Page 65 of The Servants’ Matchmaking

"This time," McKeever said, straightening a lapel that did not need straightening, "Miss Elizabeth knows the terms."

Darcy went to Longbourn without pausing to decide whether that deserved a reprimand.

Wickham found Elizabeth in Meryton three days later. Darcy saw them from Bingley's carriage. Something in his chest dropped before he had even registered why. Elizabeth stood outside her aunt's house with Jane and Mrs. Philips. Wickham held his hat against his chest and wore the exact expression of injured candour he had perfected somewhere around the age of twelve and never once updated.

"Stop," Darcy told the coachman.

Bingley caught his arm. "She is not alone."

"I can see that."

"Then do not make a public scene."

Darcy stayed in his seat, though every instinct in him strained toward the door like a dog on a lead. Every lesson of the past month told him to allow Elizabeth her own judgement, undefended, unwatched-over. He obeyed it. It cost him something to sit there with his hands closed on the strap and do nothing at all.

Wickham spoke. Elizabeth listened, her face giving away nothing. Mrs. Philips watched with open pleasure, scenting gossip the way other people scented rain coming. Jane watched with concern.

Then Elizabeth answered.

Wickham's smile failed. Just went, all at once, like a candle in a draught. He bowed, and walked away.

Darcy released the strap. He had gripped it hard enough to leave a crease in his glove.

"She did not need you," Bingley said.

"No."

She did not need me. Pride in that fact did nothing to remove the ache of having wanted to stand beside her anyway. If anything, it sharpened the wanting. It made the wanting cleaner, less about doubt and more about a simple, uncomplicated desire to be near her when something threatened.

The carriage stopped at the Bennets' gate. Elizabeth and Jane walked back by the lane on foot, and Darcy met them halfway, Bingley beside him.

"Mr. Wickham spoke to you," Darcy said.

Elizabeth glanced at his marked glove, and her gaze softened at the evidence of it. "He did."

"What did he say?"

"That he had been the victim of your resentment. He expected me to ask for particulars."

"Did you?"

"I told him you had warned my father not to trust him with young women — and that you had refused to use your sister's private history as proof, even though it would have won you the argument outright. I told him a man who wished to accuse you might start with facts he was actually free to answer."

Bingley made a small, appreciative sound. Jane touched his sleeve, and he subsided at once, though not without visible effort.

"How did Wickham respond?" Darcy asked.

"He said your pride had always made you persuasive."

"That is not a response."

"I told him so."

Darcy wanted to laugh and found he could not quite manage it. Relief had gone in too deep, past the place where laughter lived.

"I owe you the truth," he said.

"You owe me nothing. I refused his story on my own account."