Chapter 15 #2
There had been something different in her manner today—something more open, more engaging.
And yet it had not been flirtation. No coquettish games, no artifice.
Just… her. Bright, intelligent, sharp-tongued and warm-hearted.
A woman unlike any other he had met—particularly in Hertfordshire, though he was beginning to suspect she might be unlike any other anywhere.
Her laugh—that low, clear sound—played again in his mind, and he allowed himself a smile, small but genuine.
She had teased him, yes. She always did.
But she had listened, too. They had spoken as equals.
He could not remember the last time he had shared a conversation with a woman that had not left him feeling either awkward or exhausted.
And though he was more aware than ever of how quick her mind was, he found no discomfort in it. Rather the opposite.
Darcy stepped forward and reached for the book she had handled.
The Vicar of Wakefield. He turned it over in his hand, considering the worn leather binding, her delicate fingerprints surely lingering on the cover.
It was not what he would have guessed, no.
But perhaps that was what made her so compelling.
With Elizabeth Bennet, nothing could be assumed.
He replaced the book on the shelf with care, his mind already drifting ahead to that evening’s dinner.
He knew Miss Bingley would not be in attendance—a small mercy—and Mrs. Hurst would attempt, however awkwardly, to maintain decorum.
But it was not the absence of Miss Bingley that made him anticipate the meal.
It was the prospect of seeing her again—of hearing her voice, watching the way she tilted her head when considering a reply, the gleam in her eyes when something amused her.
Dinner could not come soon enough.
Fortunately, Darcy was able to pass the time by reading the very novel she had recommended. The words moved before him easily, and he found himself even chuckling on occasion during the more dramatic scenes.
How had she described it? “Best for stormy nights and weak nerves”? He smiled again, the corner of his mouth lifting despite himself.
When the dinner bell rang, he closed the book with care and made his way to the drawing room, where Bingley and the Hursts were already gathered.
Miss Bingley, as expected, was absent. Mrs. Hurst offered a tentative smile and gestured toward the dining room, and soon they were seated—four at a table meant for ten.
Conversation started slowly. Jane Bennet still remained upstairs recovering, and Elizabeth had chosen to remain by her side until the last possible moment, joining the party only after the soup course had begun.
Darcy stood when she entered and inclined his head in greeting. “Miss Elizabeth.”
She dipped in a curtsey, her eyes warm. “Mr. Darcy.”
The tension eased a little when she joined the table.
Bingley, delighted, launched into a tale about one of his many mishaps involving one of his hunting dogs and a chicken who made it into the house in town, and Elizabeth responded with polite amusement.
Mr. Hurst, fortified by wine, grunted and asked for more bread.
It was during the fish course that the conversation took an unexpected turn.
Mr. Hurst, glass in hand, muttered something about “popery on the march” in the army again—something he’d read in the Gazette—and punctuated it with a poor imitation of a priest crossing himself. “Next thing you know, we will be bowing to Rome again,” he drawled, chuckling at his own wit.
Darcy’s hand stiffened around his fork.
Elizabeth, whose brow had drawn together in a frown, set down her utensil and turned to the host. “Was there another article about Catholic soldiers, today Mr. Bingley?”
Bingley blinked, caught off-guard. “Yes, I believe something about new allowances for religious liberty in the ranks. Caused a stir in certain circles.”
“Indeed?” Elizabeth said, her tone mild. “I suppose that would be the same sort of stir that came with the Act of Toleration, or the repeal of the Test Acts, or any of the other steps toward religious freedom that seem to make England less proud and more panicked.”
Darcy’s eyes lifted sharply.
Mr. Hurst snorted. “Bah! Next they’ll be letting Jesuits run the universities again. Let them go to France if they want their popes.”
Darcy remained silent, watching.
Elizabeth’s chin lifted. “England lost her colonies in America for many reasons, but one was certainly her inability to allow men freedom of conscience. We have repeated that mistake many times over the years—and it never ends well.”
Darcy could not look away.
He cleared his throat. “You believe, then, that religion should play no role in public policy?”
“I believe,” she said, her gaze turning to him, “that a man’s actions should carry more weight than the denomination he professes. If a person lives honorably, works diligently, and treats others with kindness, I find I care very little for whether they kneel in a church, a chapel, or not at all.”
Mrs. Hurst shifted uncomfortably. “But surely the King is appointed by God to lead the Church. That is why we must have one religion—to be unified under God’s law.”
