Chapter 3
ELIZABETH
The sapphire brooch sat at Elizabeth's collar like a cold finger.
She had not chosen it. Darcy had sent it that afternoon with a note: Wear this tonight.
It belonged to my mother. The presumption of it, the use of sentiment as command, made her want to hurl it at the wall.
Instead she pinned it at her collar, because the blue stone commanded attention, drawing the eye to itself and away from the faint shadow beneath the rice-paste on her cheek.
Charlotte would be at dinner tonight. The thought sat in Elizabeth's stomach like a stone.
She had not spoken privately with Charlotte since Rosings.
They had parted on the gravel drive with a whispered exchange, We are bound now, Lizzy.
By blood and silence, and the look in Charlotte's eyes had been the worst thing Elizabeth had carried away from Kent, worse than the bruises, worse than Darcy's bargain.
Charlotte had looked emptied. Not grief-stricken, not frightened, not angry, emptied, as though someone had reached inside her and removed the vital spring, leaving the shell intact and functioning but hollow.
"Lizzy?" Jane appeared at the connecting door in a blue gown that brought out her eyes. "Are you ready? The carriage awaits."
"Yes. Coming."
The dinner was at Lucas Lodge, Sir William and Lady Lucas hosting, Charlotte the silent centrepiece, the neighbourhood assembled to gawk at a fresh widow and a fresh engagement in the same evening.
The social cruelty of it would have amused Elizabeth under other circumstances.
Now it merely added another layer to the pretence.
In the carriage, Mrs. Bennet vibrated with anticipation.
Mr. Bennet sat opposite, his shrewd face half-shadowed, his eyes finding Elizabeth at intervals with the muted worry of a father who suspected his daughter's happiness was not quite what it appeared.
Whether he attributed this to the strangeness of a sudden attachment, the shadow of a death in the parish, or mere wedding nerves, Elizabeth could not tell.
"You mustn't fall behind, Papa," Elizabeth said. "The excitement of the evening will require your sharpest wit."
"My wit has been the sharpest thing about me for thirty years, Lizzy. It's the only blade I possess that your mother hasn't managed to blunt."
Mrs. Bennet ignored this, as she ignored all of her husband's remarks that did not pertain to the financial or matrimonial advancement of her daughters. "Oh, what a night this will be! And Charlotte will be there, poor dear. You must be very kind to her, Lizzy."
"I intend to be."
Lucas Lodge appeared through the carriage window, candlelight spilling from every window. Music, someone was already at the pianoforte. Elizabeth drew a breath and assembled her face.
Darcy was already there.
She felt him before she saw him, a change in the parlour's air that her body registered before her eyes found its source. He stood near the fireplace in evening clothes that made him look like a problem she could not solve. His direct, focused gaze made her grip Jane's arm.
"Miss Elizabeth." He materialised at her side with the disturbing speed of a man who had been tracking her approach from across the room. His arm appeared. She took it. His hand covered hers on his sleeve, warm through the fabric of her glove. "You are exquisite this evening."
"Mr. Darcy. You are punctual as always."
His mouth twitched, not quite a smile, but the nearest thing his face permitted in company.
"I find tardiness inefficient when something of value awaits."
"Is that what I am to you? Something of value?"
"You know precisely what you are to me, Elizabeth."
Her Christian name. In public. Whispered, but even so, the intimacy of it bordered on impropriety. She glanced around instinctively, checking for witnesses. No one appeared to have heard. She looked back at him and found amusement straining against his severe mouth. Her stomach turned over.
"Not yet, sir. Our engagement has not been formally announced."
"A detail that shall be rectified this evening. Your father will give the news after dinner. Sir William has agreed to offer the toast."
Her step faltered. "So soon?"
"The sooner our situation is formalised, the sooner speculation ceases."
He guided her through the crowd. The neighbourhood had heard rumours and now watched his palm hover at Elizabeth's waist, her imperfect smile, and how they moved like dancers following steps only they had rehearsed.
Charlotte was in the corner. Black bombazine, pale face, hands frozen in her lap with that terrible rigidity.
Colonel Fitzwilliam sat beside her, sandy-haired, affable, his easy smile masking something that Elizabeth recognised because she saw its cousin in Darcy's face every day: the calm surface of a man who owned something and was content to let the world see him being pleasant about it.
