Elizabeth listened intently, though she suspected she was meant to draw a particular conclusion.
“It taught me,” Darcy continued, “that distinctions exist for a reason. When they are ignored, disappointment follows. Preserving one’s proper sphere prevents much unhappiness.”
Elizabeth felt her temper stir, though she kept her tone measured. “Or it prevents growth. If one is taught humility alongside opportunity, expectation need not become entitlement.”
Darcy frowned slightly. “Humility is not easily taught.”
“No,” she agreed, “but it is more easily learned when one has truly known constraint.”
He does not like that.She could see it at once. He mistook her confidence for ignorance.
“You speak as though you have observed such things closely,” he said.
“I have,” Elizabeth replied evenly. She did not elaborate. She would not.
Darcy straightened, his expression returning to polite reserve. “Perhaps we differ in philosophy.”
“Perhaps,” Elizabeth said, smiling faintly.
He rose not long after, taking his leave with Mr. Bingley. When he was gone, Elizabeth let out a breath she had not realized she was holding.
Arrogant man,she thought.Convinced of his own understanding and blind to anything that did not conform to it.
If only he knew how carefully she had learned to move within expectations far more exacting than his own. If only he knew how small a corner of the world he truly inhabited.
She picked up her embroidery once more, her stitches precise and calm.Some distinctions,she decided,were indeed worth preserving. Others deserved to be challenged.
Darcy did not speak as they took their leave of Longbourn.
He inclined his head to Mrs. Bennet, offered the requisite civilities to Miss Bennet, Miss Mary, and Miss Elizabeth, and followed Bingley out to the carriage with a gravity that brooked no interruption. Only once the door was shut and the horsesset into motion did he allow his composure to ease—though not soften.
The countryside rolled past the window in familiar, orderly patterns, hedgerows giving way to fields and then hedgerows again. Ordinarily, the rhythm would have soothed him. Today, it did nothing of the sort.
Miss Elizabeth’s words lingered with an insistence he did not welcome.
She had spoken with remarkable confidence—too much confidence, perhaps, for a young woman whose circumstances were so modest. He replayed her tone in his mind, her calm certainty when she disagreed with him, the manner in which she had neither deferred nor provoked, but simply…stood her ground.
She speaks as though she knows the world,he thought, frowning faintly.And yet what world can she truly have known?
Country society was narrow by nature. Its expectations were limited, its consequences comparatively mild. A misstep in Hertfordshire might provoke gossip; a misstep in London could destroy reputations, sever alliances, alter fortunes. Miss Elizabeth Bennet—Elizabeth,as she insisted on being called—had been spared such hazards. Her opinions, decisively delivered though they were, had never been tested by the weight of consequence. Surely, it would require more than a few months in town per year to give her more.
Darcy’s fingers tightened briefly against the edge of the seat.
Still, she spoke as one who has observed closely,he conceded.As one who has learned caution rather than ignorance.
He did not like that thought. It complicated matters.
Across from him, Bingley sat uncharacteristically silent, his usual animation subdued. He gazed out the opposite window,though Darcy suspected he saw nothing of the landscape. The crease between his brows deepened as the carriage rattled on.
Darcy studied him more closely now, belatedly attentive.
“You are unusually quiet,” Darcy remarked at last.
Bingley startled, then smiled faintly. “Am I? I had not noticed.”
“You were attentive enough earlier,” Darcy said. “And markedly less so afterward.”
Bingley’s smile faded. “Miss Bennet was…polite.”
