Heartbroken was not quite the word. That belonged to heroines in novels, to ladies who had been promised something and lost it. Darcy had promised her nothing. He had offered no particular regard beyond looks, conversations, a shared secret, and a handful of moments that Elizabeth, in her folly, had allowed to grow bright in her imagination. He owed her nothing.
But her hopes felt crushed all the same.
Worse, she could not be entirely angry. Her mother had been in rare form. Even Elizabeth, who loved her despite every mortification, had wanted to sink through the carpet when Mrs. Bennet spoke of eligible daughters and advantageous neighborhoods, of Jane’s good fortune in falling ill at such a house, and of how cruelly Longbourn’s entail pressed upon them all. A man like Darcy, raised to consequence, burdened by duty, and already cautious in society, might well hear such speeches and retreat for his own preservation.
Elizabeth only wished he had not retreated from her.
“Lizzy?” Jane murmured, drawing her attention.
Elizabeth bent toward her. “Yes?”
“You will sit, will you not?”
“Of course.”
But where?
Mr. Bingley had taken a place near Jane, not so near as to be improper but near enough to respond if she wished for anything. Miss Bingley occupied a sofa with Mrs. Hurst, who looked more disposed to observe than participate. Mr. Hurst stood near the card table, already glancing toward it with longing. Darcy remained at the desk, his pen moving with steady purpose.
Elizabeth chose a chair on the other side of the room. It was not the most comfortable, nor the best placed for conversation, but it was safe. A book lay upon the small table beside it, and she picked it up with more gratitude than curiosity.
For several minutes, the room settled into a quiet of unequal parts: Jane’s soft answers to Mr. Bingley, Miss Bingley’s occasional remarks, the scratch of Darcy’s pen, and Mr. Hurst’s increasingly restless movement near the card table.
“Shall we have a game?” Mr. Hurst said at last, turning with something like hope. “Surely we are enough for a table.”
Miss Bingley glanced toward Jane. “Miss Bennet may not be equal to cards.”
“Oh, I should not play,” Jane said gently. “But pray do not let that prevent anyone else.”
“Capital,” Mr. Hurst said.
Darcy did not look up. “I beg you will excuse me.”
Mr. Hurst grunted. “Writing?”
Darcy inclined his head without lifting his eyes from the page.
Miss Bingley rose and crossed toward the desk with a lightness Elizabeth suspected had been practiced before many mirrors. “What mysterious business occupies you so entirely this evening, Darcy? You have been as secret as a cabinet minister.”
“No mystery.” His tone was civil and even. “Only a letter to my sister.”
“Dear Georgiana!” Miss Bingley clasped her hands with feeling. “How I long to see her again. She is the sweetest creature, and so accomplished for her age. Her performance, her drawing, her manner—everything about her promises the most elegant young lady. I always say she will be the very model of female accomplishment when she comes out.”
“Georgiana will be gratified by your remembrance,” Darcy said.
It was perfectly polite. It was also nothing more. He returned to his letter almost before Miss Bingley had finished smiling.
Elizabeth looked down at her book.
There had been a time when such cold civility from him toward Miss Bingley would have amused her. She might have caught his eye and shared the smallest smile over the lady’s effusions. But when Miss Bingley turned from the desk, Elizabeth made the mistake of looking up.
Darcy did not meet her gaze.
He must have felt it. She was certain of it. His head shifted slightly, enough to prove he knew where she sat, but his eyes remained upon the page before him. It was a small thing. Too small to wound anyone sensible.
Elizabeth felt it keenly.
Miss Bingley, perhaps weary of finding no reward at the desk, came toward her with sudden animation. “Miss Eliza, shall we take a turn about the room? Sitting so long after dinner is very dull, and one must have a little movement.”