Elizabeth tilted her head. “If the King is appointed by God, then one might also wonder why God allowed His Majesty to go mad and leave us in the hands of a prince who disdains the Church’s teachings entirely.
” She arched a brow. “I would rather have a modest dissenter making laws than a peer with seven mistresses and no sense of justice.”
Bingley nearly choked on his wine. “Miss Elizabeth! That sounds a great deal like treason.”
She laughed. “Only the best kind—spoken quietly over roast lamb with trusted company.”
Everyone chuckled, including Mrs. Hurst, though her smile was still tinged with unease.
The conversation moved swiftly after that, darting toward safer topics: the weather, the latest rumors from Town, the virtues of Derbyshire cheese.
Darcy remained silent for some time, though his mind was anything but quiet.
She had spoken boldly, yes—but not out of recklessness. There was reason in her words, conviction behind them. Not idle rebellion for the sake of display, but sincere belief in liberty, in dignity, in principle.
He was baptized Catholic. He was also baptized Anglican.
He attended church with the rest of his class and made no public demonstration of the faith handed down through centuries of Darcys who had risked life and land for it.
But in that moment, listening to her defend the right of any man to worship—or not—in peace, he felt something stir. Not just admiration.
Solidarity.
Darcy looked at her across the table, her eyes alight, her smile playful, her bearing proud.
She would have stood with étienne D’Arcy in the marshes of Hastings, he thought. She would have prayed beside Edward before the hearth. She would have wept with Sarah before a hidden priest.
And perhaps—if he dared—she might one day do the same him.
∞∞∞
As soon as dinner ended, Elizabeth made her excuses to return upstairs to Jane.
Inside, the room was warm and softly scented by lavender.
Jane lay asleep, her face still flushed with the remnants of her illness, but her breathing was deep and even.
Elizabeth smiled, setting the candle down and brushing a few golden curls from her sister’s brow.
“You are improving,” she whispered. “Thank Heaven.”
She lingered a moment, as she always did—long enough to be sure Jane was truly resting, not simply lying still to avoid concern. Then, satisfied, she slipped out, closing the door behind her and retreating to her own borrowed chamber.
The room was still and quiet. She changed slowly, her mind too busy to rush the motions.
Bits and fragments of conversation from dinner still floated through her memory.
Mr. Hurst’s offensive mutterings, Mrs. Hurst’s wary glances, Mr. Bingley’s half-frantic attempts to steer the conversation away from anything approaching controversy.
And Mr. Darcy.
She had noticed it—of course she had—the way he had stilled when Mr. Hurst mentioned popery, the tension in his jaw, the way his eyes had fixed on her when she spoke up.
He had said very little himself, but what he had said had been precise.
Intentional. He had been watching not only her, but the entire table.
Weighing every reaction. Measuring responses.
He was a man of secrets, she thought, as she sat before the small dressing table and began pulling the pins from her hair.
Not deceitful, but private. Guarded. Not merely by temperament, but by necessity.
Something about the way he had spoken—so carefully, with such control—made her suspect that this was not just an abstract discussion to him.
He had been quiet after her final remark—quiet, but not disapproving. There had been something else in his expression. Something close to—
Relief?
Could it be that he…? Her eyes narrowed as she recalled the subtle signs. A glance, a pause, a stillness. Not the sort of silence born from disdain, but from recognition.
Is he Catholic? she wondered, startled by the thought. It was rare—but not impossible. And if so, it would explain much. His discomfort. His reserve. His studied distance from the loudest voices in the room.
And his interest in her words.
But the idea did not alarm her—only intrigued her. She had never met someone who professed a different faith. Everyone in her circle, in Meryton, in Hertfordshire more broadly, adhered to the Church of England. It was the water they swam in, unexamined and ever-present.
What must it be like, to hold beliefs that required concealment? To live quietly in the face of so much prejudice and idle mockery?
She found herself curious—not necessarily about doctrine, but about him.
His choices. His past. The weight he seemed to carry.
It was not the faith itself that piqued her interest, but the man who held it.
And for the first time, she found herself wondering what else lay beneath his austere surface.
Would it be too impertinent to ask him? Perhaps not outright—but maybe in some roundabout way? She smiled to herself in the dark.
She had always been fond of puzzles. And Mr. Darcy, it seemed, was a rather compelling one.
With that thought, she turned onto her side and drifted into sleep.