“The cellist who accosted her,” Elizabeth said, and her expression darkened. “The one at the park.”
“Among others. And your younger sisters at Longbourn. Miss Catherine and Miss Lydia, with income, in the vicinity of the militia, near Mr. Wickham.”
He stopped. The name sat between them with the weight it always carried.
“Wickham is in Meryton,” Elizabeth said, and something in her tone had changed. “He is still in the militia.”
“For the present.” Darcy’s voice was careful. “A man of Wickham’s inclinations does not remain in any situation long once he has exhausted its possibilities. If your sisters at Longbourn are known to have income, he will not overlook the opportunity.”
“Then the transfers must be made quietly. Through the solicitor. Without public announcement.”
“I would recommend precisely that. The legal instruments can be drawn to provide the income without creating a widely known settlement. Your sisters will have security without advertisement.”
“And Mamma?”
“Mrs. Bennet presents a different challenge.” He chose his words with the care of a man walking across ice. “Your mother’s discretion is not what it ought to be.”
“My mother will tell every living soul within six miles that her daughters have independent fortunes,” Elizabeth said flatly. “She will tell them at dinner, at church, at the milliner’s, and at the assemblies, and she will tell them with a volume that will carry across three counties.”
“I was attempting to phrase that more diplomatically.”
“And I appreciate the effort.” The smile returned, wry and warm. “We must tell Mamma last, in a letter to my father, so that the initial explosion occurs in Hertfordshire, where the blast radius is smaller.”
“I will instruct the solicitor,” Darcy said. “The transfers can be arranged within a fortnight.”
“Thank you.” She held his gaze a beat, then dropped her eyes to his hand, the scratch visible, before returning to his face.
Lady Sophia opened her eyes, stretching with a loud yawn. “Now then, my nap is ended, and perhaps we might discuss a matter of somewhat greater delicacy. Mr. Bingley and Miss Bennet.”
The shift in subject was not unexpected, but Darcy’s shoulders tightened. He had been waiting for this conversation since the promenade, when the whispers about Bingley’s constant attendance had become impossible to ignore.
“I have observed that Mr. Bingley calls upon Miss Bennet every day,” Lady Sophia continued. “He accompanies her to every outing. He stands at her side at every entertainment and looks at her as though she were the only woman in London.”
“Bingley has always been demonstrative in his attachments,” Darcy said, keeping his eyes fixed on the table in front of him.
“He has also always been easily led,” her ladyship countered. “And thetonhas noticed that his enthusiasm, however visible,has not yet produced an official declaration. Miss Bennet’s reputation is beginning to suffer under the delay.”
Elizabeth’s expression sharpened. A crease of pain marred her brow, and she twisted her ink-stained fingers together in her lap with an agitation that pierced through Darcy’s defenses.
“The gossip implies Jane is pursuing him,” she said, her voice dimming. “They whisper that she is using my newly acquired fortune to purchase a second chance at a match she could not secure on her own merits in Hertfordshire. They imply she is desperate.”
“They are idiots,” Darcy snapped, heat cracking his tone. The idea of anyone treating Miss Bennet—or Elizabeth—as a commodity made his blood boil.
“The gossips are London, Fitzwilliam,” Lady Sophia corrected with chilling pragmatism. “Their opinions become reality the moment enough of them agree over their tea. If Mr. Bingley does not propose within the fortnight, Miss Bennet will be pitied. If he departs without speaking, she will be ruined.”
“I shall speak with him,” Darcy volunteered.
Elizabeth looked at him, her lips parting slightly in an expression of quiet astonishment. The defensive wall she had erected since their Cecilia skirmish cracked, just as it had in the park, revealing the soft vulnerability beneath.
“The fault in this matter,” Darcy continued, his voice steady, low, and entirely devoid of emotional appeal, “rests primarily with myself. I, along with his sisters, advised him to leave the county. Once I discovered my error, I wrote to Bingley and encouraged him to call on Miss Bennet. However, I have not advised him toward a declaration.”
Elizabeth was silent for a long moment. When she spoke again, her voice carried a soft, searching note that made the space between them thrum with unsaid things.
“A man who can be persuaded away by his friend can also be persuaded toward by his friend. I should not wish for Bingley’s declaration to be compelled.”
“You are correct,” Darcy agreed. “Then I shall not persuade him toward anything. I shall merely lay before him the reality of what thetonperceives, and ensure he understands what the steadiness of a gentleman requires. The rest must belong to his own heart.”
The same remained true of Elizabeth’s heart. He could not persuade or demand. His only hope was patience, proximity, and the slow, unglamorous work of earning her trust—and perhaps, in time, her heart.
