Chapter 12
TWELVE
Elizabeth
Elizabeth woke later than usual the morning after her encounter with Sarah.
She had slept poorly, her dreams filled with dark-haired children and accusing eyes.
When she finally descended to the breakfast parlor, she found her aunt and uncle already at table, Jane buttering toast with a dreamy expression that suggested Mr. Bingley had featured prominently in her thoughts.
"There you are, Lizzy," Mrs. Gardiner said. "If you had woken but ten minutes earlier, you would have seen Mr. Darcy's errand boy. He brought an invitation for us all."
Elizabeth's hand stilled on her teacup. "An invitation?"
"To dine at his estate tomorrow evening," Mr. Gardiner said, biting into his toast with evident satisfaction. "Quite thoughtful of him, I must say. We have only three days remaining before we quit Bath. It is high time he invited us to see his property."
"I am certain he would have invited us earlier," Mrs. Gardiner added with a teasing smile directed at Jane, "but the gentlemen wished to maintain their excuse for calling here daily to see the ladies."
Jane colored prettily. Mr. Gardiner chuckled into his coffee.
Elizabeth said nothing. Her appetite had vanished entirely.
Tomorrow evening. She would have to spend an entire evening in Mr. Darcy's home, surrounded by the evidence of his wealth and respectability, all the while knowing what—whom—that wealth supported.
"Lizzy?" Mrs. Gardiner's voice held a note of concern. "You look pale. Are you quite well?"
"Perfectly well, Aunt. I am only surprised by the invitation."
"It will be pleasant to see how a gentleman of Mr. Darcy's standing keeps his residence," Mr. Gardiner said. "I confess myself curious about the property."
“If it is anything like Pemberly, then it would be a delight to see.” Mrs. Gardiner added.
Elizabeth forced herself to take a seat behind the chair and poured a little coffee into her cup. She raised it quickly to her lips, hoping the act might excuse her silence and that the subject would soon change. The coffee tasted like ash upon her tongue.
***
The following evening arrived with the inexorable quality of all dreaded events.
Mr. Darcy's estate lay on the outskirts of Bath, accessible by a short carriage ride through increasingly genteel neighborhoods.
The house itself, while not as grand as Elizabeth imagined Pemberley must be, was nonetheless imposing—a handsome stone structure with tall windows that glowed golden in the evening light.
They were received in an entrance hall decorated with restrained elegance. A housekeeper—efficient and well-dressed—took their wraps and led them to a drawing room where Mr. Darcy and Mr. Bingley awaited.
Mr. Darcy stepped forward as they entered, his manner courteous but warmer than Elizabeth had ever seen it in company. "Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner, Miss Bennet, Miss Elizabeth. Welcome. I am honored to receive you in my home."
"The honor is ours, Mr. Darcy," Mr. Gardiner replied. "You have a fine property here."
"Thank you. It is modest compared to Pemberley, but it serves well for extended stays in Bath."
The drawing room was furnished with taste—comfortable chairs arranged to encourage conversation, paintings on the walls that suggested a collector's eye rather than mere decoration, and a pianoforte near the window that appeared well-used rather than ornamental.
Elizabeth took in these details with a critical eye that found fault where perhaps none existed. Every elegant touch seemed calculated now. Every sign of refinement felt like a mask concealing uglier truths.
"Miss Elizabeth," Mr. Darcy said, approaching her as the others settled into conversation. "I trust you have been well since we last met?"
"Quite well, sir."
"I apologize for my absence these past days. I had...matters that required my attention."
I am sure you did, Elizabeth thought bitterly. Aloud, she said only, "You need not apologize, Mr. Darcy. You have no obligation to account for your time to us."
Something flickered in his expression—uncertainty, perhaps, or concern. "Nevertheless, I regret that I was unable to call. I hope you were not inconvenienced."
"Not in the least."
The coolness in her tone was unmistakable. Mr. Darcy's brow furrowed slightly, but before he could speak further, the housekeeper announced that dinner was served.
The dining room continued the theme of understated elegance. The table was set with fine china and crystal, the courses served with practiced efficiency. Mr. Gardiner pronounced the wine excellent. Mrs. Gardiner complimented the arrangement of the flowers.
Elizabeth ate mechanically, tasting nothing.
Mr. Darcy, seated across from her, made several attempts at conversation. He inquired whether she found the society in Bath as lively as that of Hertfordshire, and if she had discovered any place within the city that particularly pleased her.
