Page 105 of The Matchmaker’s Mistake

That was when the tears came in earnest.

Or perhaps she had been crying since he took up his hat and told her, in that careful, steady voice, that he would not trouble her again. Her voice had failed her, which she now thought had just been the last of her strength leaving her.

Mr. Darcy had not looked back.

At the time she had not understood it. Now she did, and she was grateful. If he had looked at her, he would have seen her tears, and the one last shred of dignity that she had remaining would have been stripped away.

Elizabeth sat down. She had refused him.

No, that was not quite true. She had rejected his reason for asking.

It might seem too fine a distinction, but in that refusal, she had said no to Lady Anne’s arrangements. She had declined being guided into place by people who meant well but did not know her.

She had not meant that she felt nothing for Mr. Darcy. She could not yet call it love as he had done, but she no longer thought the word very far away. He could not know that, though, because she had not explained it. She had not said yes, and he had believed, as any honourable gentleman would, that this meant no.

She turned the conversation over in her mind. If he had asked her three weeks ago, before the shawl, before Mr. Aldridge’s name had ever been joined to hers, what would she have answered?

Elizabeth could not say.

She had said no on principle. But she had to accept the humbling truth—that her principle was based upon faulty knowledge. That she had overheard a conversation not meant for her and had misconstrued it. He had been frustrated with her for it, and he had been right.

Elizabeth had lectured Mr. Darcy upon care. Upon consideration. And then she had tossed both out the window when it came to him.

How could she correct this? A woman could not write to a man and say her refusal, like his offer, had been badly worded. She could not send her aunt after him with an explanation. She could not call him back and tell him that she had meant too many things at once, that although she was never without words, she had been speechless at perhaps the most important moment of her life.

He would not come back in any case. Would she wish him to? The point she had made had not been resolved. A man who had known her since October and said he had begun to love her not long after had needed a rumour of another man proposing to her to bring him to Gracechurch Street. What was she to make of that?

Mr. Darcy had said he loved her, and she believed him. That was the worst of it.

Her aunt came up soon after, with some remark about the housekeeper’s accounts ready on her tongue. Whatever she saw in Elizabeth’s face, she did not ask questions. She only moved the fire screen a little, though the fire had no need of it, and went away again, leaving the door shut.

Elizabeth remained in the parlour the rest of the afternoon, picking up her sewing after a time and doing work she was sure would need to be picked out and redone later. When dinner grew near, she stood up and went to her chamber to wash.

At dinner she said the wine sauce was very good. It was the only conversation she offered for the entire meal, and thankfully nobody asked her for more.

The next morning, she went down at her usual hour and ate breakfast. She said she had slept well although nobody had asked. No one spoke of Thursday’s visit or remarked that Mr. Darcy had not remained long enough to take tea. The good service had gone back into the cupboard. The seed cake, Elizabeth heard, had been sent up to the schoolroom, where the children were happy for the treat.

Miss Darcy’s note still stood against the inkstand in the front room. Elizabeth had promised herself she would answer it when her visit was completed. She drew a sheet of paper towards her.

My dear Miss Darcy,

Elizabeth stopped there. “Dear” looked too warm. “Miss Darcy” alone looked cold. She crossed out the line and began again.

The second attempt thanked Miss Darcy for her kind note and the pleasure of the outing, but did not mention the duets. The third mentioned the duets, which made her think of Mr. Darcy standing by the fire and saying his sister had meant to ask her. She put down the pen before the blot could spread. In the end, she wrote three sentences which were polite, grateful, and careful enough not to wound.

The exhibition catalogue lay beside the inkstand. Elizabeth picked it up, opened it to the page she had meant to mark, and found it still clean. No notes beside the Derbyshire view. No writing beside the bluebells. Nothing to show where her hand had paused or where she had turned towards Mr. Darcy before recalling she ought not.

She touched the description of the bluebells. Then she put the catalogue in the drawer.

On Saturday there was a letter from Mamma, enclosed in one from Mary. This was unusual, as she typically wrote to them both through Jane.

Her mother informed her that the militia were still at Meryton. The weather was dreadful. Lady Lucas had bought a new pelisse, but it was an odd colour and did not suit her at all. And then she understood why the letter had been directed to her.

If Providence is generous enough to send you a third proposal, Lizzy, you must consider the gentleman very seriously indeed. Love is all very well, of course, but it does not buy coal, and I cannot think how you expect to be romantic when you are freezing.

Beneath her mother’s signature, in her father’s even, slanted hand, was one line.

Your mother knows the proposal tally by heart, Lizzy, but nobody else here keeps books on you. Come home when you are ready.