Page 138 of A Question of Character

Mrs. Bennet, who had been unusually subdued, sat straighter. “Then he must come to dinner tomorrow. That will show everyone.”

“It will show everyone we have dinner,” Mr. Bennet said.

“And that we are not ashamed.”

“That too.”

Elizabeth stared at the toast upon her plate and could not make herself eat another bite.

Who had spread the rumors?

Darcy had promised caution. He had been fierce, yes, and certain, and too ready to condemn. But she did not think him petty. She did not think him the sort of man who would whisper through Meryton to damage another man without putting his name to the accusation.

Unless he had not considered the effect.

Unless his disdain had been overheard.

Unless someone at Netherfield had chosen to repeat what ought to have remained private.

Miss Bingley’s face came to mind, sharp with displeasure at the assembly, sharper still when Darcy crossed a room to speak with Elizabeth.

A headache began behind Elizabeth’s eyes.

She excused herself soon after breakfast, though not before Lydia caught her hand in the passage.

“You believe him, do you not?”

Elizabeth looked at her sister’s anxious face, the bravado stripped away now that the family council was over.

“I believe Mr. Wickham deserves fairness.”

“That is not the same.”

“No,” Elizabeth admitted. “It is not.”

Lydia swallowed. “I love him, Lizzy.”

The words were whispered, frightened by their own seriousness.

Elizabeth squeezed her hand. “Then we must be very sure we protect you.”

“You mean protect me from him.”

“I mean protect your happiness from everything that might threaten it.”

Lydia looked unconvinced, but she nodded and went upstairs.

Elizabeth took her bonnet from the peg in the hall before anyone could ask where she meant to go.

She did not know, precisely.

Just that she must see Mr. Darcy.

The day had become windy, with clouds moving quickly over the sun and leaving the fields alternately bright and shadowed. Elizabeth walked fast at first, anger pushing her beyond her usual pace. By the time she reached the lane near the old stile, the first heat of it had cooled into something worse: disappointment.

Mr. Darcy had asked for her trust.

He had been given more of it than he knew.