Chapter Eight
The dining room at Rosings presented its usual display of oppressive grandeur, all gleaming silver and crystal that caught the candlelight.
Darcy was seated in his customary position, close enough to his aunt to be consulted on matters she deemed important, far enough to avoid the worst of her pronouncements.
Miss Bennet sat across from him and several places down, positioned where he could observe her without obvious staring, though he found his gaze drawn to her inevitably throughout the meal’s first course.
The soup had been cleared away, and servants moved with silent efficiency to present the fish course.
Darcy watched Elizabeth lift her fork with odd carefulness, as though relearning the gesture.
She ate with small, deliberate bites, and he noticed she had consumed more than he had ever seen her manage at these dinners.
Previously she had eaten with a healthy but moderate appetite, but tonight she seemed enthusiastic about the meal, finishing everything on her plate at each course.
“The pike is excellent, is it not?” Darcy ventured, testing the waters. “Lady Catherine’s cook has outdone himself.”
Elizabeth looked up at him and smiled, the expression warm and encouraging. “Oh yes, it is wonderful. Truly delicious.” She paused, seeming to search for more to say, then added, “I have never tasted better fish.”
The response was pleasant enough, but it fell flat in a way Darcy could not quite articulate.
Elizabeth typically would have made some observation about the preparation, or teased him about discussing food with undue gravity, or found some way to turn the mundane topic into something more interesting. This bland agreement felt wrong.
“I am glad you are enjoying it,” Darcy said carefully. He tried again, offering an opening for the sort of exchange they had occasionally managed. “Though I confess I find Lady Catherine’s insistence on French sauces for English fish somewhat excessive. The pike might be better served simply.”
He had thought the mild criticism might provoke Elizabeth into agreeing or disagreeing with spirit, might draw out some of her characteristic independence. Instead, she simply nodded.
“Perhaps you are right. Though it is very good as it is.” She looked at him again with that same warm smile, her gaze lingering on his face in a way that made Darcy distinctly uncomfortable.
Lady Catherine immediately dismissed Darcy’s suggestion, saying loudly that there was little point in employing a French chef if one was going to ask him to cook common household food. Elizabeth merely nodded along.
Where was her wit? Her sharp observations?
Her refusal to simply agree with him for the sake of pleasantness?
Elizabeth Bennet would have had an opinion about fish sauces, would have either defended the French preparation with some clever argument or punctured Lady Catherine’s smugness with a witty riposte.
This docile acceptance bore no resemblance to the woman he knew.
As the meal progressed, Darcy became increasingly aware that Elizabeth had angled herself toward him, had positioned her attention almost exclusively in his direction.
She looked at him frequently, smiled at him whenever their eyes met, seemed to be inviting further conversation through the openness of her expression.
The warmth in her gaze was unmistakable, and it sent cold dread through Darcy’s chest rather than pleasure.
This was wrong. This was all wrong. Elizabeth should be furious with him.
Should be looking at him with barely suppressed anger, if she looked at him at all.
Fitzwilliam had told her that Darcy had separated her beloved sister from Bingley, had interfered in Jane’s happiness, had acted with presumptuous arrogance.
Yet here Elizabeth sat, smiling at him as though he had done nothing more offensive than comment on the weather.
“Mr. Darcy,” she said, leaning slightly forward as though to create intimacy across the table. “I have been meaning to tell you how much I enjoyed our walk this morning. Your company is always so agreeable.”
Always. As though they had walked together frequently, as though she had consistently found his presence pleasant. Darcy stared at her, searching her face for any sign of irony or mockery, but found only that same warm pleasantness that seemed to have replaced her entire personality.
“I am glad you found it agreeable,” he managed, his voice sounding strained even to his own ears.
Elizabeth’s smile widened, taking his stilted response as encouragement. She opened her mouth to continue, but Colonel Fitzwilliam chose that moment to interject from his position further down the table.
“Miss Bennet,” Fitzwilliam said, “I had hoped to ask your opinion on something. You mentioned yesterday that you enjoyed walking in all weather. I wondered whether you preferred morning rambles or afternoon exercise, as I have found the question divides opinion quite definitively.”
