That should have been enough reason to stay home, but Mrs. Bennet had declared it a “golden opportunity” and promptly shoved everyone into their best walking gowns. Jane, being Jane, had complied sweetly. Mary brought two tracts to share with Mrs. Philips. Kitty and Lydia had barely managed to button their boots, squealing the entire way about who owed whom money to spend later in town.
By the time they reached their aunt’s narrow front path, Elizabeth had resigned herself to a long hour of tepid tea and unrelenting floral upholstery.
She had not accounted for Darcy.
He was already there when they arrived, seated stiffly on the edge of a low settee with Miss Bingley perched beside him like a lonely swan trying to pretend a rock was her mate. Mr. Bingley was speaking with Sir William Lucas and waving his arms about in a way that threatened several teacups.
Darcy’s gaze flicked up as they entered. Then immediately back down.
Elizabeth looked straight ahead and smiled at Mrs. Philips.I am not here for him. I am here for the tea. I am here for the conversation. I am not here for him.
And yet, of course, a chair had been left for her—directly beside the fire, and directly across from Mr. Darcy.
Mrs. Philips ushered her over with such delight, there was no polite way to refuse.
“Lizzy! Right here, dear. What excellent timing—Mr. Darcy was just observing how warm the fire is. Do sit.”
Elizabeth sat.
Darcy inclined his head, as if they had not nearly cut each other off at the knees just last week.
She smiled politely.
The air was stifling with wood smoke and some sort of over-baked pastry. Elizabeth sipped her tea and glanced around the room.
“What a pretty gathering,” she said brightly. “All the ladies look so well this afternoon.”
He said nothing, but one brow lifted infinitesimally. A flicker of suspicion, or perhaps just dread.
“Do you not think so, Mr. Darcy?” she asked, with theatrical interest. “Miss Lucas looks particularly radiant, I believe. That ribbon becomes her, does it not?”
She nodded meaningfully toward Charlotte, who sat with her mother near the pianoforte, looking as she always did in social settings—mildly tranquilized, moderately resigned, and wholly unconvinced that anything pleasant would come of the day.
Darcy’s eyes moved. Just barely. A mechanical, tactical flick in Charlotte’s direction. He gave no comment.
Noted.Appreciates good posture, lacks imagination.
She kept her tone perfectly mild. “I daresay a man of taste might do worse.”
A small shift beside her—Miss Bingley, stiffening like a drawn bowstring.
Elizabeth turned her head, all guileless sweetness. “And you, Miss Bingley—how fortunate you are to possess such a striking shade of orange silk. It is so rare to find something that can hold its own against a flame.”
Miss Bingley blinked. Her eyes darted upward as if she could see the truly wretched plume of her turban—vivid, unflattering, and roughly the color of boiled carrot. Then, startled into vanity, she lifted one hand to adjust the offending feather and offered a gracious little simper.
“You are very kind.”
Across the hearth, Darcy stirred in his chair. Slowly, deliberately, he lifted his eyes and fixed Elizabeth with a stare that could have melted enamel.
She smiled back, demure and innocent as a parson’s niece.
Journal entry for tonight. Page title: "How to Be Helpful Without Being Shot." Subsection: 'In Which I Recommend Wives to a Man Who Clearly Cannot Be Trusted to Choose One Without Intervention.'
She folded her hands in her lap, the picture of sociable composure.
If he meant to go wife-shopping in Hertfordshire, she would at least ensure the inventory was properly labeled. That he seemed to overlook the most sensible options—and allow himself to be hunted by the least—was hardly her fault.
Besides, she was having a perfectly delightful time.
