FOURTEEN
Netherfield
Darcy
Fitzwilliam found Darcy in the small parlour Bingley had set aside for his use — a quiet room at the back of the house that looked out onto the kitchen garden and was unlikely to be disturbed.
Darcy was standing at the window with a glass he had not touched and an expression that apparently communicated enough on its own.
"For a man who has just ensured his greatest enemy was delivered to a debtor's prison," Fitzwilliam said, closing the door behind him, "you do not appear particularly satisfied."
Darcy looked at him with questioning eyes but said nothing.
Fitzwilliam helped himself to a chair and stretched his legs out before him with ease.
He watched Darcy take a gulp of his whisky before he spoke. "Georgiana thinks you are wrong," he said at last.
Darcy did not need to ask him what his sister thought he was wrong about.
He knew what—or whom—he was referring to.
He had told Georgiana everything the morning after Wickham's arrest. While she was happy that the man who had broken her confidence and tried to take advantage of her was gone, the one thing she did not agree with was any complicity on Elizabeth's part in the affair, as Darcy suggested.
Still, Darcy had insisted she stay away from Elizabeth until he could ascertain that she had nothing to do with Wickham.
He was not doing anything to ascertain anything.
Just seeing the two of them together had riled him up so badly that he did not even want to see Elizabeth.
"I know what Georgiana thinks." Darcy pushed the bottle of whisky on the table closer towards Fitzwilliam's side and signalled to a small cabinet with glasses.
"She is quite insistent about it." The colonel stood to retrieve a glass and poured himself a drink. "She says Miss Elizabeth could not have known Wickham, or at least not known the kind of person he is. She came to find me this morning, which tells me she has tried and failed to move you herself."
Darcy took another sip of the drink. "She is sixteen years old, and she is attached to the woman. Her judgement is not impartial."
"Neither is yours," Fitzwilliam said pleasantly, returning to his seat.
Darcy thought to take another sip, but checked himself. It was either that or continue at his present pace and end the evening thoroughly foxed. He could not permit that.
"In your letter," Fitzwilliam continued, "you described Miss Elizabeth Bennet as someone you trusted. Someone remarkable. You said she was doing more for Georgiana than a year of your own efforts had managed." He swirled the alcohol in his glass. "And now you believe she conspired with Wickham."
"I saw them together."
"You saw them together, so what?"
"She was smiling."
"Darcy." Fitzwilliam looked at him with all seriousness. "People smile at people. Neighbours, friends, acquaintances, even strangers. It is a common enough occurrence."
Darcy swallowed and remained quiet.
"Tell me about her," Fitzwilliam said after a while. "Properly. Not what you wrote in the letter or the hurried summary you gave me when I arrived. Tell me how it began."
Darcy looked at his glass. Then he set it down, walked to a chair, took a seat and leaned back.
He began with the Meryton assembly. Then the lip-reading, the recognition that had stopped him cold. He described the moment he understood that Elizabeth Bennet was doing the same thing that his mother had done at some point in her life.
He told him about Lucas Lodge. About how he had discovered that she heard from the left, then about their conversations at Oakham Mount. Finally, he told him how Georgiana had finally opened up to Elizabeth and how he had even left Georgiana in her company when she came to visit Netherfield.
"I had intended to court her," Darcy said at the end of his elaborate explanation.
"I told Georgiana as much. I was going to tell Miss Elizabeth what I knew, what I had observed, and let her decide what to do with it.
" He paused and took a sip of his drink.
"And then I rode into Meryton and saw her talking to Wickham and smiling, and everything I had built in the past month came apart in about thirty seconds. "
"And now?" Fitzwilliam asked.
"Now I do not know." Darcy looked at the window. "Two days of thinking about it have reduced the certainty I had on Tuesday morning. But I cannot dismiss what I saw."
"Or," Fitzwilliam said, "it is a coincidence. And you are so accustomed to Wickham's machinations that you are seeing them where they do not exist."
