19. Nineteen

Nineteen

D inner at Longbourn was the sort of loving chaos that seemed to thrive in the Bennet household. Darcy watched it all in a detached sort of awe as Mrs. Bennet presided with gleeful energy, extolling her daughters’ virtues to anyone who would listen. Miss Catherine and Miss Lydia hung on Colonel Fitzwilliam’s every word, gasping with delight at his tales of military life. And Bennet himself seemed content to listen to everyone else talk while he drank his wine in peace.

There was only one Bennet who actually captured Darcy’s notice, and she was trapped on the far side of Richard, at the opposite end of the table. But still, he could feel her warmth and wit, even from that distance. She laughed at her father’s quips—when he troubled himself to speak—listened earnestly to her sisters, and even joined Fitzwilliam in a playful exchange about the challenges of military discipline. To the casual observer, she was the very picture of warmth and sociability.

And yet, something felt off.

It wasn’t until their eyes met across the table that he truly noticed it. There was no spark, no challenge, no teasing glint in her gaze—just a polite coolness that chilled him all the way to the heart. She glanced away almost immediately, turning her focus to her sister, and Darcy was left to wonder if he had imagined it.

Surely, he had. Why, she was the very picture of grace, smiling like that. And she would be smiling even more when he told her about the idea he had, only this evening, as he glanced around the table.

For each of the Bennet sisters wore some sort of jewelry—some precious trinket that marked them as the daughters of a gentleman of at least modest means. Elizabeth wore her garnet cross—a pretty little thing set with gold and dark-ish stones that dangled just at the creamy notch where her throat met her collarbone. Her elder sister had a pearl pendant. He could not see Miss Mary’s beneath her overly-stuffy fichu, but there was a gold chain glinting at her neck, and the younger sisters… well, he did not like to let his gaze rest on their bosoms long enough to study their pendants, lest they feel his gaze and make assumptions, but they had something .

And that gave him an idea. One that would help to answer the question of what next for the members of Sir Thomas’s household. But he would need to go to London for it. He would ask Elizabeth—perhaps she could guide him.

But by the time the party moved to the drawing room, her apparent distraction and his unease had grown. Elizabeth had spoken to everyone with her usual good humor, but to him, she offered only brief, guarded responses. The shift was subtle, but unmistakable.

He lingered by the fire, waiting for the right moment to approach her. Elizabeth had seated herself near Miss Bennet, a book in hand that she barely glanced at. Darcy crossed the room, determined to understand.

“Miss Elizabeth, might I have a word?”

Elizabeth’s hand tightened on the book’s spine, but her expression remained composed as she looked up. “Certainly, Mr. Darcy,” she replied. “What would you like to discuss?”

For a moment, relief flickered in him. Perhaps he had been mistaken about that chill in her demeanor. “I wished to express my gratitude,” he said, offering her a faint smile. “Your family’s hospitality has been most gracious.”

Her lips curved slightly. “I am glad you have found it so.”

Encouraged, he continued in a lower voice, so as not to be overheard in case she told him his idea was madness, or misplaced extravagance, or… or anything, really. He wanted her to be the first one he spoke to about this. “I had a rather curious notion while we were at dinner. It strikes me that there is… more that could be done. For the people of Netherfield, that is.”

Her face lifted swiftly, and it was odd, but there was a tick to her lower left eyelid as she peered up at him. “Such as?”

“Well…” How to put it? He glanced swiftly about the room. Anything he said in this room would be overheard, and his idea… why, it probably did sound outlandish. In fact, a rich man like him, buying such articles for other women… good heavens, it could be positively scandalous if rumors spread or the words were not phrased correctly. And that would only make matters worse.

He lowered his voice still more. “It occurs to me that… that much of what we call ‘respectability’ is in nothing more than favorable appearances.”

Her eyes narrowed faintly. “Explain yourself.”

Darcy swallowed. Egad, she was rather blunt this evening. Where was his smiling, charming compatriot? “I mean,” he murmured in a still-lower voice, “that if one but has the means, dignity can… well, it can almost be bought. Or at least a chance—an opportunity, if you will.”

Elizabeth’s jaw flexed. “Opportunity?”

“Indeed, for without opportunity, how is one to display the content of their character? The qualities that make them remarkable? I cannot answer all needs, but I think, Miss Elizabeth, I know of a way to open the doors of opportunity.”

Her breast—that garnet cross—lowered softly in a long exhale. “And for this, I shall hazard a guess. You mean to go to London to procure this…. opportunity?”

He straightened. Despite all her seeming skepticism tonight, perhaps she was, indeed, following the direction of his thoughts. “Yes, I have… connections there. I shall write letters immediately to begin the arrangements. Something fine and… dare I say it… extravagant? I think Sir Thomas’s people deserve nothing less. But we must take care to… to frame our words correctly, so we are not misunderstood.”

