Charlotte gave her a look.
Elizabeth shrugged. “Some men take long walks. Others copy Latin maxims by candlelight.”
“And you remembered that.”
“It was memorable,” Elizabeth said, far too quickly.
Charlotte’s eyebrow rose. “Ah.”
They sat in silence for a moment. Darcy turned slightly—just enough to glance toward the tea table, where Miss Martin from Clapham was attempting to peel an orange with her gloves on.
Elizabeth tilted her head.
“What,” Charlotte asked warily, “are you thinking?”
“I am thinking,” Elizabeth said slowly, “that Mr. Darcy has just looked at Miss Martin for more than one second, and I find that… interesting.”
Charlotte nearly choked on her tea. “You cannot be serious.”
“Oh, come now. She is pleasant. Her father is in trade, but wealthy trade. She speaks passable French. She plays—something stringed. And she has a sort of rustic elegance, do you not think?”
“She wears hair combs made of seashells.”
“So does the sea,” Elizabeth murmured.
Charlotte stared.
Elizabeth’s smile widened. “It could work.”
“You do not like Mr. Darcy.”
“I do not dislike Miss Martin. Rather, I am perfectly neutral regarding her.”
Charlotte set down her tea with excessive care. “Elizabeth Bennet, if you are matchmaking for sport—”
“It is not sport. It is… community service.”
“Because?”
“Because he is clearly here to marry someone. And we should all be terrified.”
Charlotte laughed, then caught herself and glanced toward her mother, who was pretending not to eavesdrop from three feet away.
Elizabeth added, “I am simply safeguarding the neighborhood. Strategically. Preventatively.”
“You are meddling.”
“I am generous-minded.”
Charlotte paused. “And if he looked at you instead of Miss Martin?”
Elizabeth did not answer at first. She plucked a biscuit from the tray and stared at it as though it might offer her absolution.
“Then I would immediately join a convent,” she said. “Or fake a contagious illness. Something with pustules.”
Charlotte gave a low laugh. “I shall hold you to that.”
Elizabeth popped the biscuit in her mouth and said, through the crumb, “Mark my words: if he approaches me, I shall go pale and collapse onto the pianoforte.”
