Bennet interrupted her, more sharply than he intended. “It is far from secure, child.”
“But Mr. Darcy—”
“—has asked only for a courtship.” His voice was firm now, edged with something like desperation. “And Jane has no official courtship at all, despite having received the attentions of Mr. Bingley for as long as you have received Mr. Darcy’s. And your mother says another gentleman has taken an interest in her. No, Elizabeth, flirting and courtship are no guarantee.”
He rose from his chair, pacing once behind his desk. “Until I am assured of your future, no decision will be made. I have my doubts about Mr. Darcy—indeed, about any of the gentlemen currently pursuing my daughters. All are wealthy and well-connected in society. Why would they marry so beneath themselves?”
“Why did you marry beneath yourself?” his daughter shot back.
The words landed true—and cruel. Bennet could make no reply. After a few moments of struggling to formulate a proper rejoinder, he straightened his back, pride stiffening his spine. “Elizabeth, I will not be pushed into a hasty decision. This is an opportunity few ever receive. Now leave me in peace.”
The look of abject betrayal on his daughter’s face nearly undid him. For one terrible moment, he very nearly called her back—very nearly yielded. But fear held him fast. Fear of loss and of regret. Fear that once the hoard was surrendered, there would be no remedy for the consequences.A courtship is no guarantee.
She turned on her heel and stalked out.
When it was once again quiet, Bennet sank back into his chair and replayed the discussion in his head. Each word echoed more harshly than before.
He knew his excuses were thin. In truth, the moral quandary had him paralyzed with indecision. He was forced to acknowledge that even if his daughters married well, he did not know if he would turn the hoard over to the proper authorities.
Perhaps that makes me weak,he mused.
If anything, it proved he was as susceptible to temptation as any other man. His daughters marrying well would enrich them, not him. Not Longbourn. And the idea of adding to his own wealth—of securing convenience and independence in a way he had never managed before—was a temptation in and of itself.
One he was no longer certain he could resist.
Chapter Eighteen
Elizabeth returned to the parlor with a composure she did not feel. The corridor had been a sanctuary only because it was empty; the moment she crossed the threshold again, sound and expectation rushed in to meet her. The room looked precisely as it had when she left it—sunlight slanting through the windows; the fire laid though not yet lit, her mother in her accustomed place like the presiding spirit of the household—yet everything in Elizabeth felt altered, as if the furniture had shifted by inches and the air itself had thickened.
She smoothed her skirts as she entered, willing her face into something tolerable. Her pride pricked; she was determined to keep her family from seeing how deeply she had been wounded.
Mr. Darcy turned at once. He had been standing near the mantel, one hand resting lightly upon the marble as if he were steadying himself against the press of noise. At her entrance, his posture did not change, but his attention sharpened—his gaze fixed upon her with such quiet intensity that Elizabeth felt, absurdly, like her thoughts might be read as easily as words upon a page.
Something tightened beneath her ribs.
Do not look like a child who has been scolded,she warned herself.Do not look like a girl who has been refused what she believes is right.She lifted her chin and allowed a small smile to form, one she had practiced her whole life: bright enough to reassure, careless enough to discourage inquiry.
“Mr. Darcy,” she said lightly, her words sounding as if she had left the room to fetch a handkerchief, not to argue with her father about a fortune hidden in a crate. “You have not been abandoned, I hope.”
His eyes did not leave hers. “Not abandoned,” he replied, but his tone was not playful. It was careful—gentle in the way a hand might be gentle when touching a bruise. “Though I confess I wondered if I had offended your father by my haste.”
“You did not,” Elizabeth said quickly, perhaps too quickly. “My father is not so easily offended. He is…occupied.”Occupied by temptation. Occupied by fear and by the most dreadful sort of convenience.The thought burned, and she forced herself to swallow it down. “He will join us presently.”
Darcy studied her a moment longer, as if deciding whether to press. Elizabeth saw the question in his eyes—saw, too, that he chose restraint. His perception was astute. Still, the decision to desist with questions pleased her. He did not treat her as fragile. He treated her as someone whose wishes mattered.
Across the room, the atmosphere had changed as well, though no one had spoken of it openly. Mr. Bingley sat angled toward Jane with a devotion that would have been comical if it had not been so pointed. Jane sat with her hands folded over her embroidery, her expression serene, but Elizabeth could tell she was making an effort at calm—listening to Colonel Fitzwilliam with equal politeness even while Mr. Bingley radiated possession.
Colonel Fitzwilliam, for his part, appeared entirely at ease. He sat back in his chair as though he belonged there by natural right, one arm draped along its side, his other hand lifting a cup of tea with unhurried grace. His attention was divided between Jane and Mary, though Mary’s contributions had a habit of turning any conversation into a lesson in whichever subject she was currently immersed, and Elizabeth could see that the gentleman was navigating it with the same skill he had used the night before—engaging without encouraging, smiling without surrendering.
Mrs. Bennet’s voice rose in a delighted stream. “—and I told Mrs. Phillips, of course, that it is most flattering to have such visitors, and she said, ‘Sister, you are the envy of the neighborhood,’ and I said, ‘Indeed I am,’ though I did not say it in so many words—”
The conversation had turned—as it so often did—toward Jane; yet for the first time, Elizabeth found her attention wandering elsewhere. Elizabeth listened, contributed where she must, and bore it with good humor. Yet she was conscious, in a way she had not been before, of what was absent.
When at last the discussion faltered and the company shifted, she rose and crossed to the window, more from instinct than intention.
Darcy followed a moment later.
Neither spoke at once.
