Chapter 12 #2
Miss Kendrick lowered herself into the empty chair at his side, a workbasket dangling from her wrist more as ornament than occupation.
“Mr. Darcy, I have been meaning to tell you I had the pleasure of hearing your sister play when she visited Lady Matlock last spring. Such a touch she has—every note like water over stone. Is she still devoted to the pianoforte?”
Darcy’s breath caught. For a moment, he was back at Pemberley, hearing silence where music had once filled the air. Georgiana had not touched the keys in months. But he could not say that here, not in a room full of listeners eager for any slip.
“She is,” he said, and forced warmth into the words. “Her practice is the delight of our household.”
Miss Kendrick’s smile widened. “How fortunate she is to have a brother who values her accomplishments. So many young ladies go unheard, no matter how sweet their playing.”
Darcy inclined his head, adding a few words of praise, describing Georgiana’s taste in music, even the Italian airs she had once taken an interest in. Each phrase was shaped with care, polished until nothing of the truth could show through.
And yet, in the space between one word and the next, he felt a shift across the room.
Elizabeth had stilled—no motion save for the faint turn of her head, her gaze lifted just enough for him to know she was listening.
She knew more of the truth of his sister than anyone else. Could she read his lies, too?
The firelight reached her profile and caught there, glinting in her hair, tracing the calm line of her mouth. No one else would have noticed. He noticed everything.
He should have looked away. Instead, his thoughts went toward her unbidden: how she must hear what he left unsaid, how she would understand it without requiring much explanation.
There was comfort in the thought, and danger, too.
She had that rare talent for listening not to what was said, but to what a man meant to hide.
Yesterday, she had lowered her guard for him—just an instant, but enough to show him the courage behind her composure. Would she let him do the same?
He could almost hear what she would say—the quick, honest peeling back of his lies about music, about family, about happiness. The compassion she would surely have—that she alone would speak. Her silence vibrated through him like the aftersound of a note that refused to die.
Miss Kendrick’s voice intruded again, smooth as cream and twice as cloying.
“It must be such a comfort, Mr. Darcy, to know your sister is admired everywhere she goes. I daresay there were even whispers last year—something about a man whose fancy she quite turned. Not a man of fortune, it is said, but rather a… family connection. How very egalitarian and generous of you, sir, to permit it! I thought surely there would be an announcement before summer, but perhaps I was misinformed.”
The words struck him like cold water. A rumour—that rumour—had travelled this far? His heart tripped over itself, his thoughts splintered. Georgiana’s near-ruin was not a tale for strangers’ drawing rooms! Not here, not ever.
His reply came too quickly, his voice too firm. “You were misinformed, Miss Kendrick. My sister’s fancy is not so easily taken. A well-brought-up young lady does not attach herself where there is no propriety to warrant it.”
The silence that followed was almost imperceptible, but he felt it like a blow. He had spoken to defend Georgiana—but the words had stung Elizabeth instead.
And Darcy could do nothing to mend it.
A ripple of talk followed his words, Miss Kendrick’s smile fixed and brittle.“Indeed,” she said sweetly. “Proper guidance is everything to a young lady’s reputation. Without it—well, the world can be unkind.”
The barb landed where she meant it. Darcy saw Elizabeth’s lashes flicker; she bent as though to flick a bit of dust off her skirt, though the motion was too careful by half.
Before he could speak—before he could even form what to say—Miss Hatfield leaned forward. “Miss Bennet, is it not? From Hertfordshire? I cannot think I have met your family. Have you brothers or sisters?”
Elizabeth’s fingers tightened on her saucer. “Four sisters,” she said evenly.
“Ah—four! How merry your household must be. A great deal of chatter, I daresay.”
Elizabeth’s smile did not falter. “We are not silent, certainly. Though I cannot say the noise has made us wiser.”
A few polite laughs rose. Miss Kendrick’s did not.
“And your father’s estate?” asked another lady. “Hertfordshire is said to be agreeable country.”
“Longbourn,” Elizabeth replied. “Near Meryton.”
“Meryton,” Miss Hatfield repeated, tasting the word. “I think I have heard of it. A market town, is it not?”
“It is,” Elizabeth said. “And quite proud of it.”
Her voice was mild, but Darcy caught the fine edge beneath it—the same tempered civility he had once mistaken for playfulness. She was defending herself without weapons, trapped in a conversation that drew blood by degrees.