She blinked, and her lips parted softly as she gaped at him.

Why was she staring like that without speaking? This was not at all like the Elizabeth Bennet he knew—the woman who had stolen his heart already. Perhaps if he explained a little more, she would understand. “A—anyway, I was hoping you might…” He glanced over his shoulder at Mr. Bennet, whose gaze felt like a hot fire poker boring into his back. “That is, if your father approves, I was hoping you and perhaps your sister might also come to London for a few days. I should like to speak with Mrs. Gardiner as well. I could use a lady’s advice, and—”

She sucked in a sharp breath and stepped away. “I think I have heard quite enough, sir.”

Instinctively, he reached out and caught her elbow before he could examine why he had done so. “Miss Elizabeth,” he began cautiously, “have I given you reason for displeasure?”

Her chin lifted. “Not at all, Mr. Darcy. You are always perfectly civil.”

The words, though polite, carried a finality that left him momentarily at a loss. Before he could press further, she cut him off with a smile. “If you will excuse me, Mr. Darcy, I find I must see to the tea,” she said, gesturing toward the service tray.

He inclined his head, though the unusual formality of her tone stung. “Of… of course. Perhaps we will have an opportunity later for me to explain my idea more fully.”

Her smile was thin and entirely insincere. “That will not be necessary, sir. Please excuse me.”

Not… not necessary ? What the devil did she mean by that ? But he had no choice but to step back, allowing her to move past him.

Darcy remained rooted to the spot, aware of the sudden quiet that seemed to gather around him. Out of the corner of his eye, Fitzwilliam exchanged a glance with Bingley, whose conspiratorial nudge in the colonel’s side earned a faint smirk. Darcy ignored them both, his focus drawn entirely to Elizabeth as she busied herself with the teacups, her movements crisp and deliberate. Whatever he had done—or failed to do—it was painfully clear that Elizabeth was in no frame of mind for any flirtations tonight.

Not that… well, not that he usually flirted . Just… enjoyed her company. Like that of no other woman he had ever known.

“Well?” Fitzwilliam murmured. “Are you going to stand there like a statue, or will you try again?”

Darcy shot him a warning look but said nothing. Instead, he crossed the room with deliberate steps, joining Mr. Bennet, who was seated comfortably with a book.

“Mr. Bennet,” Darcy began, determined to appear composed, “I was hoping to ask your opinion on an aspect of the party preparations.”

Mr. Bennet peered over his spectacles, his expression faintly amused. “You are braver than I thought, Mr. Darcy. Few men willingly seek advice from a father with five daughters.”

Darcy allowed himself a small smile. “And yet, your household seems well accustomed to managing the unexpected. I thought your insight might be valuable.”

Mr. Bennet chuckled, closing his book. “Very well. My advice, Mr. Darcy, is this: let the guests entertain themselves. People are often more agreeable when they believe they are acting of their own accord.”

Darcy inclined his head. “Sage advice, Mr. Bennet.”

“Though if you are hoping to apply that wisdom to your current predicament,” Mr. Bennet added, his tone sharpening slightly, “you may find my Lizzy less easily impressed than the rest of us.”

Darcy met Mr. Bennet’s gaze. “Your daughter,” he said after a measured pause, “is indeed not one to be impressed lightly. It is a quality I admire.”

Mr. Bennet leaned back, his expression aloof but his eyes keen. “Admiration is all very well, Mr. Darcy. But admiration alone seldom persuades her.”

Darcy allowed a faint smile, though his thoughts churned. “Then I must ask, sir—what does persuade Miss Elizabeth?”

Mr. Bennet’s brow rose, the faintest flicker of approval in his expression. “Ah, now that, Mr. Darcy, is a question I believe you must answer for yourself. But I will say this—she values honesty above all else. Not flattery, mind you. Genuine honesty.”

Darcy inclined his head. “That much, I believe I already knew.”

The older man’s gaze lingered for a moment before he returned to his book. “Well, then. Let us see if you can rise to the challenge, Mr. Darcy.”

Darcy’s response was cut short by Mrs. Bennet bustling toward the tea tray. “Lizzy! My dear, please pour the tea for all of us, would you? Mr. Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam must be served, and you always make such a fine job of it.”

Darcy’s gaze snapped up to see Elizabeth’s shoulders tightening almost imperceptibly, but she swallowed and bobbed her head. “Of course, Mama.”

Darcy couldn’t look away as she lifted the teapot, her hands sure, but her movements almost mechanical rather than graceful, lacking the natural ease he had come to associate with her. The room buzzed softly with conversation, but for Darcy, the air between them was thick with the twisting of unspoken feeling.

Mrs. Bennet turned to Darcy with an expectant smile. “Mr. Darcy, do let Lizzy serve you first. She always knows just how much cream to add.”

