Darcy made a noise in his throat that might have been a chuckle. Or it might have been the onset of consumption.
The reading droned on. At the end of the stanza, the hostess asked for responses. Polite clapping followed. A few murmured “Moving.” One man said “Haunting” and then attempted to clarify the metaphor using a handkerchief.
Mrs. Pennington turned to Elizabeth. “Miss Bennet, you looked thoughtful.”
She had not been. She had been wicked. But there was no escaping now.
She rose, composed her face, and said, “The work is certainly passionate.”
Murmurs of agreement.
“Though I did wonder whether Leucadia’s weeping might have been avoided entirely if she had not chosen a man named—” she glanced at her notes, “—Tirion, who, as far as I could tell,spoke only in nautical metaphors and seemed unable to express emotion without invoking a gale.”
Several people laughed. Mrs. Pennington made a face like she had bitten a cherry stone. Elizabeth sat again, triumphant.
And then—Darcy stood behind her.
Her stomach dropped.
He did not look at her as he spoke. “While I appreciate Miss Bennet’s…spiriteddissection, I do wonder if we must dismiss intensity of feeling simply because it is delivered in poor taste.”
A pause. The room held its breath.
Elizabeth smiled, slow and sharp. “Intensity of feeling,” she said, “should never require one to suffer through nine rhymes for ‘surge.’”
Scattered laughter. The tide turned back toward her.
But Darcy was not finished. “Poetry, Miss Bennet, is not an exercise in restraint. It is a declaration. The subject may be ridiculous, the imagery overwrought—but the effort to name an unnameable grief still deserves respect.”
That caught her. Not because it was wrong—but because he sounded like he meant it.
She tilted her head. “Respect is not a blank cheque. One might also argue that excessive grief, however sincerely felt, is not improved by metaphorical shipwrecks and unnecessary alliteration.”
He looked at her now—directly. “And one might argue that sarcasm is a poor substitute for insight.”
That struck deeper than it should have. The smile on Elizabeth’s lips thinned.
“Oh, I see,” she said lightly, but her tone no longer sparkled. “You prefer we feel deeply—quietly—and write poorly. That does sound like a masculine prescription.”
Several listeners shifted in their chairs. Someone inhaled audibly.
Darcy’s eyes narrowed. “Not poorly. Honestly. But I understand that distinction might be difficult for someone who takes notes in the middle of a eulogy.”
Gasps. A ripple moved across the room like a breeze before a storm.
Elizabeth’s cheeks flamed. He had seen the notebook. And read it. And now, thrown it back at her.
She stood. “Then it is fortunate, Mr. Darcy, that I am not in the business of delivering eulogies. Only honest opinions. And it seems I am not the only one who thought the poem could do with fewer metaphors and fewer stanzas.”
Mrs. Pennington gave a nervous little laugh. Someone at the back of the room applauded, absurdly.
Darcy bowed his head—stiffly—and resumed his seat without a word.
Elizabeth remained standing just long enough to make her composure clear, then sank back down and opened her notebook again.
She did not write anything.
Not yet.
