“It seems,” she said at last, her tone light but not careless, “that we are destined always to speak of others.”
“For want of better subjects?” he asked.
“For want of courage, perhaps.”
He regarded her steadily. “I do not think you lack that.”
She met his gaze, and something in her expression altered—not retreating, but not wholly advancing either.
“No,” she said, almost to herself. “I suppose I do not.”
The moment lingered—unresolved, but not uncertain. And though neither spoke it, neither turned away.
Mr. Bingley leaned a fraction closer to Jane, the movement almost imperceptible, but Elizabeth saw it. “I hope you are not fatigued by last night’s entertainment,” he said, his smile too bright, too fixed. “You were obliged to converse with a great many people. It must have been tiresome.”
Jane’s smile was pleasant. “Not at all, sir. I enjoyed it very much.”
“I am relieved.” Bingley’s eyes flicked briefly and sharply toward Colonel Fitzwilliam. “It is fortunate we have so many agreeable individuals in the neighborhood. One cannot always say the same of…recent arrivals.”
The barb was clumsy, but its intent was plain.
Colonel Fitzwilliam did not so much as blink. He sipped his tea and replied with a mildness that made Bingley’s jab seem childish by comparison. “I am gratified to learn I am not tiresome, then. I should regret it exceedingly, for I have only just arrived and would prefer not to be scolded out of the county immediately.”
Jane’s lips twitched, the smallest hint of amusement breaking through her practiced calm. Even Mary looked up from her book, clearly amused by the lightness of his tone.
Bingley’s brow tightened. “No one is scolding you out of the county.”
“Then I am safe,” Colonel Fitzwilliam said cheerfully, though he had never suggested danger existed. “I am glad. I have grown quite attached already to the quality of your bread, Mrs. Bennet. Your cook deserves great praise.”
Mrs. Bennet preened at once. “Oh! Well, Mrs. Hill sees to everything. We are very respectable here, sir. Very respectable indeed.”
Mr. Bingley’s jaw worked slightly, as if he wished to say something else and could not find a manner of doing so without seeming ridiculous. His gaze returned to Jane with renewed intensity. “I had hoped,” he said, “that we might plan an outing—a walk, perhaps. The grounds at Netherfield are very fine. Miss Bennet should see them properly.”
Colonel Fitzwilliam set down his cup with a soft click. “A walk is an excellent idea. I am told Hertfordshire boasts several pleasant rises. Oakham Mount, for instance.”
Elizabeth’s pulse jolted. The name seemed to strike the air like a bell. She kept her face smooth through an effort of will.
Jane glanced briefly toward Elizabeth, almost as if she sought guidance.
Do not let them pull you like a ribbon between their fingers,Elizabeth thought fiercely, as if she could transfer the words directly into Jane’s mind.Do not let yourself be made uncomfortable because two men cannot bear the idea of sharing attention.
Mr. Darcy moved closer to Elizabeth’s position without speaking, an instinctive shift that placed him at her side, near enough that she felt a steadying presence. She tried not to take satisfaction from it. She failed.
“Colonel Fitzwilliam,” Bingley said, a strained joviality creeping into his voice, “you have only just arrived. Surely you are not already acquainted with every local spot worth seeing.”
“I am not,” Fitzwilliam agreed readily. “That is why I am grateful for the guidance of those who are.”
The answer was elegant, innocuous—and entirely unhelpful to Bingley’s need to assert dominance. It was as if Colonel Fitzwilliam had taken Bingley’s challenge and set it aside without acknowledging it as a challenge at all.
Elizabeth would have laughed if she had not felt so raw.
Mr. Darcy leaned slightly toward her. “Are you well?” he asked quietly, his voice pitched so only she could hear.
Elizabeth’s smile held, but it felt brittle. “Perfectly,” she lied. “I am only…tired.”
His gaze lingered on her profile. She could feel it like warmth against her skin. “You need not pretend with me,” he murmured.
Her throat tightened.If I do not pretend, I shall fall apart in the middle of my mother’s parlor,she thought. And worse—if she admitted anything, if she allowed even a crack in her composure, he might glimpse the truth. She would be required to reveal the weight of it: the hoard, the law, her father’s refusal, the fear that their new courtship was being used as an excuse to delay what was right.
