“But if Mr. Darcy was there… then he witnessed the cut, and would Bingley be notified?”
“Mr. Darcy is no friend of ours.” I refrained from rolling my eyes. My poor sister has suffered enough at the hands of that arrogant Netherfield party. “I daresay he might have advised the Bingley sisters not to receive you.”
My sister’s face twisted with new anguish, and I feared I had gone too far.
“Truly, Jane. These people are not worth our notice. Darcy may stand at windows and scowl until the last trump, but it changes nothing. You called with courage, and you were treated with contempt. Neither of those things reflects upon you.”
Jane wrung her hands until I worried she would sprain both her wrists. “Lizzy, you were not there. I know I erred in going alone, but Miss Bingley wrote me the sweetest letter when they quit Netherfield.”
“That is because she never thought she would see you again.” I have learned not to be surprised at her generosity. “I am angry on your behalf, Sister, and my wrath should do well enough for the both of us.”
I stomped my foot for emphasis, and Jane almost smiled, which was the first useful thing that had happened all day.
“I do not want you to quarrel with anyone on my account,” she remarked. “If we should encounter Mr. Darcy in company,I would not have you… I know how you feel about him, and I understand why, but I will not be the cause of unpleasantness in our aunt’s home.”
“I shall be civility itself.”
“That is precisely what worries me.”
Mrs. Gardiner entered from the morning room, closing the door behind her. She carried a list in one hand, and a sprig of rosemary in the other, casualties of her ongoing battle with the window-boxes.
“You are discussing it again.”
“We are not,” I said too quickly.
“Jane’s novel is upside down, and you are sitting with your jaw set at the angle you adopt when you are about to say something very clever and extremely unkind.” She sat in her chair by the fire, regarding us both. “Jane, my love. I know it stings. And Elizabeth is composing a magnificent speech this very moment, but listen to me: when I was seventeen, a girl I admired cut me dead at a dance, and my mother said, Marianne, some people are not worth the crease in your forehead. Then she gave me a biscuit and sent me to bed.”
“That is very wise, Aunt.”
“It is practical, which suits better. Miss Bingley’s good opinion is a prize of no great value, and her ill opinion is of even less.” She turned to me. “And you, Elizabeth, will stop sharpening whatever weapon you are honing. Your eyes have gone narrow.”
“My eyes are perfectly serene.”
“Your eyes are the same eyes that told Mrs. Long her turban was a triumph of ambition over taste. I know those eyes.”
I was halfway through composing my defense when the drawing-room door swung open and Sarah, the housemaid, appeared.
“Ma’am,” she said to Mrs. Gardiner, “there is a gentleman at the door. Mr. Darcy. He says he has brought a tortoise for the children, by arrangement with Mr. Gardiner.”
Jane and I exchanged a glance—troubled on my part, nearly colorless on hers. Mrs. Gardiner, blissfully unaware of the significance, beamed like a woman whose husband had finally remembered her birthday.
“A tortoise! How splendid. Edward did mention something yesterday, but I thought he was being whimsical.” She rose, smoothing her skirts. “Show him in, Sarah. And fetch the children.”
“Aunt.” My voice came out thinner than I had intended. “Jane and I are acquainted with Mr. Darcy. From Hertfordshire.”
“Are you? Then you shall introduce us. How convenient.”
There was not a single respectable excuse for escape. Jane sat beside me, pale and stiff, and I would not leave her to face him alone. Even if I could, this was my aunt’s house, her guest, and I was only a guest myself. Besides, a gentleman’s daughter does not bolt from a drawing-room simply because an insufferable man appears with a tortoise.
Stay. Be civil. Be so perfectly, beautifully civil that he feels the sting of every syllable.
Jane sat very still as solid footsteps resounded in the hallway, and the door opened.
Darcy stood in the doorway, wicker basket in hand, turning sideways to fit through. For a moment, he did not see us, and his face was unguarded—almost tentative, as if he cared very much whether he would be welcome.
Then he saw Jane, and his face changed. Recognition, a bracing, a tightening around his eyes. He inclined his head.
“Miss Bennet. I trust you are well.”
