Your most affectionate and grateful niece,
Elizabeth
Elizabeth knew it would be some time before she received a reply, but she hoped her aunt could provide information about Mr. Darcy. She doubted that his status could explain away his belief in his superiority.The gentleman’s confidence appeared too deeply rooted to be accounted for by fortune alone; it seemed instead the product of long reinforcement, of a world that had never troubled itself to contradict him.
The morning was nearly gone by the time Elizabeth had finished her correspondence. It was the Bennets’ day at home for callers, and so she quickly put her things away and went down to the parlor to sit with her cousins.
Lydia stopped her in the hall. “Lizzy, can you help me with my French? It will only be a moment—I know you are expected downstairs.”
Elizabeth agreed and stepped into Lydia’s chambers. Books were spread over a small table, their pages bent back and corners dog-eared with careless use. Lydia launched into an explanation of her difficulty, speaking quickly and with more enthusiasm than clarity. Elizabeth listened patiently, then gently corrected the error—not by repetition of the lesson Miss Lane had given, but by reframing it entirely, drawing a simple comparison that made the rule intelligible at once.
Elizabeth then pointed out the error in her thinking and showed the young lady the proper way to complete her assignment.
“Oh, you explained that much better than Miss Lane.” Lydia beamed. “Thank you.”
“My pleasure. Now, finish your work so you may partake in more pleasurable pastimes.” She kissed Lydia’s cheek and left the room.
Once in the parlor, she observed the occupants. Mrs. Bennet sat in her usual chair, a book in her lap. Elizabeth saw that it was poetry and wondered at the selection. Mrs. Bennet did not like reading as a diversion, in general. Perhaps a particular verse had caught her fancy, or perhaps the habit had been adopted in imitation of Elizabeth and Jane. Mrs. Bennet was not above improving herself when the mood struck.
Jane had embroidery in her lap and stitched away at a design of flowers and leaves. She hummed to herself, a dreamy expression on her countenance. Elizabeth knew where her cousin’s thoughts resided. Mr. Bingley’s presence lingered even in his absence, and Jane’s contentment, though restrained, was unmistakable.
Mary sat at the pianoforte, diligently practicing a new piece of music Elizabeth had brought from London. Mary’s playing was still more technical than anything. She lacked the feeling that truly proficient players possessed. There were hints of mastery woven within the notes, and so Elizabeth was hopeful her cousin would eventually grasp it. Mary, for all her seriousness, was improving steadily.
Elizabeth reached for her work basket. She needed something to do with her hands, and so she had begun embroidering her father’s crest into a piece of fabric. She intended to frame it for her chambers when it was complete. The familiarity of thedesign steadied her, the repetition of the stitches lending order to her thoughts.
There was the sound of carriage wheels on the drive, and the ladies paused. A few moments later, Mrs. Hill announced their visitors. Mr. Bingley and Mr. Darcy appeared in the doorway.
Mrs. Bennet greeted her guests politely, enquiring after their health before inviting them to sit. Mr. Bingley went directly to Jane’s side, sitting beside her and complimenting her work.His admiration was artless and sincere,and Jane’s answering smile was warm, though carefully composed.
Mr. Darcy came and sat beside Elizabeth, who immediately set her work back in the basket to pay attention to their guest.
Mr. Darcy had a peculiar look on his face, which melted into a mask of politeness. “Miss Elizabeth,” he greeted her. “I suppose I ought to address you as Miss Bennet as well—”
“No, no,” Elizabeth interrupted. “Miss Bennet is my cousin. I am quite happy to go by Miss Elizabeth whilst I am here.”Besides, Miss Bennet was not her true name.
He inclined his head, clearly filing the information away. She had the distinct impression that he catalogued people as carefully as properties.
“You enjoy embroidery?” He had that peculiar look on his face again—thoughtful, assessing, as though the question served some greater inquiry.
“As much as I can. Like all young ladies, it was deemed a necessary part of my instruction. I like having something to do with my hands, and I am proficient. But it is not a favorite pastime.”
“What do you prefer to do in your idle moments?” He seemed genuinely curious, and she obliged him with an honest answer.
“As you have seen, I enjoy riding. Books also bring pleasure, though I would not call myself a great reader. Walking is anotherpleasant occupation, though I cannot enjoy it as much in Town as in the country.”
Mr. Darcy nodded. “Yes, Town has its limits. Do you attend the theatre when in London?”
“Yes, I frequently go with my aunt. We also go to the museum and frequent Bond Street. I find there are many agreeable things to occupy one’s time in our capital city.” She did not mention how she preferred most to be among friends, where she could be herself.
There was a pause, not awkward, but weighted.
“Expectations,” Mr. Darcy said at last, as though continuing a thought begun elsewhere. “They shape so much of one’s life, do they not?”
Elizabeth considered him carefully. “They do,” she agreed. “Though I believe they are often imposed rather than chosen.”
He studied her face, and she suspected he was deciding how candid to be.
“I once had a friend,” he said slowly, “a boy raised alongside me from childhood. He was clever, ambitious, and convinced that proximity entitled him to advancement. When the world did not yield to those expectations, he grew resentful. Bitter. He left England entirely, convinced he had been wronged.”
