Chapter Five Doubts and Interrogations #2
Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam arrived just as the tea tray was being brought in. The parlour instantly felt small. Colonel Fitzwilliam laid claim to the armchair closest to Elizabeth's spot on the sofa, his eyes surveying the room with cheerful anticipation.
Mr Darcy chose to stand. He positioned himself near the fireplace, slightly behind the Colonel's chair, his tall frame casting a long shadow across the floral carpet. He held his teacup and saucer rigidly, appearing as though he were guarding a state secret rather than consuming a beverage.
"A splendid afternoon for a visit," the Colonel declared, balancing a scone on his saucer. "Though I confess, Miss Elizabeth, the quiet of the country makes me curious about the liveliness you must enjoy at home. I understand you have several sisters?"
"I have four sisters, Colonel," Elizabeth replied, grateful for a topic that did not involve Rosings, chimneys, or Lady Catherine. "I am the second of five daughters."
"Five daughters!" Richard beamed. "Your poor father. I am the second of three sons, and my father regularly threatened to sell us to the circus. I cannot imagine the chaos of five young ladies. Are they all as quick-witted as you?"
Elizabeth laughed. "You would have to ask my father, though I suspect his answer would depend on the day. My two youngest sisters, Kitty and Lydia, are very fond of society and dancing. Mary, the middle sister, prefers the company of her books to almost anything else."
"And the eldest?" Richard enquired, taking a sip of his tea. "Is she like you?"
"Jane?" Elizabeth's expression softened, warm affection colouring her tone.
"Oh, no. Jane is nothing like me. She has the sweetest, most generous temper I have ever known.
She never sees a fault in anyone and she is universally beloved.
" She paused, a shadow crossing her heart as she remembered the melancholy letters she had received.
"She is away from home, visiting our aunt and uncle in London, on Gracechurch Street. "
The sound of silver striking porcelain shattered the quiet of the room.
Elizabeth's head snapped up.
By the fireplace, Mr Darcy was staring at her. His teaspoon had slipped from his fingers, clattering on his saucer. But it was not his clumsiness that arrested Elizabeth; it was his face.
Darcy looked as though he had been physically struck. The impenetrable mask he always wore so effortlessly was gone. His skin had gone a shade paler, his eyes wide and fixed on her with such acute distress that Elizabeth's breath hitched in her throat.
London, she thought wildly, her mind racing. Gracechurch Street. He knows she is there. He knows she called at the Bingley residence.
She watched, mesmerised, as Darcy's throat worked, a swallow betraying his agitation. He looked down quickly, his hand trembling as he gripped his saucer. He looked... guilty. He looked tormented.
This was not the face of an arrogant man indifferent to the suffering of others.
This was the face of a man actively bleeding from an internal wound.
The flicker of curiosity that Charlotte's words had sparked earlier ignited into a demanding fire.
What has he done? Elizabeth thought, her heart pounding. And why does it pain him so much?
"London!" Richard exclaimed, missing the silent drama unfolding three feet behind his head. "A dreary place in the spring. Though I suppose a lady of sweet temper could make even the pea-soup fog of Cheapside seem pleasant. Has she been there long?"
Darcy shifted his weight abruptly, his boots scraping on the hearthstone.
"Sir William," his voice rang out, loud and strained, cutting across the room like a broadsword.
Sir William, who had been enjoying a buttered crumpet, jumped. "Sir?"
"I was recently reflecting," Darcy continued, his eyes fixed on the older man, "on the observations you shared with my aunt regarding the paving stones at St James's. Tell me, do you believe the curvature of the street aids in the drainage, or is it an aesthetic choice?"
Richard turned his head, staring at his cousin as though Darcy had just sprouted a second nose. "Darcy, what on earth—"
"Oh, a question of civic importance!" Sir William boomed, setting his crumpet aside, thrilled to be consulted on matters of state by a man of ten thousand a year. "The curvature, Mr Darcy, is functional! Allow me to explain the mechanics of the London gutter..."
"I have always said," Maria squeaked, her voice high and nervous as she looked between Darcy and her father, "that a flat street is a dangerous street!"
"Very dangerous indeed, Miss Lucas," Darcy agreed, though his eyes darted nervously towards Elizabeth.
Mr Collins, sensing an opportunity to elevate the conversation, stood up. "The drainage of Rosings Park, of course, is managed with a system of subterranean pipes that is excellent! The water flows with the grace of a heavenly river, guided by the foresight of Lady Catherine!"
The parlour dissolved into nonsensical pandemonium. Sir William was lecturing on gutters, Maria was nodding frantically to everything and everyone, Mr Collins was praising pipes, and Colonel Fitzwilliam was staring at them all, befuddled.
Through it all, Charlotte sat calmly by the window, the click-clack of her knitting needles providing a heartbeat to the madness.
Elizabeth sat still on the sofa, her tea cooling in her hands. She could not hear Sir William's gutters or Mr Collins's pipes. Her eyes remained locked on Fitzwilliam Darcy, a rush of questions desperate to find answers forming in her mind.