Chapter 10
The bell on the door of the lending library tinkled merrily as Elizabeth pulled it open and stepped inside, Jane and Mrs Gardiner following close behind her.
The proprietor, cheerful, white-haired Mr Williams, was an old friend of the Gardiners, and had already become well acquainted with their nieces over the duration of their stay.
He greeted them with a broad smile and a friendly word.
Elizabeth mastered herself well enough to return the greeting with tolerable politeness, though her voice sounded odd in her own ears.
The lending library itself was warm and orderly, its shelves neatly arranged and its atmosphere softened by the mutual understanding that quiet was to be preserved.
A few patrons moved among the rows with unhurried purpose, consulting titles and exchanging subdued remarks with Mr Williams. It was the sort of place that reduced the world to manageable proportions, and Elizabeth felt some of her tension ease with the comfort of being surrounded by books.
She moved slowly along the shelves, scanning titles without truly seeing them, her fingers trailing absently along familiar bindings.
As they had done all morning, her thoughts returned to the conversation at the warehouse.
She had believed George Wickham. That fact lay before her now with an uncomfortable clarity she could not evade.
She had accepted his account readily, almost eagerly, pleased to find her early dislike of Mr Darcy so neatly confirmed.
Wickham’s charm had made belief easy, his grievances plausible, his resentment cloaked convincingly in injured sincerity.
Now, with Mr Darcy’s account fixed in her mind, she saw the danger with painful clarity.
Wickham had not simply misrepresented the past. He had done so without regard for consequences, careless of the harm his narrative might inflict upon others.
Georgiana Darcy’s reputation had been placed at risk by his greed, and Elizabeth felt a chill at the thought of how narrowly disaster had been avoided.
The danger did not end there.
Her thoughts turned inevitably to her own family. To Lydia, impulsive and unguarded. To Kitty, eager to follow where she was led. Wickham had been received everywhere with ease. He would be again. Elizabeth felt suddenly, keenly, that it was no longer enough to revise her private opinion of him.
She would have to warn her father.
The resolution formed itself at once, sharp and unavoidable.
She would write as soon as she returned home, explaining only what she must, urging caution without revealing confidences she had promised to keep.
Her father’s judgement could be relied upon, but judgement required information, and she would not forgive herself if her silence allowed harm to follow.
That Darcy had trusted her with such knowledge weighed upon her more heavily now. He had spoken not to vindicate himself, but to prevent further injury. He had asked nothing in return but discretion, and in doing so, had placed his sister’s safety — and his own vulnerability — in her hands.
Elizabeth closed her eyes briefly, overcome by a shame she did not attempt to excuse.
She had accused him of pride. Of cruelty.
Of injustice. Yet when faced with the opportunity to defend himself publicly, he had chosen restraint instead.
When he might have exposed Wickham fully, he had kept silent to protect Georgiana.
And when he had spoken at last, it had been not to command belief, but to submit himself to it.
Mr Darcy’s account had been measured, reluctant, and precise.
He had not sought her sympathy, nor attempted to soften the weight of his disclosures.
He had spoken with restraint, with an insistence upon secrecy, and with a care for his sister’s reputation that stood in sharp opposition to Wickham’s careless confidences.
Elizabeth could not reconcile the two accounts, and the longer she examined them, the clearer it became which one could not withstand scrutiny.
The shame of it stung her more sharply than she liked to admit. It was not merely that she had been mistaken, but that she had been so willing to be so.
She moved on, aware that Wickham was no longer the true source of her unease.
Mr Darcy intruded upon her mind with an insistence she could neither welcome nor entirely resist.
She had replayed their exchange at the warehouse more times than she wished to count: his composure, his evident respect for her uncle, his willingness to place himself before her judgement without defence or expectation.
He had listened where she expected dismissal, acknowledged fault where she anticipated justification, and altered his conduct without drawing attention to the effort involved.
It would have been easier had he behaved otherwise.
Elizabeth had always trusted her ability to discern character, and to discover that her judgement had faltered not in small particulars but in fundamental assessment disturbed her deeply. Mr Darcy had not changed; he had simply revealed aspects of himself she had not troubled to examine.
She selected a book at random and opened it, reading a page without comprehension before closing it again.
The rumours had not diminished. She had felt them hovering once more at the recital, sensed them in glances that lingered too long and conversations that faltered upon her approach. London, it seemed, had no intention of relinquishing its amusement.
Mr Darcy’s concern for her reputation pressed upon her thoughts again.
Elizabeth told herself firmly that it arose from honour alone, from a desire to correct an injury he believed himself responsible for.
Affection did not require such careful distance.
It was the most sensible explanation, and the safest. It required no dangerous assumptions and allowed her to maintain the distance she believed prudent.
And yet, she could not entirely silence a quieter possibility.
Could she dare to hope that his concern might not be wholly impersonal?
She dismissed the thought at once. If Mr Darcy had felt anything deeper than a distant respect, he would not have acted as he had.
He would not have gone to such lengths to ensure their separation, nor proposed a plan designed to place her firmly in the care of another man. His conduct spoke clearly enough.
Elizabeth felt an unexpected pang at the conclusion, and rebuked herself for it.
“Why, Miss Elizabeth! What a surprise to meet you here!”
Shaken abruptly out of her gloomy musings, Elizabeth turned to return the greeting. Of all people, Miss Darcy stood before her, with Mr Darcy at her shoulder.