Darcy shook his head in disagreement, though he realised there was sense in what his cousin had said. He had thought so himself that morning too, but dismissed it.
"You have spent fifteen years watching that man destroy things," Fitzwilliam said.
"And with what he did last summer, it would be entirely understandable if you could no longer tell the difference between a genuine threat and your own fear.
" He leaned forward slightly. "But I will say this.
I have never once heard you speak of a woman the way you just spoke of Miss Elizabeth Bennet. And I have known you a very long time."
The room was quiet. Outside, the kitchen garden was bare.
"What would you have me do?" Darcy said at last.
"I would have you think very carefully," Fitzwilliam said, "before you throw away something real because of a man who is now sitting in a debtor's prison and can do no further damage to anyone."
He rose, straightened his coat, and moved toward the door.
"Wickham is gone, Darcy," he said. "The question is whether you are going to let him take something else from you on his way out."
Without waiting for a response, he left.
Darcy sat alone in the quiet parlour for a long time after that.
? ? ?
Caroline had not been looking for anything in particular when she passed the small parlour at the end of the east corridor.
She had merely been walking, as one did in a house that had become exceedingly dull, when the sound of Darcy's voice reached her ears, followed by that of his cousin.
Someone had closed the parlour door without fastening it properly, leaving it slightly ajar and allowing their conversation to carry into the corridor.
Caroline stopped at once and moved quietly towards the opening.
For the better part of two days, the two gentlemen had been behaving mysteriously, Darcy in particular. Georgiana had not been in the best of spirits either. Something was clearly amiss, and if a little eavesdropping provided the answer, Caroline saw no reason to object.
"Tell me how you met her." Colonel Fitzwilliam's voice carried clearly through the gap.
Her?
Caroline frowned.
So, it was about a woman. What woman had Mr. Darcy met that had occupied his thoughts so thoroughly?
Then Darcy began to speak.
His voice was low and measured. He started with the Meryton assembly.
By the time he mentioned Bingley directing his attention towards a particular lady, Caroline's eyes had widened considerably.
Miss Eliza?
She scarcely needed to hear more before realising that the entire conversation concerned Elizabeth Bennet.
She listened.
About the lip-reading. About the assembly. About Lady Anne. About Georgiana.
Then came Darcy's account of the efforts he had made to learn more about Elizabeth's hearing before introducing her into Georgiana's circle.
At that moment, understanding dawned.
Caroline suddenly recalled Elizabeth's visit to Netherfield. The maid standing beside her with the soup ladle. The delay. The confusion.
Miss Elizabeth was partially deaf.
The discovery sent a thrill through her.
Caroline pressed a hand against her mouth to prevent an audible laugh from escaping.
So that was it.
All this time Elizabeth Bennet had mistaken Darcy's attention for personal interest, when in reality she had merely represented something else entirely. A resemblance to his mother. A connection to Georgiana's fears. A curiosity born of circumstance.
The notion was so satisfying that Caroline smiled.
Yet before she could enjoy it fully, the conversation shifted.
Darcy began speaking of Elizabeth herself.
Not her hearing.
Not Georgiana.
Elizabeth.
Caroline listened as he described his admiration for her. Then came the matter of a Mr. Wickham, a gentleman whose identity meant nothing to her but who had evidently altered Darcy's opinion considerably.
That, at least, was gratifying.
Darcy sounded wounded. Bitter.
She found she preferred him that way when speaking of Elizabeth Bennet.
Once, she wished Colonel Fitzwilliam would cease his absurd attempt to defend the woman. The man seemed determined to insist that Darcy reconsider his conclusions, and Caroline found the advice increasingly tiresome.
At last the conversation drew towards its end.
Caroline remained in the corridor until prudence asserted itself. A servant might pass at any moment, or worse, one of the gentlemen might emerge unexpectedly.
Reluctantly, she stepped away and continued down the corridor.
No one had seen her stop.
No one had seen her listen.
No one had seen her leave.
And no one knew that Caroline Bingley now knew Elizabeth Bennet's secret as well.