He rose from Mr. Bennet’s side and approached slowly. A little caution might be wise this time, giving her space before speaking. “Miss Elizabeth, may I trouble you for a cup?”

Her hands stilled for the briefest moment before she resumed pouring. She placed the cup on its saucer and held it out to him, her gaze fixed on the table.

“Thank you,” he said quietly, but she offered no reply.

Across the room, Fitzwilliam leaned back in his chair, his arms crossed over his chest as he raised a brow at Darcy. Bingley cleared his throat loudly and rose, moving toward Miss Bennet with an exaggerated air of cheer.

“Miss Bennet, your mother assures us that your taste in decorations is second to none. Might I trouble you for your opinion on the garlands for the ballroom?”

Miss Bennet’s gaze flicked briefly toward Elizabeth, her expression tinged with concern. “I would be happy to assist,” she replied to Bingley. “Though I wonder if Mr. Darcy might already have strong preferences. His attention to detail is rather renowned, is it not?”

Bingley laughed, shaking his head. “Darcy? That will be the day. I assure you, Miss Bennet, his tastes are decidedly practical.”

“Practical, perhaps,” Miss Bennet agreed as she glanced at her sister again. “But even practicality can surprise us now and then. Still,” she continued lightly, “I am happy to help. It is not every day one plans a party on such a scale.”

“Excellent,” Bingley said. “Perhaps Darcy and I should take notes. You seem to have the knack for these things.”

Darcy allowed himself the barest tilt of an eyebrow at the comment. His gaze shifted to Elizabeth at the tea tray, her focus fixed on the task as though she were conducting a delicate experiment. She poured with precision, never glancing up, but the tightness in her shoulders gave her away.

Miss Bennet’s subtle maneuvering wasn’t lost on him. It struck him, not for the first time, that while Elizabeth’s wit was razor-sharp, her sister’s quieter approach could be just as effective—and often, more disarming.

Darcy’s gaze snapped back to Elizabeth as she stepped back from the tea tray, her hands clasped tightly in front of her. “Mama, I am afraid I must excuse myself,” she said, her voice low but firm. “I have a headache.”

“A headache?” Mrs. Bennet cried. “But Lizzy, Mr. Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam—”

“I beg you will excuse me, Mama. I really am feeling quite unwell,” Elizabeth said, cutting her off. She glanced once at her elder sister before she started toward the door.

Darcy watched her retreat, unease settling deep in his chest. Elizabeth Bennet, usually so sharp and vibrant, had been distant all evening. The change was undeniable, and it left him searching for answers.

Across the room, Fitzwilliam met his gaze with a subtle but pointed nod, as if urging him to persevere. Bingley, lingering nearby, caught Darcy’s eye and gave a fleeting smile before returning to Miss Bennet’s side, his posture unusually attentive.

But it was Mr. Bennet who held his attention. The older man was watching him with quiet amusement, his sharp gaze seeming to take the measure of him. Darcy forced a polite smile and moved closer, attempting to engage him in conversation about the party preparations. That was all he could manage tonight.

“ M ary, you must wear the pink sash!” Lydia declared. “It is festive. It is charming. It is… the only thing that will make you look tolerable at the party.”

Elizabeth, seated by the window, kept her gaze on the embroidery in her lap, though her needle hovered motionless above the cloth. She wasn’t stitching daisies anymore—she was simply stabbing at the same spot over and over.

“I shall not degrade myself with frivolity,” Mary retorted, straightening with an air of self-righteousness. “Or did you forget the very point of this party? A sensible gown and a modest demeanor will suffice.”

“You’ll look like a governess!” Lydia groaned, flopping onto the floor beside Kitty, who burst into giggles.

Elizabeth’s lips twitched despite herself, but her amusement faded as quickly as it had come. Her sisters’ chatter about the party only deepened the knot in her chest. Every mention of Netherfield, every speculation about its hosts, brought the evening’s dinner to the forefront of her mind. And with it, a pair of dark, questioning eyes.

“Lizzy, do you not agree?” Kitty asked, glancing up from her pile of ribbons. “Mary must at least try to look agreeable. What do you think?”

Elizabeth blinked, dragged from her thoughts. “I think,” she said slowly, “that Mary has every right to wear what pleases her.”

“Oh, bother, you would say that,” Lydia huffed, tossing a ribbon over her shoulder. “You are no fun at all today.”

Elizabeth’s smile was tight. “Am I not?”

“No, you are not,” Lydia declared. “You sit there poking holes in that poor daisy as if it has personally offended you. Whatever is the matter, Lizzy? Are you still sulking over the weather?”

Kitty chimed in with a mischievous grin. “Or perhaps it is something—or some one —else?”

Elizabeth’s cheeks warmed, but her expression did not falter. “You are imagining things, Kitty.”

