Page 6 of Shadows Of Rosings Park: Part 2

Lucas Lodge appeared through the carriage window, candlelight spilling from every window. Music, someone was already at the pianoforte. Elizabeth drew a breath and assembled her face.

Darcy was already there.

She felt him before she saw him, a change in the parlour's air that her body registered before her eyes found its source. He stood near the fireplace in evening clothes that made him look like a problem she could not solve. His direct, focused gaze made her grip Jane's arm.

"Miss Elizabeth." He materialised at her side with the disturbing speed of a man who had been tracking her approach from across the room. His arm appeared. She took it. His hand covered hers on his sleeve, warm through the fabric of her glove. "You are exquisite this evening."

"Mr. Darcy. You are punctual as always."

His mouth twitched, not quite a smile, but the nearest thing his face permitted in company.

"I find tardiness inefficient when something of value awaits."

"Is that what I am to you? Something of value?"

"You know precisely what you are to me, Elizabeth."

Her Christian name. In public. Whispered, but even so, the intimacy of it bordered on impropriety. She glanced around instinctively, checking for witnesses. No one appeared to have heard. She looked back at him and found amusement straining against his severe mouth. Her stomach turned over.

"Not yet, sir. Our engagement has not been formally announced."

"A detail that shall be rectified this evening. Your father will give the news after dinner. Sir William has agreed to offer the toast."

Her step faltered. "So soon?"

"The sooner our situation is formalised, the sooner speculation ceases."

He guided her through the crowd. The neighbourhood had heard rumours and now watched his palm hover at Elizabeth's waist, her imperfect smile, and how they moved like dancers following steps only they had rehearsed.

Charlotte was in the corner. Black bombazine, pale face, hands frozen in her lap with that terrible rigidity. Colonel Fitzwilliam sat beside her, sandy-haired, affable, his easy smile masking something that Elizabeth recognised because she saw its cousin in Darcy's face every day: the calm surface of a man who owned something and was content to let the world see him being pleasant about it.

Charlotte's fingers twisted together when the Colonel leaned close to speak. A small movement, barely visible. Elizabeth caught it and felt it in her own body, the sympathetic contraction of a woman who understood exactly what that twisting meant. Her free hand clenched at her side in answer, and the ache behind her ribs was so sudden and so specific that she had to look away before it showed in her face.

"Mrs. Collins," Darcy greeted Charlotte with perfect formality. "You are looking well."

Elizabeth's fingers tightened on Darcy's sleeve. "Charlotte has always possessed a strength that lesser observers mistake for composure," she said, and the correction struck precisely where she aimed it, at Darcy's face, where a muscle twitched once before settling.

"Mr. Darcy." Charlotte's voice was level, her gaze steady. She had always been better at this than Elizabeth, the mask, the management, the careful distribution of truth and concealment. It was what had made her marry Collins in the first place, that capacity to assess an intolerable situation and find within it a liveable arrangement. "Colonel Fitzwilliam has been most attentive in ensuring my comfort."

"As is proper," the Colonel said, rising to bow over Elizabeth's hand. His grip was warm and firm and lasted a fraction too long. "Mrs. Collins requires support during this difficult time. As do you, Miss Elizabeth, though of a different nature."

The parallel. He was drawing it deliberately, Elizabeth and Charlotte, Darcy and Fitzwilliam, two women bound to two cousins by the same dark thread. Elizabeth withdrew her hand.

"I find myself quite adequately supported, I thank you."

Dinner was announced. Darcy escorted Elizabeth. Fitzwilliam escorted Charlotte. The symmetry was exact and deliberate and made Elizabeth's skin crawl with the precision of it.

At the table, Elizabeth found herself with Darcy to her right and Sir William to her left, with Jane directly across. Her sister's worried gaze followed her throughout the meal, noting every time Darcy leaned close to murmur something, every time his hand brushed hers as he passed the salt. The concern in Jane's face was a mirror Elizabeth could not avoid. She saw herself reflected in it and disliked the image.

"Your betrothed seems most devoted," Sir William observed between courses.

"I cultivate discretion in all matters of importance," Darcy replied before Elizabeth could speak. "My admiration for Miss Elizabeth developed in silence, until circumstances in Kent allowed for its expression."

Circumstances in Kent. The phrase hung between them. Sir William heard a love story. Elizabeth heard a confession.

Charlotte spoke little. She ate less. When Darcy observed that Charlotte bore her bereavement with admirable dignity, Elizabeth felt her nails press crescents into her palms beneath the table. She watched Charlotte and saw the cruelty reach her friend without producing a flinch, absorbing it the way a boxer absorbs a body blow, turning slightly to distribute the force, staying upright through technique rather than strength.

Darcy's hand settled on Elizabeth's knee beneath the tablecloth, an intimacy that would have horrified any chaperone, though the linen hung low, the chairs were close, and the nearest servant stood at the sideboard with his back turned. A weighted pressure, warm through the silk of her gown. His thumb traced a slow circle against the fabric. To anyone watching, the gesture, if discovered, would appear affectionate. Elizabeth knew what it was. A reminder. A claim. She left it there. The cost of removing it, in public, at dinner, was too high. The warmth of his hand through the silk was a fact her body registered independently of her will. She sat rigid and felt the slow circle of his thumb and thought: this is what he does. He touches. The touch says ownership. I answer while my mind recoils.