“Yes. I am very grateful for that.”
Charlotte glanced past her shoulder toward the Netherfield group. “And are you grateful for anything else?”
Elizabeth ought to have laughed. A week ago, she would have. Instead, she adjusted the edge of her glove and watched a fallen leaf turn over in the wind near the path. “Gratitude is a very solemn virtue. I should not like to claim it in excess.”
“That is not an answer.”
“It is the only one I have.”
Charlotte studied her, then mercifully did not press. She began instead to speak of Mr. Collins’s expected arrival, of her mother’s curiosity, and of Sir William’s determination to call upon him as soon as possible. Elizabeth responded as best she could, grateful for Charlotte’s steadiness even when she had little strength for conversation.
But she could not prevent herself from looking once toward Darcy.
He stood near Bingley, perfectly composed, his hat in one hand, his attention apparently upon something Mrs. Hurst said. He did not look at Elizabeth. Not once. Not when Bingley spoke warmly to Jane, not when Miss Bingley made some remark that ought to have invited his private amusement, not when Elizabeth shifted near enough that he must have been aware of her.
His indifference felt deliberate.
That was the worst of it.
If he had been cold by accident, she might have excused him. If he had been distracted, she might have called herself foolish for minding. But there was a carefulness in the way he avoided her, a precision that told her he knew exactly where she stood and had chosen not to see her.
The ache in her chest returned with such force that she could not remain.
“I believe I shall walk home,” she said to Charlotte.
“Alone?”
“It is not far.”
“Lizzy—”
“I want the air.”
Charlotte’s expression softened, but she nodded. “Then I shall not detain you.”
Elizabeth told Jane quietly that she meant to walk and urged her to ride home with their mother. Jane looked uncertain, butMr. Bingley was speaking to her, and Mrs. Bennet was close enough to hear any protest and turn it into a scene. Elizabeth kissed Jane’s cheek, promised she was well, and slipped away before anyone could object.
The road to Longbourn was familiar enough that she did not need to think where her feet carried her. The hedgerows were thin, the fields washed dull by the season, and the wind pressed cold against her face. She walked quickly at first, as though movement might outpace feeling.
It did not.
By the time she reached the little rise beyond the church road, tears had begun to slip down her cheeks. She did not sob. She would not indulge in anything so foolish as sobbing in the open air where any neighbor might come upon her. But the tears came all the same, hot and humiliating, and she brushed them away with the back of her glove.
How absurd to weep over a gentleman’s silence.
How mortifying to care.
And yet she did care. That was the truth she could not laugh away. Darcy had hurt her because he had first made her hope. Not with declarations. Not with any open courtship. But with attention, understanding, warmth, and that strange sense that he saw not merely her face or her fortune or her family, but some truer self she had not known she was waiting for anyone to notice.
Now he had looked away.
Elizabeth returned to Longbourn before the carriage and went directly upstairs to wash her face. By the time the rest of the family came in, she was composed enough to hear Mrs. Bennet’s raptures over Mr. Bingley’s attentions without flinching, though perhaps not enough to answer Lydia’s teasing remarks with her usual spirit.
The rest of Sunday passed indistinctly.
There were accounts to examine, instructions to give, preparations for Mr. Collins, Jane to watch, Mrs. Bennet to soothe, and Mr. Bennet to avoid. Elizabeth moved through it all as though each task had been wrapped in wool. Sounds came muffled. Faces blurred into duties. Once, she found herself standing in the stillroom with no memory of why she had entered, the key basket in her hand and Cook waiting patiently for an answer.
Monday morning was no better.
