Chapter Seven
The Small Things
For the next two weeks Elizabeth and Darcy tested one another without admitting, even privately, that they were doing so.
It became ridiculous.
At Lucas Lodge, Sir William insisted that everyone sample a bowl of spiced punch his cook had prepared.
Darcy accepted a glass, lifted it, and frowned almost imperceptibly.
Elizabeth, standing with Charlotte near the pianoforte, caught the expression and said before she could stop herself, "You never liked cloves. "
Darcy's eyes moved to her at once. "I have not tried the punch."
"One can smell them from here."
That was reasonable. Entirely reasonable.
Elizabeth pretended to return her attention to Charlotte, but she felt Darcy watching her for the next several minutes.
The following day Darcy returned the favor at Longbourn. Mr. Bennet had lent him a volume of essays, and Darcy remarked casually, "Richard dislikes this author."
Elizabeth looked up too quickly. "Your cousin?"
Darcy's expression sharpened. "Colonel Fitzwilliam."
She ought not to know his Christian name. Not yet.
Elizabeth smiled and adjusted the edge of her sleeve. "I assumed. Lady Catherine has nephews, does she not? Mr. Collins mentioned them at least three times yesterday."
Possible.
Barely.
Darcy did not challenge her.
At Netherfield dinner, he placed the salt cellar beside Elizabeth before she asked. She stared at it. He looked innocent. Any gentleman might have noticed she required it.
Elizabeth deliberately left her left glove on a chair when the ladies rose after dinner.
In another life Darcy had spent more than fifty years retrieving gloves, spectacles, books, shawls, and once an entire reticule she had forgotten in a bookseller's shop in Bath. He had complained endlessly about the habit and never once stopped doing it.
Darcy picked up the glove.
Then he stopped.
Elizabeth watched from the doorway.
He looked at the glove in his hand as though it had accused him of something.
Any gentleman might retrieve a lady's glove.
Elizabeth nearly groaned.
Darcy crossed the room and offered it. "You dropped this."
"Did I?"
"Frequently."
Silence.
Darcy realized his mistake.
Elizabeth's pulse began to pound. "Frequently?"
His expression did not change, but she recognized panic in the slight tightening of his jaw. "Women frequently drop gloves."
"Do they? Your experience is extensive?"
Darcy's eyes narrowed.
There.
That look.
Elizabeth almost laughed. "Careful, Mr. Darcy. Your pride is showing."
He leaned slightly closer, keeping his voice low enough that the others could not hear. "You have seen it before?"
"Everyone has."
"Not like you."
The answer stole her breath.
They stood in Netherfield's corridor while voices drifted from the drawing room behind them. Elizabeth could end this now. She could ask him plainly. But fear held her still.
What if he did not remember?
What if all of this was coincidence woven together by longing until it looked like certainty?
Worse, what if he did remember and did not want the life they had lived?
That thought had not occurred to her until that moment. Perhaps old Darcy's last thought had not been to find her. Perhaps he had awakened young again and felt free.
Elizabeth stepped back.
Darcy's expression changed immediately. Concern replaced challenge. He knew that withdrawal. Of course he did. He had learned, after years of marriage, not to pursue her when she needed room.
"Miss Elizabeth?"
She forced a smile. "I should return to the others."
He did not stop her.
That, more than anything, frightened her.
Darcy watched her go.
Bingley appeared at the end of the corridor carrying two glasses of wine and wearing the expression of a man who had discovered entertainment. "What did you say?"
Darcy took one of the glasses. "Nothing."
"She looked upset."
"I know."
"Then perhaps you should apologize for nothing."
Darcy almost laughed despite himself. "You are becoming very wise."
"I like her."
Darcy stiffened.
Bingley rolled his eyes. "Not like that. I like her for you."
Darcy stared at him.
Bingley smiled. "You look less miserable when she is in the room."
"An extraordinary recommendation for marriage."
"Marriage?" Bingley repeated with delight.
Darcy closed his eyes.
Bingley's grin widened. "I said nothing about marriage."
"Good night, Bingley."
Bingley followed as Darcy began down the corridor. "Have you proposed already?"
Darcy stopped so abruptly that Bingley nearly walked into him.
The question stabbed unexpectedly. Hunsford returned in a rush: Elizabeth's furious face, his own monstrous arrogance, the letter he wrote in anger, the sick humiliation of understanding that a woman he loved had thought him the last man she could ever marry.
He had spent decades grateful for that refusal. Without it, he might never have deserved her.
"No," he said.
Bingley's amusement vanished. "Was that the wrong joke?"
Darcy looked at his friend. "No."
Then, because age had taught him something about saying what mattered before it was too late, he added, "I am glad you like her."
Bingley's face softened. "Good."
Darcy continued toward his room.
Behind him Bingley muttered, "Still strange."
Darcy smiled despite himself.
One of the strangest consequences of Darcy's altered behavior was that Elizabeth's family noticed him for reasons unrelated to his fortune.
Mary thought him well read. Kitty thought he had a good eye for landscapes after he praised one of her sketches.
Lydia thought him much less dull once he answered one of her impertinent questions about horses instead of pretending not to hear it.
Mrs. Bennet remained chiefly interested in ten thousand a year.
At dinner one evening she said, "Mr. Darcy, I understand Pemberley has a very fine park."
"It does."
"How large?"
Elizabeth closed her eyes.
Darcy answered calmly, giving a rough figure.
Mrs. Bennet nearly glowed. "And many servants, I suppose."
"Enough."
Mr. Bennet looked toward Elizabeth, plainly waiting for the old shared amusement.
Elizabeth did not give it.
Instead she asked Darcy about tenant farms in Derbyshire. He answered. Mr. Bennet listened. The conversation moved on.
Later her father caught Elizabeth in the hall. "You spared your mother."
Elizabeth frowned. "From what?"
"Your amusement."
She looked at him.
Mr. Bennet's expression was light, but his eyes were not.
"Perhaps she does not always deserve to be the entertainment," Elizabeth said.
He absorbed that in silence.
The remark did not reform him.
The next morning he teased Mrs. Bennet about a bonnet.
But he stopped before she became genuinely upset.
Elizabeth noticed.
So did Mrs. Bennet, though she said nothing.
Darcy, meanwhile, learned that making an effort socially brought unexpected rewards.
Mr. Bennet invited him into the library not only to interrogate him but to discuss books.
Sir William stopped overpraising his rank after discovering Darcy would actually answer ordinary questions.
Colonel Forster spoke candidly about the militia.
Even Mrs. Phillips proved useful, since she knew every rumor in Meryton before breakfast.
Darcy began to understand that community could not be managed from the edge of a room.
Elizabeth had told him that once.
He had disagreed for three days.
Now he silently conceded the point.