She answered each question with the bare minimum of civility. Yes. No. I found it pleasant enough.
She could not look at him without seeing Sarah's bright smile. Papa always makes sure we have what we need.
“Miss Elizabeth,” he said during a lull in the general conversation, his voice carrying just enough to be polite. “I hope the change in weather has not been troublesome. You seem quieter than usual this evening.”
It was carefully done—a remark that could be taken as simple concern for a guest's comfort, yet his eyes searched hers with unmistakable meaning.
Elizabeth felt the weight of his gaze. “I am perfectly well, Mr. Darcy. Only a trifle fatigued from our busy fortnight in Bath.”
“I am sorry to hear it. Perhaps Bath has proven too taxing. The city can be overwhelming for those unaccustomed to its diversions.”
There was a question beneath the words—what has changed? —but it was veiled enough that the others at the table heard only polite solicitude.
“I see.” He did not sound convinced. “You leave in three days, I understand.”
“Yes.”
“That is very soon.”
“Not soon enough,” she murmured, too low for him to hear clearly, then immediately regretted the words.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I said the time has passed quickly enough.”
He studied her face for a long moment, and Elizabeth had the uncomfortable sensation that he could see through her pretense, that he knew something had changed but could not fathom what.
At the other end of the table, Mr. Bingley was regaling Jane with an animated account of his plans to return to Netherfield. Jane listened with glowing eyes, occasionally offering a soft word that made Bingley's expression brighten further.
At least Jane's happiness was secure. That thought sustained Elizabeth through the remainder of the meal.
When dinner concluded, they removed to the drawing room. Mrs. Gardiner, noticing the pianoforte, remarked that it was a fine instrument.
“Do you play, Mrs. Gardiner?” Mr. Darcy asked.
“A little, in my youth. But my niece Elizabeth is far more accomplished.”
"Perhaps Miss Elizabeth would favor us," Mr. Darcy said, his tone careful. "I have had the pleasure of hearing her play before, and I know the instrument would be in capable hands."
Elizabeth felt every eye turn toward her. “I am out of practice.”
“This is not an orchestra, Lizzy,” Mrs. Gardiner said with a smile. “Surely whatever you play will be far better than anything Jane or I could attempt.”
She wanted to refuse. Wanted to claim a headache, a sore finger, any excuse to avoid giving him even this small thing.
But Mrs. Gardiner was already smiling encouragingly, and to refuse would create the very scene Elizabeth was trying to avoid.
She rose and moved to the instrument with reluctant steps.
The pianoforte was indeed well-maintained, its keys responsive beneath her fingers. She chose a simple piece—something that required no thought, no feeling—and played it mechanically, her mind far from the music.
When she finished, there was polite applause. Mr. Darcy remained silent, watching her with an expression she could not read.
“That was lovely, Lizzy,” Jane said warmly.
“You are too kind.”
Elizabeth returned to her seat, and the conversation turned to other matters. Mr. Gardiner and Mr. Darcy discussed trade routes. Mrs. Gardiner and Mr. Bingley compared opinions on Bath's various attractions.
Elizabeth said nothing unless directly addressed. And when she was, she offered the minimum required by civility and no more.
By the time they took their leave, she felt hollowed out—exhausted by the effort of maintaining her composure, of smiling when she wanted to rage, of being polite to a man who had just proven himself unworthy of even basic respect.
Mr. Darcy handed her into the carriage himself. His fingers brushed hers briefly, and she pulled away as though burned.
“We shall call tomorrow, if that is agreeable,” he said, addressing the group but his eyes on Elizabeth. “Bingley is eager to take Miss Bennet to see the new circulating library.”
“That would be most welcome,” Mrs. Gardiner replied warmly.
Elizabeth said nothing.
“Until tomorrow, then,” Mr. Darcy said quietly, his gaze still fixed on her face. “Good evening, Miss Elizabeth.”
She could barely make herself meet his eyes. “Good evening, Mr. Darcy.”
And then the carriage was moving, carrying her away from his house, his hospitality, his confusing mix of apparent kindness and hidden depravity.
“Well,” Mrs. Gardiner said as they rolled through the darkening streets, “that was a lovely evening. Mr. Darcy is an excellent host.”
“Indeed,” Mr. Gardiner agreed. “A gentleman of true quality.”
Elizabeth turned her face to the window so they would not see the bitterness in her expression.
Quality. Yes. That was one word for it.
Though she could think of several others that fit far better.