She forced a careless smile. “Yes, well… I suppose they did.”
Jane’s expression softened, and she nodded as though the response satisfied her. Then, to Elizabeth’s great surprise, she said, “If you like drawing so well, I shall ask Papa to procure you some charcoals.”
Elizabeth blinked. She had not expected that.
People had always spoken of her talents in terms of accomplishment—a thing to be shown off, to be praised, to be used for admiration or advantage.
No one had ever thought about it as a thing she mightwant. A thing she might miss or enjoy.
Elizabeth hesitated. “You need not trouble him.”
“It is no trouble,” Jane said simply. “You have a gift. You ought to have the means to use it.”
Elizabeth swallowed. Something warm unraveled in her chest.
A gift.
Not an accomplishment.
A gift.
She exhaled slowly, glancing back down at the sketchbook in her hands.
Maria was still staring at her in open fascination.
Lydia huffed. “Well, if you will not fix his expression, at least let me color in his uniform.”
Elizabeth let out a soft laugh and handed the charcoal back.
Darcydidnotcomehere to play games.
And yet, it seemed the world conspired against him.
“I insist, old man!” Bingley declared, clapping him heartily on the back. “We cannot have you brooding in a corner all afternoon. It is a party, you know.”
Darcy sighed. “Bingley—”
“No excuses,” his friend interrupted cheerfully. “Sir William has declared the game, and as you are an esteemed guest, it would be the height of bad manners for you to refuse.”
“Bingley,” Darcy repeated.
Bingley only smiled. “Come now, it is just a bit of Pall-Mall.”
Darcy closed his eyes.
Pall-Mall.
A most undignified game.
But he could already feel the attention of their host—and of several other guests—turning toward him, expectant, eager. A refusal now would be pointedly noticed.
With a slow breath, he nodded.
The group cheered.
Bingley beamed.
Darcy resigned himself to his fate.