It was exactly the sort of light, easy question Fitzwilliam excelled at, the kind of conversational opening that invited playful debate. Previously, Elizabeth would have seized upon it, would have engaged with his cousin with animated discussion.
Instead, she glanced briefly at Fitzwilliam, her expression cooling noticeably, and said, “I have no strong preference, Colonel.” Then she turned immediately back to Darcy, effectively dismissing his cousin from her attention.
The cut was so obvious, so deliberate, that Darcy saw Fitzwilliam’s expression shift from friendly interest to confusion to something that might have been hurt. His cousin’s smile faltered, and he reached for his wine glass with enough force that the stem clinked against his plate.
Darcy found himself watching Fitzwilliam more closely, noting details he had perhaps overlooked before.
His cousin’s attempts to engage Elizabeth in conversation had been frequent during her stay at Rosings.
His manner toward her had been warm, teasing, comfortable in a way Fitzwilliam typically reserved for people he genuinely liked.
And now, faced with her cold dismissal, the Colonel looked rather like a man who had been slapped without warning.
Had Fitzwilliam developed feelings for Elizabeth?
The possibility had never occurred to Darcy before, or if it had, he had dismissed it as unlikely.
His cousin was a second son, dependent on his military career and whatever portion his father might settle on him.
He could not afford to marry for inclination alone.
Elizabeth’s circumstances made her an impractical choice for Fitzwilliam, however much he might enjoy her company.
But practical considerations did not prevent feelings from forming.
Darcy knew that truth intimately, having spent months trying to master his own unsuitable attachment through sheer force of will.
Yet Elizabeth’s behaviour was incomprehensible regardless of Fitzwilliam’s feelings.
Elizabeth had always responded to Fitzwilliam with warmth, had clearly enjoyed his company.
Why would she suddenly treat him with such marked indifference while simultaneously showing increased warmth toward Darcy himself?
“The weather has been remarkably fine,” Elizabeth said, directing the observation toward Darcy with focused attention that suggested she intended to hold his notice regardless of other claims on it. “Do you think it will hold through the week? I should like to continue my regular walks.”
It was banal conversation, the sort of empty pleasantry that might fill silence but served no purpose beyond that.
Elizabeth typically scorned such exchanges, preferring substance over social nicety.
Darcy had once heard her say that she found discussions of weather to be the refuge of people with nothing interesting to say.
“I expect it will hold,” Darcy replied, aware that his responses had become increasingly mechanical. “The spring has been mild thus far.”
Elizabeth smiled at him again, that same warm, encouraging smile that made his stomach twist with discomfort. She looked pleased, as though he had said something particularly clever rather than offering the most pedestrian observation imaginable.
Across the table and down several places, Fitzwilliam had turned his attention to Anne, engaging her in some question about the gardens.
Anne responded in her usual soft voice, barely audible over the general conversation, but Fitzwilliam gave her his courteous attention.
Darcy noted the contrast. His cousin, rebuffed by Elizabeth, had turned to someone else with determined politeness.
While Elizabeth seemed to have eyes only for Darcy, ignoring everyone else at the table.
The wrongness of it crashed over Darcy with renewed force, each piece of evidence accumulating.
Elizabeth’s lack of wit. Her warmth toward him when she should be angry.
Her coldness toward Fitzwilliam when she had previously enjoyed his company.
Her complete transformation from the sharp, independent woman he had come to admire into this pleasant, docile stranger who smiled too much and said nothing of substance.
This was not Elizabeth Bennet. Could not be Elizabeth Bennet. Yet she sat before him wearing Elizabeth’s face, using Elizabeth’s voice, inhabiting Elizabeth’s body. How could she be anyone else?
Lady Catherine’s voice cut through the general dinner conversation with its usual authority, drawing attention to herself as she posed some question about the parish to Mr. Collins.
Darcy watched his aunt’s profile as she spoke, noting the rigid set of her jaw, the way her fingers gripped her wine glass with unnecessary force.
Something had displeased her, though whether it was related to Collins’s obsequious response or to something else, Darcy could not immediately determine.