Chapter Twenty-Nine #2
Lady Hertford gathered the reins of the moment neatly into her hands. “We must not impede the flow of traffic,” she said lightly. “Elizabeth, Jane—we are expected elsewhere.”
Her gaze lingered on Darcy with deliberate amusement. “Do enjoy your ride.”
The carriage moved on.
Darcy did not look away until it had passed completely from view.
The return journey to de Bourgh House was conducted in rigid silence. Once inside, Lady Catherine scarcely waited for the servants to withdraw before turning on him.
“You will never acknowledge that girl,“ she snapped. “Do you hear me? Never.”
Darcy felt something inside him harden. “She is family.”
“Do not insult me with that word,” Lady Catherine retorted. “She is an upstart who seeks to draw attention away from her more deserving relation.”
“You cannot have it both ways,” Darcy said evenly. “Either Elizabeth de Bourgh is family, or she is not. You do not get to deny her existence and then resent her presence.”
Lady Catherine’s eyes flashed. “I will not have her name spoken in this house.”
“Then I will leave,” Darcy said, standing.
She stared at him, incredulous. “You would choose her over your own aunt—over your cousin, Anne?”
“I choose honesty,” he replied. “And I choose not to pretend blindness when it suits convenience.”
“Get out,” Lady Catherine said, pointing toward the door.
Darcy obliged. As he stepped into the cold afternoon air, Elizabeth’s distant nod replayed in his mind—not cold, not cruel, but guarded. And that, he realized with a sharp pang of regret, might be far worse.
Elizabeth ought to have been pleased by the look of stunned amazement on Mr. Darcy’s face. Instead, it only brought her pain. He had judged her and found her wanting, and she did not know if she could forgive him for it.
The memory would not release her. His surprise had not been admiration—at least not at first—but disbelief, as though her presence in that carriage required explanation, justification, permission.
She had seen that look before, in subtler forms: the lifted brow, the pause before civility, the careful weighing of her worth against standards she had never been invited to meet.
To encounter it again, here, in London—after all she had endured and learned—felt like a reopening of an old wound.
Mr. Darcy had denigrated her intelligence and understanding.
He could not know her experiences in life had been her greatest instructor.
She had learned caution from grief, resolve from instability, and discernment from living always just outside the bounds of comfort.
She had been taught by necessity how to observe without presuming, to listen without surrendering herself, and to adapt without losing her core.
No tutor could have supplied what circumstance had demanded of her, and yet he had dismissed her as though she were merely unpolished rather than formed.
Feeling rather dismal, she sat at her desk to write a letter to dear Aunt Caroline.
The familiar surface, the steady weight of the pen in her hand, offered a small comfort.
Writing had always been her refuge—a place where she could order her thoughts when the world insisted on disorder.
The fire crackled softly nearby, and the room was otherwise quiet, save for the distant movement of servants preparing for the evening.
Her cousin was resting in her chambers. The late nights were new to Jane, and she struggled to adapt to town hours.
Elizabeth was glad of the solitude; she did not yet trust herself to speak freely, not when her emotions sat so close to the surface.
Jane would sense it at once, and Elizabeth was not ready to give voice to her disappointment—not yet.
She paused, pen hovering above the page, and allowed herself one honest admission before the careful phrasing began.
It was not Darcy’s astonishment that troubled her most, but the knowledge that she had once valued his opinion—valued it enough for its loss to sting.
That realization unsettled her far more than his poor judgment ever could.
Drawing a steadying breath, Elizabeth wrote, determined that whatever else the afternoon had cost her, it would not rob her of clarity—or of herself.
My dearest Aunt Caroline,
I write to you this afternoon with a heart far less settled than I ought to possess, considering all that has been accomplished since my arrival in Town.
London dazzles as it always has—brilliant, relentless, and unceasing in its demands—I find myself curiously out of step with it.
The ton watches, weighs, and judges with an ease that is both impressive and wearying, and though I move within it competently, I cannot say I feel at home.
I have encountered Mr. Darcy again, and I fear that meeting has unsettled me more than I wish to admit.
He looked at me with astonishment—open, undisguised—and though I ought to have been smugly satisfied by the proof of his misjudgment, I found no pleasure in it at all.
Instead, I was disappointed. That, I think, is what troubles me most. I did not expect to care for his good opinion, and yet I find that I do.
He once questioned my intelligence, my understanding of the world, and his earlier disdain lingers like an old bruise pressed anew.
Jane’s presence has been my greatest comfort.
I cannot adequately express how grateful I am to have her near.
She steadies me, and I believe Town has already begun to soften the sharpest edges of her sorrow.
She is not yet healed—nor should she be—but she is no longer alone with her disappointment, and that feels like progress.
I have been much engaged, as was inevitable.
There are to be gentlemen callers in abundance—polite, attentive, ambitious—but I confess I feel no particular interest in any I have met as yet.
I remind myself that a handful of conversations and a few dances are hardly sufficient to judge whether a man might become the sort of companion you envision for me.
Still, I cannot pretend enthusiasm where I feel none.
I listen, I observe, I give each his due consideration, but my heart remains unclaimed and unconvinced.
Jane, however, has received the attentions of a most interesting gentleman.
Viscount Bramley has called upon her more than once, and his attentions are marked by a sincerity that is difficult to dismiss.
Jane accepts his notice with pleasure, but also with caution.
It is too soon—she knows it, and he seems to respect it.
I find myself quietly hopeful on her behalf.
He does not press, nor does he perform; he listens.
That alone distinguishes him from many others.
Whether it will amount to more, only time will tell, but there is nothing in his manner that alarms me and much that reassures.
And so, my dear aunt, I find myself at an impasse.
I am doing all that is required of me, and yet I am uncertain whether I am doing it wisely.
Should I guard my heart more carefully against opinions I ought not value?
Or is disappointment merely proof that I am still capable of feeling deeply—and therefore not yet hardened by circumstance?
I would dearly value your counsel, for you have ever seen more clearly than I when my thoughts turn inward and refuse to settle.
With all my affection and gratitude,
Your devoted niece,
Elizabeth
She sent the letter with Jones, who had of late had little to do beyond accompanying the ladies around town. Jones had a sweetheart in the princess’s household—Elizabeth knew he would be pleased to see her.
After concluding her correspondence, she left her chambers to see Charlotte.
The dear girl was terribly lonely. Having both Elizabeth and her cousin in residence had been a great pleasure.
They took tea together when they could and dined in their shared sitting room when the ladies were not out for the evening.
Charlotte answered at the first knock, and Elizabeth spent the rest of the afternoon regaling her young friend about the ridiculousness of London society.
The princess was highly amused by the stories and hung on Elizabeth’s every word.
When it came time to dress for dinner, she grew visibly upset.
Elizabeth promised to arrange a day soon where she and Jane could remain with her at Carlton House for the afternoon.
This mollified the girl. She embraced Elizabeth, promising to finish the work her tutors assigned so nothing impeded their enjoyment.