He ought to have felt only shame, and there was shame enough. It sat heavily in his chest, demanding action and humility and every possible reparation.
But beneath it, irrepressible and wholly unwise, something like hope stirred.
Darcy leaned back in his chair, pressed one hand over his mouth, and found himself smiling despite everything.
She was not as far out of reach as he had once supposed.
∞∞∞
The night of the party at Lucas Lodge, Elizabeth found Charlotte in her usual place near the edge of the room, observing everyone with that composed good sense which made even amusement appear almost like duty.
Jane had just been led away by Mr. Bingley, whose expression was so openly delighted that Elizabeth wondered how any person in the room could fail to understand him. Her sister’s smile had been gentle and pleased, but so restrained that anyoneless fond of her than Elizabeth might have mistaken serenity for indifference.
Charlotte, apparently, had no intention of allowing such a danger to pass unnoticed.
“Jane should make more of it,” she said quietly.
Elizabeth turned from watching her sister. “More of what?”
“Of her pleasure. She likes Mr. Bingley. Anyone who knows her may see it, but Mr. Bingley has not known her all his life. He cannot be expected to read what she takes such care to conceal.”
“Jane does not conceal. She is only—Jane.”
“That is precisely the difficulty. A woman may feel a great deal and be thought to feel very little if she leaves every discovery to a gentleman’s penetration. And gentlemen, Eliza, are not always celebrated for penetration when vanity, doubt, or a sister’s interference stands in the way.”
Elizabeth laughed. “You would have her flirt, then?”
“I would have her give Mr. Bingley some encouragement proportionate to his admiration. There is a wide distance between indelicacy and appearing as though one would be equally content if he danced with another woman for the rest of his life.”
Elizabeth glanced again toward Jane and Mr. Bingley. He was bending slightly to hear whatever Jane said, his whole attention fixed upon her as though the music, the company, and the rest of Hertfordshire had become unnecessary. “I cannot think him in much doubt.”
“Perhaps not now. But affection is not made secure by one evening’s admiration. Jane ought to know what she is about.”
“My dear Charlotte, is happiness in marriage truly to be managed with so much calculation?”
Charlotte’s mouth curved, though her eyes remained thoughtful. “Happiness in marriage is entirely a matter of chance, Eliza. The less one expects of it, the less one isdisappointed. But a comfortable establishment, good temper, and mutual liking are not unworthy goals, even if poetry would object to them.”
Elizabeth laughed again, more brightly this time. “Then I shall warn Jane that she must abandon poetry at once and secure herself with practical expressions of partiality.”
“You may laugh, but if she does not—”
“Lizzy.”
Elizabeth turned at the familiar voice. Mr. Philips had come up beside them, his expression mild, though there was something in his eyes that made her heart give one sudden, foolish leap.
“Uncle.”
He bowed to Charlotte, then looked back at Elizabeth. “Mr. Darcy has requested an introduction. He tells me he had no proper opportunity at the assembly.”
For one moment, all the conversation, music, and laughter around her seemed to draw away. Elizabeth felt it in the absurd flutter beneath her ribs, in the quick warmth that rose despite every sensible resolution she had made. She looked past her uncle and saw Mr. Darcy standing a little behind him, tall and grave in evening dress, his attention fixed wholly upon her.
Not indifferent now.
Not unknowing.
Still, she did not move at once. Her gaze returned to Mr. Philips, searching his face. Was this contrivance? Obligation? Had her uncle pressed him into civility for the sake of repairing injury? She could not endure an apology offered only because Mr. Philips had demanded it.
Mr. Philips’s mouth softened into the smallest of smiles, and he gave a slight nod.