He could have silenced them with a word. He could have changed the subject, called over their host, left the room—anything. But she would not thank him for it; he could already hear her voice in his mind: Leave it, Mr. Darcy. Do not make me more conspicuous than I already am.
So, he stayed silent, and despised himself for it.
Miss Kendrick, not content, added lightly, “Five unmarried sisters—what a lively card for the neighbourhood bachelors! I imagine you found the company quite diverting.”
Elizabeth set her cup down. “It was lively indeed. A regiment was quartered nearby for several months, and our neighbourhood could discuss little else.”
The answer was flawless, yet Darcy felt the ground shift beneath it. The regiment. Lydia. Her composure did not waver, but the pulse at her throat beat hard enough to see.
Miss Hinton, one of the day’s new arrivals, leaned in. “Oh, soldiers! I should not object to such excitement. A uniform lends charm to any gentleman. I daresay many a heart was broken.”
Her sister giggled; the sound was bright, thoughtless, cruel.
Darcy’s jaw tightened. They had no idea what ghosts they summoned. Elizabeth’s reply came light and quick, her wit cutting through the air like a blade of glass.
“Yes,” she said. “Charm enough to dazzle anyone who prefers buttons to character. I have long since learned the distinction.”
That earned real laughter. For a moment, she looked herself again—bright, composed, untouchable. But when the amusement subsided, she withdrew to her quiet corner, her colour faded, her eyes turned down.
Darcy’s hands curled against his knee. That she should be made to answer for herself like a curiosity on display was intolerable. And that he should be the one who had armed her enemies, even by accident, was worse.
“Miss Bennet!” Colonel Fitzwilliam’s voice carried clear across the room, drawing more eyes than Elizabeth could have wished. He was already half-risen from his chair, cards in hand, grinning as though he had captured a prize. “You shall make up the table, and no excuses will be heard.”
Elizabeth blinked, caught between dismay and reluctant amusement. She had been content to remain in her corner, unremarked for at least ten minutes. Now every face turned her way once more.
“You forget that I am no gamester, Colonel,” she said. “You will repent of forcing me.”
“Nonsense. You once held your ground against my aunt herself—you cannot fear a few painted cards. Besides, I require a partner in this hand, and I prefer a charming one.” With that, he seized a chair from the corner and placed it beside him, bowing her into it with mock ceremony.
The company applauded his triumph as though he had won a general’s commission.
Elizabeth took the seat, her smile tugging despite her resolve. “Very well, but if you lose the game, I shall declare I warned you.”
“Miss Bennet, if I lose, it shall be because I was distracted by your wit.” The colonel dealt the cards with a flourish, sending one spinning nearly into Lady Wilcox’s lap.
“Then you are doomed already,” Elizabeth said, gathering her hand. The colonel’s expectant look warned her he was not done.
The company at the table were mostly new arrivals: Mrs. Fairleigh, a plump and cheerful widow with a fondness for laughter; Miss Talbot, who blinked often and lost her cards almost as frequently; and a young gentleman introduced as Mr. Denton, whose chief talent appeared to be admiring his own waistcoat.
“Well then,” he said, shuffling the cards with unnecessary flourish.
“You are to lead, Miss Bennet, but first—you must answer a question of honour. Suppose you command this table as if it were a regiment, and the enemy”—he gestured toward the snow beating against the window—“has us surrounded. What is your strategy?”
“Fold my hand and surrender gracefully,” Elizabeth said, arranging her cards.
“Never! Cowardice is not in your nature.”
“Then I should retreat,” she replied, “and live to play another day.”
Laughter rippled round the table. Mrs. Fairleigh declared it sound military reasoning; Miss Talbot dropped her fan in delight. The colonel only grinned, undeterred.
“Retreat won’t do, Miss Bennet. Suppose the enemy has blocked every escape?”
“Then I would flatter him until he forgot his purpose.”
“Ah! A dangerous weapon—charm.”
“Hardly,” Elizabeth said. “Most men prefer surrender to contradiction.”
That brought another round of laughter. The colonel beamed as if he had achieved something noble. She understood what he was about: forcing the company to see her as lively, unbowed, the witty Miss Bennet he remembered from Kent rather than the quiet shadow she had become.
It was meant kindly. And yet the attention prickled.
Mrs. Fairleigh smiled over her cards. “Miss Bennet, you would make a formidable partner at any game.”
“I hope never to be one,” Elizabeth said, and played her card with a precision that made them laugh again.