The evening’s chatter pressed in around them; laughter rose and fell; the pianoforte sounded again as someone coaxed Mary away long enough to allow another lady to play. Even within the crush, Darcy’s presence carved out a strange sense of privacy, as if the world could bustle and gossip and dig itself into a frenzy—and still, here, there was steadiness.
Elizabeth hesitated. The next words felt dangerous, even as they were necessary. “Mr. Darcy,” she said at last, “you spoke of the law regarding antiquities. Of gold and silver belonging to the Crown.”
His attention snapped fully back to her, alert now. “Yes.”
“And now the whole county seems determined to turn itself into a band of treasure hunters,” Elizabeth continued, keeping her tone light though the question beneath it was not. “You are not tempted?”
“I am tempted,” Darcy admitted, and the honesty of it surprised her more than a denial would have. “Not by gold for myself. But by what it represents to others. Security, relief, and a future. Your father made a very good point: it is easy to speak of law when one has never feared want.”
Elizabeth’s throat tightened. She forced her hands to remain still. She forced her face to remain composed.
“You despise the notion of it being taken unlawfully,” she said.
“I do,” Darcy replied. “Because once one allows oneself to justify the breaking of law for a good cause, it becomes dangerously easy to justify it for a selfish one. And selfishness is abundant.”
Elizabeth felt the room tilt, just slightly, as her mind leapt to her father’s locked library.And necessity,she thought, and immediately wished she could think no more.
“You think this treasure hunt will become…more rigorous,” she said softly.
“I think it may,” Darcy answered. “The allure of treasure has that effect on people.”
Elizabeth looked past him, toward faces alight with curiosity and greed, toward hands that had held teacups tonight and would hold shovels tomorrow. She pictured strangers trampling fields, prying at stones, tearing at earth like it was a purse to be emptied. She pictured Mr. Bennet’s hard line in the library, his insistence that she remain silent, his conviction that time would solve what conscience could not.
She forced a smile. “Then we must hope Charlotte is right. They will find only mud and broken pots and be too embarrassed to speak of it again.”
Darcy’s gaze lingered on her. “Hope is not always enough.”
“No,” Elizabeth agreed. “But it is a beginning.”
For a moment, he did not speak. Then his head inclined, and he smiled at her, eyes twinkling. In the crowded warmth of Lucas Lodge—amid the press of bodies, the clatter of cups, and the fevered whisper of treasure—Elizabeth had the distinct impression that the evening had only just started, and that whatever came next would be far more complicated than a fanciful notion of gold.
Chapter Sixteen
Elizabeth had only just finished unpinning the last of her hair when she heard the soft tap at her chamber door. The house had settled into its familiar hush—boards creaking as the fires were banked, the sound of doors closing in the family wing, the faintest sigh of wind along the panes. After the crush and heat of Lucas Lodge, Longbourn felt almost too quiet, though Elizabeth was grateful for the peace after the commotion of the evening.
“Come in,” Elizabeth called, turning toward the mirror as she reached for the tie of her dressing gown.
The door opened, and Jane slipped inside, candle in hand. The warm glow softened her features, making her look even more serene than usual. Still, there was something in her expression—an uncertainty, a restraint—that did not belong to mere fatigue.
“I thought you might still be awake,” Jane said gently.
“I am always awake after an evening at Lucas Lodge,” Elizabeth replied, managing a small smile. “It takes time for my ears to forgive me.”
Jane’s lips curved, but the smile did not fully settle. She set the candle on the dressing table and moved closer, folding her handsin a manner that said she required the familiar act of composure to steady herself.
“May I sit with you a moment?”
“Always.” Elizabeth crossed to the small sofa near the hearth, then paused and added with feigned solemnity, “Unless you have come to scold me for my excessive wit.”
Jane’s eyes warmed. “You were not excessive.”
“That is the kindest insult anyone has ever paid me,” Elizabeth said, and Jane gave a quiet laugh as she sat.
For a moment they were silent, the sort of congenial quiet sisters could share without strain. Elizabeth watched Jane closely. There was a carefulness to her movements tonight, as if she had been weighing something and had not yet decided where it ought to land.
At last Elizabeth spoke, deliberately light. “You were escorted to refreshments by Colonel Fitzwilliam. I confess myself curious.” She lifted her brows. “What is your opinion of Mr. Darcy’s cousin?”
Jane’s blush came quickly, as it always did when she was asked to speak plainly of a gentleman. She looked down at her hands, then back up, choosing her words with care.
