Elizabeth had no desire to walk. Her legs were perfectly content where they were, and her pride had taken quite enough exercise for one evening. But refusal would look petulant, and Miss Bingley’s manner, though not warm, was not openly unkind.
“If you wish it,” Elizabeth said, setting the book aside.
They walked the length of the room together, Miss Bingley speaking of the benefit of movement after meals and the tiresomeness of country evenings when there was neither a proper concert nor a tolerable number for cards. Elizabeth answered as required, but her attention betrayed her. At the second turn, she allowed herself one more glance toward the desk.
Surely he would look up now.
Surely there might be one moment—one flicker of understanding, one shared amusement at Miss Bingley’s performance, one sign that the last two days had not been entirely erased by her mother’s folly.
Darcy’s pen moved steadily across the page.
He did not look up.
The disappointment was so sharp that Elizabeth almost missed Miss Bingley’s next remark. She answered without knowing what she said. Her throat had begun to tighten, and the room seemed suddenly too warm, too bright, too full of people who could see nothing and everything at once. She would not cry there. She would not. Not before Miss Bingley, not before Darcy, not before Jane, whose gentle heart would immediately blame herself.
“I beg your pardon,” Elizabeth said when they reached the end of the room again. “I find I have a headache. I believe I shall retire.”
Jane turned at once. “Lizzy?”
“It is nothing,” Elizabeth said quickly, forcing a smile. “Only a little fatigue. Pray remain where you are. You are comfortable, and Mr. Bingley has gone to such effort to arrange you by the fire that it would be a pity to defeat him so soon.”
Jane was already reaching for the arms of her chair. “No. I shall come with you.”
“Jane, truly—”
“I am tired as well,” Jane said, with more firmness than her weak voice suggested. “And I should like to go up.”
Mr. Bingley stood immediately. “Shall I call Mrs. Nicholls? Or the maid? Miss Bennet, you must not exert yourself.”
“You are very kind,” Jane said, “but I assure you, I shall do very well with Lizzy’s arm.”
Elizabeth wanted to protest. Jane had wished so much to come down; she had been smiling only moments before. But Jane looked at her with quiet understanding, and Elizabeth knew she had not hidden nearly enough from the one person in the room most inclined to see her.
Jane rose to her feet, Bingley at her side. In the small bustle of shawls and concern, Elizabeth kept her eyes away from the desk. She did not know whether Darcy stood. She did not know whether he watched her leave. She did not want to know.
Jane leaned upon her as they moved into the hall. They had scarcely gone three steps before Miss Bingley’s voice followed them, bright and careless through the half-open door.
“I hope there is not to be another one ill. At this rate we shall be invaded by every Bennet in Hertfordshire and never have the house to ourselves again.”
Elizabeth’s steps faltered.
Jane’s hand tightened around her arm.
For a moment neither sister spoke. Susie, who had been waiting for them outside the door, looked down in embarrassment at the candle she carried.
From inside the drawing room came no reply that Elizabeth could distinguish. Perhaps there had been silence. Perhaps someone had reproved Miss Bingley. Perhaps Darcy had looked up then.
It did not matter.
Elizabeth helped Jane up the stairs, every step taken with careful attention to her sister’s weakness because such care was easier than feeling anything else. At Jane’s door, Jane paused.
“Lizzy,” she whispered.
Elizabeth shook her head. “Let me see you settled first.”
They entered Jane’s room, and Susie put her candlestick down on the bedside table. Between them they eased Jane back to bed, adjusted the pillows, and wrapped the shawl more closely about her shoulders. Jane kept watching Elizabeth with that soft, troubled look that made concealment impossible.
“I should not have gone down,” Jane said.
