Page 33 of Time Stands Still

“Miss Eliza,” Caroline called out, her voice sharp as she interrupted a quiet comment Elizabeth had been making to her aunt. “You seem quite at home at the opera. It must be a great change from the assemblies in Hertfordshire.”

“One finds that good music is agreeable in any setting, Miss Bingley,” Elizabeth replied smoothly, refusing to be baited.

“Indeed,” Caroline said with a tight smile, her gaze sweeping over Elizabeth’s simpler, though elegant, gown. “Some, however, are more suited to certain settings than others. One must have a particular… education… to truly appreciate the nuance of the Italian style. It is not a thing to be understood by everyone.”

The insult was plain, a direct attack on Elizabeth’s country breeding and education. Darcy, who had been observing this exchange with a thunderous expression, placed a hand on the back of Elizabeth’s chair, the gesture a small but clear act of public possession. “On the contrary, Miss Bingley,” he said, his voice dangerously soft. “I find Miss Bennet’s insights on the performance to be remarkably astute. Her appreciation for the music is as keen as any I have encountered. You will find that I value her opinion above all others.”

The declaration, though not a formal announcement, was an unmistakable social signal. It was a public claiming, a warning, and a final, undeniable statement of his preference. A momentary shock passed over Caroline Bingley’s features, quickly masked by a forced, conciliatory smile. Other occupants of the neighbouring box, who had been pretending not to listen, now failed to conceal their interest.

“Indeed, Mr. Darcy,” she said, her voice now a shade too sweet. “Miss Eliza is quite… fortunate in your estimation. And you, Miss Darcy, you look quite charming this evening. We are planning a tour north ourselves. My brother means to visit some properties near Yorkshire, and perhaps even Derbyshire. I imagine you will be returning to Pemberley soon, Mr. Darcy?” Her gaze, though ostensibly fixed on Darcy, flickered expectantly towards Georgiana.

Elizabeth noted the blatant attempt to solicit an invitation. The woman’s presumption was astonishing.

“My plans, Miss Bingley, are not yet fixed,” Darcy replied, his voice still quiet, but with a coolness that was unmistakable. “Bingley, of course, is always welcome at Pemberley, as he well knows.” He paused, his gaze briefly meeting Elizabeth's before returning to Miss Bingley, his final words delivered with the cold precision of a surgeon’s blade. “As for my return to Pemberley, that will be arranged in due course. But I have found, Miss Bingley, that I have no room in my life, or in my home, for those who cannot show respect to the people I hold in the highest esteem.”

Caroline Bingley’s smile finally faltered. Her eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly as she understood the full, unsparing implication of his words. She offered a strained compliment to the opera, a perfunctory curtsy, and then, with a barely concealed sniff of indignation, swept from the box, her sister, Mr. Hurst, and a truly dejected Mr. Bingley trailing in her wake.

A quiet relief settled over their party. Mrs. Gardiner caught Elizabeth’s eye and gave a small, approving smile. As the lights dimmed for the second act, Elizabeth felt Darcy’s hand find hers in the darkness, his fingers lacing through hers in a silent, reassuring promise.

While Elizabeth’s attention was thus delightfully occupied, on the other side of the box, another, quieter conversation was taking place. Jane, who had borne the encounter with Bingley with her usual placid grace, now found her composure gently attended to by the Colonel.

“That must have been… uncomfortable, Miss Bennet,” Colonel Fitzwilliam said in a low, considerate tone, his gaze full of a sympathy that was neither pitying nor intrusive. “Bingley is a good man, but his sisters… they can be trying.”

“They are his sisters,” Jane replied with a soft sigh. “Their bond is a strong one. It is a pity it is not always expressed with greater kindness to others.”

“Indeed,” he returned, his tone gentle, “and such bonds, however strong, ought not to demand unkindness to others. A man should know his own mind, and his own heart, independent of such influence. I hope their presence has not spoiled the evening for you.”

“Not at all, Colonel,” Jane assured him. And she found, to her own surprise, that it was entirely true. The encounter had been awkward, yes, and had stirred a faint memory of past disappointment. But it had not unsettled her. “In fact,” she added, a note of quiet discovery in her voice, “it has served to remind me of the great pleasure to be found in… sincere companionship.”

