as I am out ‘on holiday,’ and I doubt he has bothered to notice the handwriting is not mine.”
Jane fell silent.
Elizabeth glanced toward the fire, where the last coals glowed faint and red. “I must confess, Jane, I thought it would be fearfully dull and provincial when Mr. Darcy insisted I was to come here. I thought I would be bored into a stupor. Instead I found noise. Laughter. Kitty and Lydia arguing over jam. Your mother shouting across the garden for Mary to put down that dreadful book before she trips over the cat.”
