Elizabeth did not smile.
She managed something—a murmur, perhaps, or a nod—but she did not trust herself to speak just then.
Beside her, Jane shifted. “Well. That is happy news, indeed.”
“Yes,” Bingley agreed. “She is very elegant. Exceptionally composed. I daresay she and Darcy will suit each other quite well.”
Elizabeth felt as if the air had been knocked from her lungs. Inside, her thoughts were a whirlwind. Darcy, engaged? She had not expected this, not so soon. Christmas… that had been… well, that had sort of been their agreement, had it not? He still had a few days, but had rushed to fill them without… but that was silly, why would he speak to her about it?
A pang of something—regret? jealousy?—stabbed at her heart. And… were those words coming from her mouth? “How lovely for them both.”
And it was. It ought to be.
She had encouraged this—had named Miss Ashford herself as the least offensive candidate for his abbreviated courtship. She had insisted it was the sensible choice, the safe one. But knowing a thing was right and feeling it were entirely different matters. She could still hear the edge in Darcy’s voice, recall the way his gaze had held hers too long, remember the last unfinished argument between them as if it had been set aside mid-breath.
She meant to say something else—something light, something gracious—but the words turned to ash behind her teeth. Elizabeth smiled. Or something like it.
Then Captain Marlowe clapped his gloves together. “Well! The afternoon is still promising and yet here we stand. Shall we take another turn?”
Bingley offered his arm to Jane. “Shall we?”
Jane accepted, her smile returning with warmth. Elizabeth glanced back at the fire for a heartbeat, as if it might offer more comfort than it had before, then nodded and took the Captain’s arm.
And off they went—skates gliding, eyes forward, conversation easy. Or easy enough to pass for it.
It felt like something she had once known how to do, skating. She allowed herself to be steered, her balance a half-second behind his pace. A performance. A pantomime. Her cheeks stung from the wind and the effort to keep them curved in amusement.
Jane and Mr. Bingley glided just ahead, close enough for Bingley’s hand to hover respectfully at her back. Jane looked the picture of contentment—radiant, warm, just slightly breathless. Elizabeth caught a glimpse of her sister’s smile and wanted to weep and cheer at once. It was so deserved.
And so far away, if Elizabeth was exposed too soon.
Captain Marlowe chuckled at something he thought she had said. She had no idea what it was.
He was kind. He was attentive. He was right there.
And she was pretending. Every word, every fluttering breath of laughter was a stitch in some absurd costume she had sewn for herself. One that looked very much like a happy young woman enjoying a crisp winter afternoon with a promising gentleman.
She could feel it beginning—his glances becoming more intent, his silences more charged. The confidence building just behind his hesitance.
They skated until the sun dipped lower and the firelight turned golden. Someone had begun tuning a fiddle near the edges of the gathering. Elizabeth made a remark about the quality of the music. It sounded like something she might have said.
At last, as they returned toward the brazier, Captain Marlowe cleared his throat. Not the fussy kind—he was trying to be brave now.
“Miss Bennet—”
She turned, careful to meet his eyes with the appropriate softness.
“—if I might be so bold as to request a private audience tomorrow—” he hesitated, blinking as if the words startled him by existing “—I should be very much obliged.”
Jane had already turned discreetly toward the cider table with Mr. Bingley. They were laughing. He touched her elbow.
Elizabeth gave a small, steady nod. “Of course, Captain.”
His face lit with pleasure, and he bowed with perfect form. Not so perfect that it seemed rehearsed, but just enough to suggest that he had imagined this moment before, more than once.
“I shall call after two,” he said, his voice steadier now.
Elizabeth inclined her head. “We shall be at home.”