Her eyes met his, and in his warm, steady gaze, she found a comfort and a respect that Mr. Bingley’s more effusive attentions had never provided. It was a regard that did not seek to possess, but to understand. It was, she realised, a safe harbour.

“I am very glad to hear it,” the Colonel said, his voice soft with a meaning that went beyond mere politeness. “For I can say with all sincerity, Miss Bennet, that my own enjoyment of the evening is increased immeasurably by your presence.”

A gentle blush rose in Jane’s cheeks, but she did not look away. For the first time in a great while, she felt seen for who she was, not as a prize to be won or a beauty to be admired, but as a companion to be valued. The second act began, and as the music swelled, Jane was keenly aware of the Colonel’s presence beside her, a quiet and steady warmth that was a far greater comfort than the most effusive compliment. It was a feeling she did not wish to name, for fear of breaking the spell, but it was a welcome one nonetheless.

Chapter Twenty-Five

The week in London passed in a dream of quiet happiness. Darcy, true to his word, called at Gracechurch Street every day, often with his cousins and sister in tow. They walked in the park, they attended a play, and they spent long hours in the comfortable society of the Gardiners, growing more intimate with every shared glance and easy conversation. For Elizabeth, it was a time of profound contentment, finding that with every passing day, her love and respect for him only deepened.

The time came, however, for their journey to Longbourn. After taking a fond leave of their aunt and uncle, Elizabeth, Jane, and Darcy settled into his carriage for the journey to Hertfordshire. Colonel Fitzwilliam had departed to attend to his duties with his regiment, and Georgiana remained at Darcy House. Miss de Bourgh, for her part, was happily settled at the Matlocks' London residence, already making plans to visit Rosings with the full authority of its mistress.

The journey was a stark contrast to their previous, fraught travels. They spoke of books, of Pemberley, of the future, their conversation easy and punctuated with shared smiles and the comfortable silences of two people entirely at ease in one another’s company.

Their arrival at Longbourn, however, shattered the peace. Darcy’s fine carriage, drawn by four handsome horses, was an event in itself, and it brought Mrs. Bennet and her three younger daughters spilling onto the front steps in a flurry of excitement and shrieks.

“Lizzy! Jane! And Mr. Darcy!” Mrs. Bennet cried, her voice a flutter of excitement as her eyes devoured the spectacle of the carriage and its owner. Your letter, Lizzy, did not do justice to the honour you have brought upon us! Such a carriage! Such a gentleman!”

Elizabeth felt a familiar blush of shame creep up her neck at her mother’s effusive and materialistic welcome. Jane, she saw, looked equally discomfited. She felt Darcy’s hand find hers for a brief, reassuring squeeze. “It seems my consequence has found its most ardent admirer,” he murmured, his voice low and for her ears alone, a twinkle of amusement in his eye that immediately soothed her vexation and made her want to laugh.

After the briefest of civilities, Darcy was shown into Mr. Bennet’s study for his private audience. The moment the door closed, Mrs. Bennet’s excitement, which had been barely contained, erupted.

“Mr. Darcy! In a private conference with your father! Oh, I am sure it is all but settled! Lizzy, you shall be the mistress of ten thousand a year, and of that great estate in Derbyshire! You must have new silks, new lace! We shall all have new gowns! Oh, I shall go distracted!”

Desperate to divert her mother from a topic that brought a blush to her cheeks, Elizabeth interjected, “And what of Meryton, Mamma? Has there been any news since we have been away?”

“There has been such news!” she declared. “Mr. Wickham has run off to Scotland with Mary King! Her uncle refused to pay her dowry, some tiresome legal impediment, I am told, about a clause in her settlement that only comes into effect if she marries with consent! So they are quite destitute, poor things, in Scotland! And what is more, Colonel Foster is threatening to bring him in as a deserter!”

Elizabeth’s heart went out to poor Mary King, a girl of good sense, now bound to a man with none. But for Wickham, she felt nothing but a cold, hard satisfaction. He had sought to ruin Georgiana Darcy for her fortune, and now he had been foiled in the same pursuit with another. The threat of being brought in as a deserter was, she felt, the very least he deserved for his villainy.