20. Matters of the Heart #2
Elizabeth took one step nearer and lowered her voice, though not so much that the others could not understand the shape of the exchange.
“This confusion grows worse because no one will speak plainly. I am asking you, not as an opponent, and not as someone who has dismissed your concerns, but as the woman you are courting. Will you speak with Mr. Wickham?”
His eyes flicked to Wickham.
Wickham said nothing.
Lydia’s fingers twisted together.
Darcy’s pride rose first. Elizabeth saw it, that old severity gathering at the corners of his mouth. Then he looked back at her, and something in him checked.
“I do not know that any good will come of it.”
“Nor do I. But harm has already come of silence.”
He looked toward the bill in Mr. Bennet’s hand. “May I read it?”
Mr. Bennet passed it to him.
Darcy read. His expression betrayed little, but Elizabeth had come to know the small signs of his disturbance: the tightening at his brow, the stillness of his shoulders, the way his thumb pressed once against the paper before he folded it again.
“At the least,” Elizabeth said, “you must admit this deserves inquiry.”
“Yes.”
The answer came reluctantly.
She felt her whole body loosen around a breath she had not known she held.
Darcy looked at Wickham. “I will consider a conversation.”
Lydia made a small sound, quickly swallowed.
Elizabeth stared at him. “You will?”
“I said I would consider it.”
“That is more than I hoped for.”
His eyes sought hers, and for one moment the crowded room might have been empty. There was humility in his face, though grudging and unhappy. It touched her more deeply than a graceful concession would have done.
Before sense could restrain her, Elizabeth rose upon her toes and kissed his cheek.
The room froze.
Darcy froze with it.
Heat rushed into Elizabeth’s face so violently she thought she might expire from it on the spot.
“Oh,” Lydia whispered.
Kitty choked.
Mrs. Bennet made a sound halfway between a gasp and a blessing.
Mr. Bennet said, with intolerable calm, “Well.”
Elizabeth stepped back. “I beg your pardon. That was—”
Darcy’s hand lifted as if he meant to touch his cheek, then stopped halfway and lowered again. His color had risen, but his eyes were very warm.
“Do not,” he said.
“Do not what?”
“Beg pardon.”
That did nothing to improve her composure.
She looked away first, mortified, elated, and thoroughly aware that every soul in Longbourn would remember this moment until the end of time.
But beneath the embarrassment, one conviction was firmly established.
Darcy had yielded where pride most resisted.
And Elizabeth, who had feared the worst of him for days, found herself believing him again.
Mr. Bennet cleared his throat.
“I believe,” he said, “that if my daughter means to reward concessions in such a manner, Mr. Darcy may become the most reasonable gentleman in England before Michaelmas.”
“Papa!”
Mrs. Bennet had one hand pressed to her bosom. “Mr. Bennet, do not tease her. I think it was very pretty. Very natural. Very—”
“Public?” Mr. Bennet supplied.
Elizabeth covered her face with one gloved hand.
Darcy, to his credit or peril, looked as though he was attempting not to smile. “Mr. Bennet, I assure you, Miss Elizabeth’s conduct was prompted by relief and cannot be taken as precedent.”
“That is disappointing.”
“Papa,” Elizabeth said again, this time from behind her hand.
Lydia recovered first. “I think it ought to be precedent. If gentlemen behaved better when kissed, ladies would have a great interest in improving society.”
Mary closed her book with a snap. “Lydia, that is improper.”
“It is also practical.”
Kitty dissolved into giggles.
Mr. Wickham, who had remained near the hearth during the exchange, lowered his gaze. He did not laugh at Elizabeth. That alone she appreciated more than she wished to admit.
Darcy handed the bill back to Mr. Bennet. “May I ask whether you intend to write to the innkeeper?”
“I intend to write to everyone,” Mr. Bennet replied. “It is one of the few pleasures of a gentleman’s life when others become tedious enough to deserve correspondence.”
“I should like the name of the inn,” Darcy said.
Mr. Wickham’s head lifted.
Darcy met his eyes with visible reluctance. “If an accusation has been made in your name, the source ought to be known.”
“That is nearly agreement,” Lydia whispered to Elizabeth.
Elizabeth did not answer. Her face was still too warm, and her heart had taken to behaving with more enthusiasm than dignity permitted.
Mr. Wickham gave the name of the establishment. Darcy wrote it in his pocketbook, the movement precise.
“I make no promise beyond inquiry,” Darcy said.
“I ask no more,” Wickham replied.
The civility was thin, strained, and hardly sufficient to bear much weight. Still, it existed. A week earlier Elizabeth would not have believed such a sentence could pass between them without shattering.
Mrs. Bennet, who could not endure seriousness beyond a certain duration, declared that tea must be refreshed, for scandals, bills, and courtship all required nourishment.
Hill was summoned. Chairs were rearranged.
Lydia, though still anxious, took her place nearer Kitty than Wickham, which Elizabeth suspected cost her some effort.
Mr. Bennet retired with the bill after informing Mr. Darcy he would compare notes with him “if the world insists upon becoming a legal puzzle.”
The room slowly remembered how to be ordinary.
Darcy remained standing until Elizabeth, still embarrassed but unwilling to make matters worse by fleeing, took up her work. He sat near her, not too near, and accepted a cup of tea from Jane.
Mr. Bingley was mentioned.
Jane’s color rose.
Elizabeth saw it this time.
“How long has Mr. Bingley been so attentive?” she murmured when the others were occupied.
Jane’s smile answered before she did. “Long enough that you ought to have noticed.”
“I am a dreadful sister.”
“You are a distracted sister.”
“That is kinder.”
“It is also true.”
Elizabeth glanced toward Darcy, who was speaking to Mary with impressive gravity about the moral duties attached to reputation. Mary looked both suspicious and pleased.
“Mr. Darcy has occupied a great deal of my attention.”
“So I had observed.”
“And Mr. Wickham.”
Jane’s smile faded somewhat. “Yes.”
“I wish matters were simpler.”
“So does everyone involved, I think.”
Elizabeth looked toward Wickham, who had drawn Lydia into conversation about her mending and was being instructed, with great emphasis, that the trouble with linen was its ingratitude.
“Do you believe him?” Elizabeth asked softly.
Jane was quiet long enough that Elizabeth said it again.
“I believe he is distressed,” Jane said. “I believe Mr. Darcy is distressed. I believe you are distressed. That is a great many distressed people for one false bill.”
“You are too charitable to be useful.”
“I am useful in other ways.”
Elizabeth laughed under her breath, grateful for the small release.
After tea, Wickham rose to take his leave, saying he must return to Mr. Philips and begin gathering the names and dates Mr. Bennet required. Lydia followed him as far as the doorway, under the full supervision of half the room.
“You will not worry too much,” she told him.
“I shall attempt moderation.”
“You are not very convincing.”
“I have had a trying morning.”
“Then be convincing tomorrow.”
“I shall endeavor to improve.”
Lydia nodded as though accepting a solemn pledge. “Good.”
He bowed over her hand without touching it and took his leave.
Darcy watched him go.
Elizabeth watched Darcy.
His expression was not friendly. That would have been asking too much of one morning. It was, however, less closed than it had been. Less certain, perhaps, though the uncertainty sat uneasily upon him.
When the door closed behind Wickham, Darcy addressed Elizabeth. “Will you walk with me?”
Her pulse leapt foolishly. “Yes.”