Page 169 of A Debt Inherited

“And that is her brother beside her,” Charlotte said. “Mr Darcy of Pemberley. Fitzwilliam Darcy, I believe. Ten thousand a year, they say, and nephew to Lord Matlock.”

“Mr Darcy,” Elizabeth whispered.

She looked at him fully. Tall. Grave. Broader through the shoulders than she had imagined. She had formed another countenance from the voice which had reached her through the wall.

The assembly room narrowed to bare boards, a stool at its centre, untouched food near the wall, and the covered bucket in the corner. Rosewater, tallow, and pomade yielded to damp wood, stale bread, and confinement.

Then candlelight returned.

“What was that?” Charlotte asked.

Elizabeth’s fingers tightened once upon her fan.

“You were saying he is the Earl of Matlock’s nephew.”

“Yes.” Charlotte leant a fraction nearer. “The officer behind them is his cousin, Colonel Fitzwilliam.”

Elizabeth’s gaze moved to the red-coated officer. This was the colonel who had sent Serjeant Villiers into the wood.

Her eyes returned to Mr Darcy.

“Are you well, Eliza?”

“Very well,” she said. “I am overwhelmed at the honour our small assembly is being paid.”

* * *

The room received them with every eye Hertfordshire could spare.

Darcy stepped inside behind Bingley, Georgiana’s hand resting lightly upon his sleeve, though she bore the attention better than he had expected. Her grip did not tighten; no tremor betrayed her. Fitzwilliam came in behind them with that careless military ease which deceived no man who had ever seen him at work.

Bingley looked about him with undisguised pleasure. “A fine room. Upon my honour, Darcy, this is better than I had been promised. The floor alone is worth the journey.”

“Then Netherfield has secured your happiness cheaply,” Darcy said.

“Rented it,” Bingley returned, laughing. “Let us not make me sound grander than I am.”

Miss Bingley’s fan opened beside him. “Charles has never required grandeur to be happy, Mr Darcy. Only novelty, music, and a room willing to admire him.”

Bingley laughed again, but his attention had already escaped them. He looked over the room as though each face promised him an acquaintance, each acquaintance a friend. Darcy had never understood the ease of it. Bingley entered society as other men entered sunlight—without calculation, and with an expectation of warmth.

Across the room, a cluster near the musicians shifted.

Darcy saw Bennet at once.

The gentleman stood amongst four women, his posture easy enough to seem idle and his eyes attentive enough to make idleness a lie. One lady beside him, handsome and composed, could only be Mrs Bennet. Three younger ladies stood near her: one tall and fair, one prim and poised, and one shorter than the others with dark eyes.

Not one of them looked distressed.

That should have satisfied him. It did not.

Darcy kept his attention upon Bennet because Bennet was safe to know. The women beside him belonged, for the present, to conjecture and courtesy. He could not let his eyes choose one before introduction allowed it. A man might betray himself by staring as surely as by speaking.

He turned his head a fraction towards Fitzwilliam. “Bennet and his family are here.”

“I see them.” Fitzwilliam’s voice scarcely moved. “Be introduced. Admit nothing.”

Darcy’s mouth tightened. “You mistake me for an amateur.”