Chapter ELEVEN #2
“It’s my house, Caroline. I don’t have to tell you anything.” Then, with a pointed ease, he added, “Besides, you didn’t know Darcy would be here either, and I don’t hear you complaining about his presence.”
That seemed to swallow the argument, but it also planted something uncomfortable in Elizabeth’s mind.
A setup.
Jane and Bingley had ensured they would both be here.
Or was it only Bingley?
Elizabeth shot Jane a look, quick and questioning. Jane’s eyes widened slightly, her expression an immediate denial of any scheme.
Darcy, for his part, said nothing at all. He remained near the window, quiet and withdrawn, as though distance could protect him from the tension settling in the room.
Dinner was announced soon after, and the dining room was another quiet display of wealth: candles, crystal, and linen folded with precision. Elizabeth found herself seated opposite Darcy, close enough to notice the tension in his jaw whenever conversation stalled.
He was awkward in a way she had not expected, as though he, too, were caught off balance.
Conversation moved around them, polite and glittering. Jane spoke easily with Bingley, her gentleness smoothing the table, but Mrs. Hurst seemed determined to find the seams.
“So, Jane,” she said, tilting her head, “this teaching position of yours… is it your only occupation?”
Jane blinked, still smiling. “Yes. I teach primary school.”
“How… wholesome,” Mrs. Hurst murmured, as though the word meant small. “But that doesn’t quite answer my question.”
“Pardon?” Jane said, still polite.
“I asked if it is your only job,” Mrs. Hurst continued, her tone sharpening with false concern. “In these times, one cannot simply live on such a meagre income… unless one expects someone else to pay their bills.”
Elizabeth’s fingers tightened around her fork.
She understood the implication of Louisa Hurst’s comment perfectly.
And she knew this wasn’t the first time Louisa had spoken to Jane.
There had been phone calls, casual messages, even a few previous visits to this house—though Elizabeth couldn’t say for sure whether Jane had met the sisters during those.
Still, the remark wasn’t casual. It was pointed.
A reminder. A carefully veiled nod to the financial gap between them, slipped into conversation like sugar in tea—meant to dissolve but still leave a taste.
Elizabeth turned to look at her sister. Jane’s smile remained, but her cheeks coloured faintly, and for a moment Elizabeth saw the insult land.
“Yes,” Jane replied, steady and sincere. “It is my only job. And as for the income, it has never been about money for me.”
“Ah,” Caroline said smoothly. “It must be very simple, then.”
Bingley opened his mouth, but Darcy spoke first, his voice even and unmistakably firm.
“There is nothing simple about teaching. It requires patience, intelligence, and a discipline most people lack.”
The table stilled.
Mrs. Hurst’s expression sharpened, and Caroline’s eyes flicked toward Darcy with displeasure.
“Oh, Mr. Darcy,” Caroline recovered quickly, her smile brittle. “I didn’t mean it requires no patience. Only that, as Louisa says, living on such an income suggests one does not intend to live above the average.”
She tilted her head, feigning practicality.
“No disrespect to teaching high schoolers, but that income may not buy Teslas, after all. Or pay for children in the Ivy League.”
Darcy’s gaze lifted at last, cool and controlled.
“Not everyone measures a life by what it can purchase,” he said quietly. “Some people are content to do work that matters, rather than work that merely impresses.”
A beat of silence followed, sharp as glass.
Mrs. Hurst’s eyes narrowed, her fork pausing halfway to her plate. Caroline’s smile held, though it looked strained now, as though she were forcing it into place.
Darcy returned his attention to his plate as if he had said nothing remarkable.
But Elizabeth saw the effect all the same.
The sisters had been checked, and they knew it. They sat like stone afterwards, moving only when they had to, lifting their forks with stiff precision as though eating were the only way to keep from looking utterly awkward.
Elizabeth felt something twist—irritation, confusion, reluctant awareness. She wasn’t sure which emotion had struck first. Why was Darcy suddenly so vocal in defending the less affluent in the room? Why was he defending them—her family?
While she was still grappling with the thought, she caught Bingley shift beside her, his shoulders squaring, lips parting like he was about to speak.
A sharp chime broke the air.
Darcy’s phone rang, slicing through the refined quiet like a knife. He glanced at the screen—his jaw stiffened, the muscle twitching once.
“Excuse me,” he said, rising immediately. “I need to take this.”
Without asking for permission, Darcy pushed back his chair and left the table. His exit was quiet, controlled—but the tension didn’t leave with him. It pooled around the table, thick and sour.