Page 172 of A Question of Character

“But I will consider whether hearing him is owed to the truth, if not to the man.”

“That is all I ask.”

“It is not all you wish.”

“No,” she admitted. “But I am learning that wishes make poor demands.”

He regarded her with an expression she could not fully read. “And I am learning that pride produces poor justice.”

The admission moved her more than any declaration could have done.

They stopped near the low wall at the edge of the garden. Beyond it, the fields rolled toward Meryton, half gold, half green, with the road cutting between hedges. Somewhere in that direction lay Mr. Philips’s office, Mr. Wickham’s future, and a false bill from Ramsgate that might prove either coincidence, malice, or the first thread of an answer.

Elizabeth leaned her free hand against the cool stone.

“I believe you honest,” she said.

Darcy’s face altered.

“I know you do not say things lightly,” she continued. “When you speak of your sister, I hear the truth in it. When you warn me, I know you mean to protect. But I must believe what I have seen too.”

“I know.”

“Do you?”

“I am trying.”

A small answer. A difficult one.

She valued it accordingly.

“Then I shall try as well.”

“To trust me?”

“To trust that you are trying.”

His fingers closed once over hers, then released as voices sounded from the house. Lydia had come to the door and was calling something about Mr. Bingley being unable to name a single ribbon shade correctly. Jane’s softer protest followed, then Kitty’s laughter.

Elizabeth and Darcy turned back.

“Five minutes,” he said.

“What?”

“You said we would be respectable for at least five minutes. I believe we managed seven.”

Elizabeth laughed, and the knot of dread that had lived beneath her ribs for days loosened by a fraction.

“An excellent beginning.”

“I shall endeavor to improve.”

“You and Mr. Wickham both.”

Darcy gave her a pained look.

“I beg you not to compare us too often.”