Mary, she observed with quiet satisfaction, had softened her appearance of late. Since forming a friendship with Georgiana, her hair had been arranged with greater care, and the severity that once marked her clothing had given way to colours far more becoming. Elizabeth resolved to encourage the improvement whenever she could.
When at last Elizabeth’s eyes met her grandfather’s, she saw that he had already been looking at her. There was resignation in his expression at the sight of her dinner companion.
She answered it with a smile—full of affection, yet touched with the smallest spark of defiance.
He held her gaze for a long moment. His mouth tightened, but his eyes softened, and at last he inclined his head in reluctant acknowledgement before turning back to Sir William.
From the corner of her eye, Elizabeth saw Darcy glance down the table, as though to assure himself of his sister and cousin. Whatever he observed appeared to satisfy him. When he turned back to her, she caught the faint curve of a smile he had not quite succeeded in suppressing.
“So tell me, Mr Darcy,” Elizabeth said, her tone light with mischief, “do you mean to honour the Season this year by lending your presence?”
After her earlier reflections regarding her dinner companion, she had sought some easy subject, something that might be spoken of without danger, and seized upon the topic she had so lately discussed with Mrs Hurst.
“Naturally,” he returned in kind. “If I attempted escape, Lady Matlock would discover my hiding place and haul me to Town by the ear.”
A reluctant laugh escaped him, and he shook his head as if amused. “She insists I must attend for at least a month or two since I refuse her anything longer. My aunt and I have never quite agreed on how often I ought to parade myself through the obligations of the ton.”
He paused a moment, as if reconsidering how much he ought to say. “My aunt is quite certain my happiness depends upon my attending.”
Then his voice lowered, softening in a way that suggested the next words were meant for her alone: “I am beginning to think my happiness may already be decided.”
For one suspended instant, Elizabeth forgot entirely how conversation was meant to proceed; words simply refused to form.
Heat flooded her cheeks. Her fingers tightened upon the napkin in her lap, then loosened at once, only to clutch it again before she forced herself to release it altogether.
She was certain no one else at the table could have heard what he had said.
But she had. Oh, she had understood him perfectly.
What am I meant to do with such a declaration, offered so calmly in the middle of a dinner?How could he say that here—now?she thought.
She dared not trust her voice, either to accept it or to scold him for it.
Instead, she attempted a smile—whether it succeeded she could not have said—and fixed her attention with exaggerated care upon the arrangement of plates before her, as if the pattern there might instruct her in how a lady ought to behave when a gentleman quietly placed his entire future in her keeping.
Beside her, Mr Darcy moved.
She became aware—without daring to look at him—that he had reached for the nearest dish.
“If you will permit me,” he said in a tone of the most perfect composure, “I should recommend the pheasant.”
When at last she risked a glance at him, she discovered his expression was hardly affected by his words nor her reaction to them. However, as she looked more closely, she discovered that his eyes betrayed him.
They were entirely, intolerably pleased.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The ladies from Longbourn—all five of them—became frequent visitors at Millwood Cottage over the next several days and weeks. Elizabeth could not help concluding that her aunt’s sudden warmth towards herself and Georgiana owed rather more to strategy than to sentiment, particularly as Mrs Bennet devoted very little of her time to either young lady once she arrived.
She often presented herself at the earliest permissible moment for calling and had a way of establishing herself so comfortably that she might almost have been mistress of the house. More than once Elizabeth was obliged, with as much civility as she could command, to remind her aunt that the honour was not, in fact, hers. Elizabeth did not object to the length of the visits, but Mrs Bennet did occasionally require assistance in remembering her place.
Among Mrs Bennet’s favourite subjects during these extended calls was Mr Bingley, whose disappearance, after so promising a beginning with Jane, her aunt clearly had by no means forgiven. Whenever the gentlemen were absent—which was frequentlythe case when other neighbours arrived—she spoke loudly and at length of his desertion, even while maintaining the firmest conviction that he must soon return. Netherfield, she assured anyone who would listen, had not been shut up, and she cited the Hursts’ continued residence there with triumphant certainty, as though that fact alone might summon its former master back again.
“Mrs Hurst was particularly welcoming in church on Sunday,” she opined during one visit. “Still, I cannot understand what has kept Mr Bingley so long in Town. His sister cited some matters of business, but I do wish that he and Miss Bingley would return.”
“As I understand it, it is unlikely that Miss Bingley will return,” Elizabeth interjected. “But since none of us have heard from Mr Bingley, I doubt we can know. Now, Jane, did you not say you meant to make rosewater in a day or two? We gathered the petals and set them to dry some weeks ago; I imagine they are quite ready for use now.”
With a grateful smile, Jane perceived Elizabeth’s intention and took it up at once, speaking readily of the still room, of the roses, and of all that must be done. There were syrups yet to be bottled, lavender to be distilled, and a small experiment in candied orange peel which Mary had lately declared she wished to observe.
