“You ride with an escort,” he observed.
“Yes.”
“It is unusual for a lady of the neighborhood.”
“I am aware.” Her gaze held his steadily, daring him to press the matter. Against his better judgment, he did.
“You do not seem the sort to require protection.”
Elizabeth laughed softly. “Protection is rarely a reflection of one’s courage, Mr. Darcy. More often, it reflects the concerns of others.”
Or their power.“I had not thought of it so,” he admitted.
“That does not surprise me.” The remark was not unkind, but it was pointed.
They directed their horses along the lane now, side by side, the footmen maintaining their distance. Darcy found himself both irritated and invigorated by her manner.
“You speak with great confidence upon matters of class and circumstance,” he said. “For one who has not, I presume, lived within the first circles.”
Elizabeth arched a brow. “And you presume this based upon what?”
“Your residence—even your relations. Your—” He gestured vaguely. “Situation.” He mentioned it though he had not fully realized it until now.
“My situation,” she repeated thoughtfully. “Is that not the word often used when one wishes to dismiss another’s experience?”
Darcy frowned. “You mistake me.”
“Do I?” They halted again, her horse turning his head toward Mr. Darcy’s with mild curiosity.
“You argue against the merit of rank,” he continued, compelled despite himself. “You speak as though class were a trivial concern, easily dismissed.”
“I argue against the assumption that rank is the sole measure of worth,” she countered. “There is a difference.”
“You speak as one who has not borne its weight,” he said. “Status is not merely comfort or privilege. It is an obligation. It is scrutiny and responsibility that never relent.”
Elizabeth studied him for a moment, her expression unguarded. “You are quite right,” she said at last. “It is all that and more. But,” she continued, “I have lived beneath it. And I can assure you, scrutiny travels downward as readily as it does up.”
She has absolutely no notion,he thought.She cannot.“You speak eloquently,” he said aloud, “but eloquence is not experience.”
“No,” she agreed readily. “Nor is experience always wisdom.” Her horse shifted, impatient to be moving again.
“You believe class immutable,” she went on. “I believe it a circumstance, not a definition. That does not mean I am ignorant of its power—only that I refuse to worship it.”
Darcy felt the familiar impulse to dismiss, to categorize her opinions as youthful idealism. She had never navigated courtpolitics, never endured the expectations of lineage, never borne the burden of consequence that came with every public action.
She speaks opinions not her own,he decided.Borrowed from books. From others.Yet even as the thought formed, he found it wanting. She did not speak like one parroting borrowed philosophy. There was conviction here—earned, not assumed.
“I suspect,” he said coolly, “that if you had lived within those circles, you would think differently.”
Elizabeth smiled again, softer this time. “Perhaps. Or perhaps I would think the same—and merely speak more cautiously.”
They regarded one another in silence, the air between them charged with unspoken challenge.
“At any rate,” she said lightly, “I must continue my ride. My aunt dislikes unnecessary delay.”
Her footmen straightened at once, ready to follow.
“And I must return to Netherfield,” Darcy replied.