“Oh, she’s definitely imagining things,” Lydia said with a knowing smirk. “And so are we all, but la, it is all true, is it not? Tell me, Lizzy, what does Mr. Darcy think of daisies?”

The room burst into laughter, and Elizabeth, unwilling to grant her sisters the satisfaction of a reaction, kept on sewing… or pretending to, at least.

Mary gave them both a glare before turning her attention to Elizabeth. “Lizzy, do tell them that a lady’s true worth is found in her intellect and character, not in fripperies.”

Elizabeth blinked. “I believe both intellect and character are better demonstrated by allowing others to wear what they please without censure.”

Lydia snorted. “That is Lizzy’s way of saying she agrees with me.”

Elizabeth forced a small smile before glancing back out the window. The branches of the trees swayed in the wind, casting restless shadows across the lawn. She wished her own thoughts were so easily swept away.

The events of the previous evening had settled heavily in her chest. Colonel Fitzwilliam’s words had been an unwelcome revelation. For all Mr. Darcy’s grand speeches and evident generosity, Elizabeth now wondered if they had all been carefully calculated. His cousin had all but said so, and Darcy’s exceedingly odd questions to her after dinner had confirmed it. This entire effort at Netherfield was meant to be used as a political platform.

Elizabeth stabbed her needle into the fabric, her jaw tightening.

“Lizzy!” Kitty exclaimed, leaning over to peer at her embroidery. “You have made a terrible knot!”

“Oh,” Elizabeth said, looking down at her work. “So, I have.”

Lydia laughed, tossing a ribbon over her shoulder. “What is wrong with you today, Lizzy? You look as though you have been to a funeral.”

“I am simply distracted,” Elizabeth said, carefully undoing the knot. “This room is hardly conducive to focus.”

“That is no excuse,” Mary intoned. “A disciplined mind should be able to concentrate anywhere.”

Elizabeth bit back a retort and returned to her stitching, though her mind remained elsewhere. Darcy had seemed so genuine when they spoke in the library. His quiet determination, his reflections on duty and ambition, even his confessions of regrets and mistakes—they had felt real. Yet now, Elizabeth could not help but question everything. Was it all an act? Was he simply using Sir Thomas and the people of Netherfield as pawns in some larger game?

The thought of him standing before Parliament, turning the residents of Netherfield into pitiable figures for his own gain, made her stomach churn. She could almost hear the patronizing tone he might use, the calculated words crafted to inspire both sympathy and scorn. And the people of Netherfield—proud, wounded, rebuilding their lives—would become nothing more than objects of derision.

“Lizzy, you are doing it again,” Kitty said, pointing at her fabric. “Another knot!”

Elizabeth sighed and set the embroidery hoop down. “Perhaps needlework is not for me today.”

“Perhaps nothing is for you today,” Lydia teased, tossing a cushion at her.

Elizabeth caught it and flung it back with far less playfulness. She glanced at Jane, who was quietly hemming a gown across the room. She ought to speak to Jane, to have some way of giving vent to her fears and discovering if they were all for naught. But Jane had been so happy lately, her spirits buoyed by Mr. Bingley’s clear attentions. Elizabeth could not bear to darken her sister’s mood by voicing her suspicions.

Besides, there was no evidence that Mr. Bingley shared Mr. Darcy’s schemes. Mr. Bingley was too guileless, too earnest. His every word and action seemed to come from a place of genuine affection for Jane and goodwill toward others. No, it was Darcy who was the puzzle, Darcy who now seemed a stranger wearing a mask she had been foolish enough to admire.

Elizabeth stood abruptly, smoothing her skirts. “I believe I shall take a turn about the garden.”

Mary raised her brow. “In this weather?”

“Perhaps the air will clear my head,” Elizabeth replied, already moving toward the door.

The garden path was damp beneath her shoes, and the wind nipped at her cheeks, but Elizabeth welcomed the briskness. It gave her a focus, something sharp and immediate to cut through the haze of doubt and frustration.

She paused by the cut-back and naked rosebushes, her thoughts turning over and over like the leaves caught in the wind. The party was already the talk of the town. People were excited, curious, eager to attend. How could she stop it now? How could she undo what had already been set in motion? And even if she could, did she have the right to take away this opportunity for the people of Netherfield to be seen, to be welcomed—even if only temporarily?

No, she could not stop the party. But she could stop herself. She could leave before Darcy’s plans came to fruition, before she had to witness what she feared would unfold. Before she could be any more a part of something she could not countenance.

She would go to London, to Aunt Gardiner. It was the sensible choice, the safe choice.

And yet, the thought of leaving sent a pang through her chest that she could not explain.

Elizabeth shook her head, turning back toward the house. She would write to Aunt Gardiner that very evening.