Charlotte's fingers twisted together when the Colonel leaned close to speak.
A small movement, barely visible. Elizabeth caught it and felt it in her own body, the sympathetic contraction of a woman who understood exactly what that twisting meant.
Her free hand clenched at her side in answer, and the ache behind her ribs was so sudden and so specific that she had to look away before it showed in her face.
"Mrs. Collins," Darcy greeted Charlotte with perfect formality. "You are looking well."
Elizabeth's fingers tightened on Darcy's sleeve. "Charlotte has always possessed a strength that lesser observers mistake for composure," she said, and the correction struck precisely where she aimed it, at Darcy's face, where a muscle twitched once before settling.
"Mr. Darcy." Charlotte's voice was level, her gaze steady.
She had always been better at this than Elizabeth, the mask, the management, the careful distribution of truth and concealment.
It was what had made her marry Collins in the first place, that capacity to assess an intolerable situation and find within it a liveable arrangement.
"Colonel Fitzwilliam has been most attentive in ensuring my comfort. "
"As is proper," the Colonel said, rising to bow over Elizabeth's hand. His grip was warm and firm and lasted a fraction too long. "Mrs. Collins requires support during this difficult time. As do you, Miss Elizabeth, though of a different nature."
The parallel. He was drawing it deliberately, Elizabeth and Charlotte, Darcy and Fitzwilliam, two women bound to two cousins by the same dark thread. Elizabeth withdrew her hand.
"I find myself quite adequately supported, I thank you."
Dinner was announced. Darcy escorted Elizabeth. Fitzwilliam escorted Charlotte. The symmetry was exact and deliberate and made Elizabeth's skin crawl with the precision of it.
At the table, Elizabeth found herself with Darcy to her right and Sir William to her left, with Jane directly across.
Her sister's worried gaze followed her throughout the meal, noting every time Darcy leaned close to murmur something, every time his hand brushed hers as he passed the salt.
The concern in Jane's face was a mirror Elizabeth could not avoid.
She saw herself reflected in it and disliked the image.
"Your betrothed seems most devoted," Sir William observed between courses.
"I cultivate discretion in all matters of importance," Darcy replied before Elizabeth could speak. "My admiration for Miss Elizabeth developed in silence, until circumstances in Kent allowed for its expression."
Circumstances in Kent. The phrase hung between them. Sir William heard a love story. Elizabeth heard a confession.
Charlotte spoke little. She ate less. When Darcy observed that Charlotte bore her bereavement with admirable dignity, Elizabeth felt her nails press crescents into her palms beneath the table.
She watched Charlotte and saw the cruelty reach her friend without producing a flinch, absorbing it the way a boxer absorbs a body blow, turning slightly to distribute the force, staying upright through technique rather than strength.
Darcy's hand settled on Elizabeth's knee beneath the tablecloth, an intimacy that would have horrified any chaperone, though the linen hung low, the chairs were close, and the nearest servant stood at the sideboard with his back turned.
A weighted pressure, warm through the silk of her gown.
His thumb traced a slow circle against the fabric.
To anyone watching, the gesture, if discovered, would appear affectionate.
Elizabeth knew what it was. A reminder. A claim.
She left it there. The cost of removing it, in public, at dinner, was too high.
The warmth of his hand through the silk was a fact her body registered independently of her will.
She sat rigid and felt the slow circle of his thumb and thought: this is what he does.
He touches. The touch says ownership. I answer while my mind recoils.
When the ladies withdrew after dinner, leaving the gentlemen over their port, Elizabeth found Jane immediately.
"You are pale as chalk," Jane whispered, drawing her to the window seat. "Are you unwell?"
"A slight headache."
"It is more than that. You start whenever Mr. Darcy approaches. Your smile never reaches your eyes. When you think yourself unobserved, you look — forgive me — haunted."
"What fanciful notions you entertain, Jane."
"Don't dissemble with me." Jane's voice was quiet but firm, the gentlest steel Elizabeth had ever encountered. "Whatever has transpired, whatever secret binds you to a man you once despised, you need not bear it alone."
Elizabeth wavered. Deception cramped her breath. Jane's face was close, worried, and full of love. How simple it would be.
She couldn't. The truth would destroy Jane's peace. Peace was Jane's most precious possession, and Elizabeth would not take it.
"There's no secret. Merely the natural reserve of new attachment."