“Nonsense. You wished for a change, and it did you good.”
“It did not do you good.”
Elizabeth busied herself with the coverlet. “I have only a headache.”
“Lizzy.”
That single word nearly undid her.
Elizabeth bent and kissed Jane’s forehead. “Rest. I shall be in my room if you need me. Susie will stay with you until your maid returns, and then I shall look in again before I sleep.”
Jane caught her hand. “Do not think about Miss Bingley. She speaks thoughtlessly.”
“I am not thinking about Miss Bingley.”
Jane’s eyes filled with more understanding than Elizabeth could bear.
She withdrew gently before her composure failed, murmured some instruction to Susie, and crossed to her own chamber. The moment the door closed behind her, the tears she had been holding back spilled over.
She pressed both hands to her mouth, furious with herself for every one of them.
It was foolish to cry over a gentleman who had never offered more than civility, foolish to grieve a hope she had not been willing to name, foolish to feel cast off when she had never been claimed. Yet the tears came all the same, hot and silent and mortifying. She sank into the chair beside the dressing table, bowed her head, and let them fall.
Her mother had not meant to hurt her.
Darcy had not promised anything.
Miss Bingley’s words should not matter.
None of that made the ache less real.
By the time Susie slipped in some minutes later, Elizabeth had wiped her cheeks and straightened in the chair, but Mrs. Thompson’s face softened at once.
“Oh, miss.”
Elizabeth tried to smile. It trembled and failed.
Susie closed the door quietly behind her. “Shall I fetch anything?”
“No.” Elizabeth drew a breath that did little good. “Only stay a moment.”
Susie came to her side without another word.
Elizabeth looked toward the window, where the glass reflected candlelight instead of the dark grounds beyond. Somewhere below, the drawing room conversation would continue. Darcy would return to his letter, if he had ever leftit. Miss Bingley would walk and praise Georgiana. Mr. Bingley would think of Jane.
And tomorrow, Elizabeth would ask for the carriage.
She could bear one more night beneath Netherfield’s roof.
She did not think she could bear another day of discovering how quickly warmth could turn to distance.
∞∞∞
Darcy did not sleep well.
He had earned the discomfort, which made it no easier to bear.
For much of the night, he lay awake in the dark with the memory of Elizabeth’s face returning again and again, not as it had been in the library, bright with wit and warmth, nor across the dinner table, alive with laughter over Miss Bingley’s unknowingly absurd praise of the mysterious discoverer of Roman treasure.
