Chapter Thirty-Two #2
“That is what I surmise. You see, Mr. Darcy, my life is not my own. Though I wish for freedom, I live in a gilded cage. I must behave precisely as the prince wishes or risk the consequences.” Elizabeth turned to him and smiled wryly.
“Jane’s invitation was a gracious favor on the prince’s behalf.
It is another means of controlling me—I knew that when I asked.
But I am certain he is pleased with how his condescension has turned out.
Jane is all but engaged to Viscount Bramley.
I have heard whispers that the prince desires Lord Matlock’s support for some political reason. ”
Darcy frowned. “My uncle likely already knows. He would not be so accepting of Bramley’s suit if there were no benefit for him.”
Elizabeth narrowed her eyes. “Do you mean to intimate that your family would not accept Jane as she is?”
“I cannot say. Lady Matlock has waited so long for grandchildren, I suspect she would not object if Bramley married a milkmaid.”
Elizabeth laughed, as he intended. “You exaggerate, Mr. Darcy, but I thank you for making me feel better.”
“Miss de Bourgh, I must ask you something.”
She turned again, regarding him steadily. “Yes, Mr. Darcy?”
“Should I tell Bingley about your sister’s presence in town? Should I inform him of my error?”
“That is for you to decide, sir. I shall tell Jane what you have told me. I believe she will not wish to know the Bingleys again. She is happy with her viscount.”
Darcy nodded and fell silent, contemplating what ought to be done.
They had reached the bend in the path where Lady Hertford waited, observing them with open curiosity and unmistakable approval.
Elizabeth slowed. “Whatever comes next,” she said, almost to herself, “I hope it will be chosen, not arranged.”
Darcy bowed slightly, the gesture intimate in its restraint. “Then allow me to choose constancy,” he said. “If nothing else.”
She regarded him for a long moment, then inclined her head. Not a promise—but not a dismissal either.
It will be enough, he told himself. For now.
Elizabeth returned to Lady Hertford’s side with her expression composed and her thoughts anything but.
The park seemed suddenly brighter, the air softer, as though the world had shifted by some small but consequential degree.
She took her place beside the bench, smoothing her gloves and schooling her features into the calm attentiveness that was now second nature to her.
Lady Hertford’s gaze flicked from Elizabeth to Darcy’s retreating figure and back again, sharp and unmistakably amused.
“Well,” she said lightly, “you did not appear to quarrel.”
Elizabeth inclined her head. “Mr. Darcy is very civil.”
“Civil men do not look as though the ground has shifted beneath their feet,” Lady Hertford replied dryly. “They look bored.”
Elizabeth allowed herself a faint smile, careful to give nothing away. “You are very observant, madam.”
“I must be,” Lady Hertford said. “It is my profession.” She studied Elizabeth a moment longer, then waved her fan dismissively. “Very well. You may keep your confidences—for now.”
Jane and Bramley approached then, their steps unhurried, their conversation evidently concluded only moments before.
Jane’s cheeks were lightly flushed from the walk, her expression softened by quiet happiness.
Bramley bowed and excused himself to attend to Lady Matlock, leaving the cousins together.
Lady Hertford turned her attention immediately to Jane. “And how did you find your promenade, Miss Bennet?”
Jane’s smile deepened, though she kept her eyes lowered with modest restraint. “Very pleasant, madam. The viscount is…very kind.”
“Kindness is undervalued,” Lady Hertford said approvingly. “Especially when paired with steadiness.”
Elizabeth watched her cousin closely, noting the absence of hesitation, the lack of the careful distance Jane had once maintained with Mr. Bingley. There was caution still, yes—but it was the caution of someone protecting a tender thing, not retreating from it. Jane liked Bramley. Very much.
Elizabeth felt a swell of complicated gratitude. Jane’s happiness was not merely a comfort—it was a vindication. Proof that something good could grow even within the confines of manipulation and expectation.
They resumed their walk at a gentler pace, Lady Hertford content to let conversation flow where it would.
Elizabeth answered politely when addressed, offered observations when required, and kept her more private reflections carefully guarded.
She had learned—painfully—that affection and approval were not always aligned, and that trust, once given, must be given deliberately.
And yet she could not deny the warmth that lingered from her conversation with Darcy. The ease of it. The relief. It had been…unexpectedly good to speak without pretense, to be heard without explanation or defense. To tell the truth of herself—and not be diminished by it.
I trusted him, she realized, startled by the clarity of the thought. And he did not mishandle it. That, perhaps, mattered more than all his apologies.
Elizabeth glanced ahead, where Darcy walked at a respectful distance, his posture thoughtful, his attention divided between the path and his own inward musings. He did not look triumphant or entitled—only intent, as though something long obscured had finally come into focus.
I like him, she admitted to herself, the confession quiet but undeniable. Not the idea of him, nor the rank, nor the potential. Him. The man who listened, who regretted, who chose constancy when offered uncertainty.
She liked Lady Hertford, too—an inconvenient truth she examined with care.
The lady was sharp, pragmatic, and far more humane than Elizabeth had expected.
She approved of Darcy, Elizabeth sensed, not as a tool or a strategy, but as a man worth watching.
And yet Elizabeth remained vigilant. Affection did not absolve allegiance.
Lady Hertford belonged first to the Prince, and Elizabeth never forgot it.
Still, liking someone did not require surrender.
As the park path curved back toward the carriage, Elizabeth felt a cautious optimism settle within her. Nothing had been promised. Nothing had been secured. But something had begun—something chosen, not imposed. That was sufficient for the moment.