“Miss Darcy, such a pleasure,” Elizabeth returned warmly, trying to suppress a sense of both humour and dismay.
After their ‘coincidental’ meetings, perhaps she ought to have expected that they might really meet by chance, particularly at what any devoted reader would agree to be the finest lending library in London.
It seemed only too much a shame that it should happen now, and with Georgiana Darcy a party to the meeting.
It was obvious in every word Georgiana said, her manner at once warm and shy, that she knew nothing of their plans.
Elizabeth struggled to be equally natural in her responses, though every word felt half a lie.
Surely Georgiana would not have spoken to her so openly had she known of the plan Elizabeth intended to execute with Mr Darcy — still less if she had known that Elizabeth’s feelings for her brother had grown increasingly complicated.
Elizabeth felt that she would have given a great deal to speak to that gentleman in confidence, for while she could not bring herself to speak to Georgiana with anything less than amiability, she was uncomfortably aware that every warm word of their exchange was acting in opposition to their plans.
Mr Darcy must have felt the same, for at the first opportunity of a break in the conversation, he drew his sister’s attention another way. “Look there, Georgiana,” Mr Darcy said. “Is not Mrs Gardiner holding the very novel you finished last week?”
In fact, it was so, and after her first exclamations of surprise, Georgiana went to greet her and share her recommendation of the work.
Elizabeth was not surprised when Mr Darcy did not go after her, but looked at her with a wry half-smile that mirrored all her own frustration and amusement at the disruption to their plans.
“Miss Darcy does not know, then,” Elizabeth said in an undertone too low to carry past themselves.
He shook his head. “No, I had wished to spare her. And I confess it had not occurred to me that Georgiana might, in all innocence, undermine our plans.”
“No, nor I,” Elizabeth told him with a smile. He smiled in return, with such warmth that her heart skipped a beat.
More than anything at that instant, Elizabeth wished to say something to him of what was in her heart.
It felt for a moment almost as though it might be possible, as though it might do something other than make her a fool, and she had almost opened her mouth to do it, when a whisper from across the room drew away her attention.
Her stomach fell as Elizabeth saw they were even then being watched by several of the other library patrons.
That was it, then. They had made their agreement, and the show must go on, whatever she felt; anything she said must be said with the intent to convince the watchers that she did not care two straws about Mr Darcy.
Mr Darcy had seen the onlookers too. “Well, a good day to you then, Miss Elizabeth,” he said stiffly.
Elizabeth inclined her head, wishing she could be more confident that her feelings did not show on her face. “A good day to you as well, Mr Darcy. Adieu.”
Mr Darcy collected his sister, brought his books to Mr Williams, and left the lending library with such alacrity that the door was closing behind them as Jane was emerging from the back of the room, where books of stillroom recipes were kept.
She turned curiously to Elizabeth. “Was that not Mr Darcy and his sister?”
“Indeed it was,” Elizabeth said, looking after them a little absently.
“It is a shame they could not stay longer,” Jane remarked. “I should have liked to meet Miss Darcy, after everything you have said about the sweetness of her temper.”
“You would like her, Jane,” Elizabeth said. “I am certain of it, for she is as sweet as you are.” Then, remembering herself, she said hurriedly, “But I would not have introduced you in any case. We must try to loosen the bonds between us, not strengthen them.”
“I see,” Jane said mildly, but the look she gave Elizabeth was anything but mild. Elizabeth was forced to look away rather than meet it. There was too much in that look — mild reproach, suspicion, and entirely too much understanding.
Mrs Gardiner joined them then, carrying with her a novel for Elizabeth to read.
She accepted it without looking into more than the title and the author’s name, and seeing that she had not already read it.
Elizabeth was almost sure she had said everything that was proper to Mr Williams in requesting it, though she could not seem to recall any of the words she had used, or what he had said in return.
Nor could she seem to attend to the conversation on the way home. Her thoughts were too all-consuming.
Could there be any conclusion more lowering than to know yourself in love with a man, and to think him not only indifferent, but mortified by the idea that he might be anything else?
With a deep, aching pain in the pit of her stomach, Elizabeth told herself that she must accept that Mr Darcy did not care for her.
She must not hope that it could be otherwise, for there could be no such hope — not when he had gone to such lengths to end the rumours.
Yes, he had shown great care for her reputation and for her comfort, but what was that?
Only what was due to his character. He did not really care about her, not in any sense beyond what he might have felt for any woman of decent family and character.
She was a respectable gentlewoman of his acquaintance, and nothing more.
As the carriage rattled towards Gracechurch Street, Elizabeth’s spirits sank further. A deep ache settled into her heart as she told herself not to play the fool. This was a time for sensible restraint, not wild, irrational hope.
How could she hope that he might love her?
She knew now that she loved Mr Darcy, and the knowledge brought with it no comfort at all.
It offered no hope, only clarity. Whatever incautious words he might once have spoken, his present actions admitted no ambiguity.
He was determined to end the rumours, even at the cost of separation, and his concern for her reputation, however sincere, was rooted in honour rather than affection.
Elizabeth pressed her forehead briefly against the cool glass of the carriage window.
She had agreed to a plan meant to restore peace and order. Instead, she found herself more unsettled than before, aware that whatever lay ahead would demand more from her than careful appearances.
And that knowledge, quiet and insistent, followed her home.