CHAPTER 53 #4
He seemed to hold himself very still around the words.
“What did she say?”
“She asked whether I was Mrs. Darcy. Then she told me her name.”
His eyes shut for a moment.
“And afterward?”
“She said she had heard that her brother was married.”
He opened his eyes.
Elizabeth softened her voice. “I told her you were very well, and that you would be sorry to have missed her.”
The hand in hers trembled once, barely enough to be seen. She felt it.
“She asked whether I was well?”
“Yes.”
For a moment he did not answer.
Mrs. Doddridge’s needle moved quietly in the corner. The fire settled. Somewhere in the hall, a servant crossed with the evening’s ordinary purpose, and the sound seemed very far away.
“Mrs. Younge?” he said at last.
“Watchful. Smooth. Very ready to end a conversation before it became one.”
“And Georgiana?”
Elizabeth looked down at the card-case.
“She laughed at my cards.”
He stared at her.
“Only once,” she said. “But I think it was her own laugh. Not borrowed from anyone.”
Something in his face altered so painfully that she lifted his hand and held it between both of hers.
“I gave her a card.”
“Your card?”
“The old one. I had gone to order new ones. For both of us.”
“For both of us?”
“Yes. Your direction has changed.”
“Elizabeth—”
“It has,” she said. “And Miss Darcy has my old one, with the right direction. There is no obligation in it. Only permission.”
He looked at her then as if she had done something beyond sense and yet entirely within it.
“She may not be allowed to use it.”
“I know.”
“Mrs. Younge will have seen it.”
“Yes.”
“She may take it from her.”
“She may.” Elizabeth’s mouth tightened. “But Georgiana took it. That matters, even if she cannot keep it.”
He drew a breath, not steady enough to satisfy either of them.
“And there is more,” she said. “Miss Hall has heard a rumour.”
He looked almost relieved to return to a danger already familiar.
“What rumour?”
“That you have married me for my fortune.”
The old stillness came over him, but this time she was ready for it.
“My dear Mr. Darcy,” she said, before he could retreat into nobility, “if you are preparing to be grave on my account, I shall take it very ill.”
“I am not grave for myself.”
“I know. That is exactly why it is unnecessary.”
“It is not unnecessary that your name—”
“Society has understated your success.”
He stopped.
“If you are to be accused of fortune-hunting,” she continued, “I think it only fair that people should know how very successful you have been at it.”
His expression changed, but she had already begun to enjoy herself.
“You were poorly skilled, certainly. Honourable, difficult, slow, and forever signing papers to prevent yourself from profiting by me. But in the end, despite every disadvantage of method, you have done astonishingly well.”
“Elizabeth.”
“For I am very rich, you know.”
“I had been informed.”
“Badly, I think.” Elizabeth tilted her head, considering him with an air of grave study that did not quite conceal the mischief in her eyes. “You looked so distressed at the time that no one can have explained the advantages properly.”
She let one hand rest against his waistcoat, as if she meant to count those advantages there.
“A more ambitious man would have appeared delighted.”
“Elizabeth.”
“You see? Still no proper mercenary spirit.”
He caught her by the waist and drew her close.
Elizabeth, who had been waiting to see how far his patience would bear the subject, arranged her face into astonishment.
“Mr. Darcy, this is a very poor answer to a financial argument.”
“It is not a financial argument.”
“No?”
“No.” His mouth brushed hers. “I married you for entirely different reasons.”
“Then society has been misinformed.”
“Entirely.”
“How very embarrassing for society.”
He kissed her, and Elizabeth was obliged, after a moment, to concede that society’s mistakes had their uses.
When he drew back, his hand remained at her waist.
“You must not make light of yourself,” he said.
“I was making light of society.”
“That is different.”
“Very.”
He almost smiled again, but only almost; the day had too many edges for complete victory.
Elizabeth touched his cheek once, lightly. “Come. Sit beside me. You may be worried in a more convenient position.”
He obeyed, because she had told him to, and because marriage had lately made obedience to comfort less humiliating than it once would have been.
For a little while he said nothing. The room settled around them: fire, lamplight, Mrs. Doddridge’s quiet needle, the small offended rustle of Lord Pomington beneath his shawl.
At last Mr. Darcy looked down at their joined hands.
“You gave her your card.”
“Yes.”
“And frightened Mrs. Younge.”
“I hope so. She has the air of a lady who has not been frightened often enough. It may improve her.”
His mouth moved despite himself.
Elizabeth leaned nearer, satisfied. The day had not become safe; no sensible person could have mistaken it for safety. But he was smiling now, and his hand had ceased to feel like a man holding himself against a door.
That, for one evening, was improvement enough.