FIFTEEN
Lucas Lodge
Elizabeth
A week had elapsed at Longbourn with several significant events occurring in succession.
Chief among them was Mr. Collins's proposal to Mary, which she declined instantly, and his subsequent proposal to Charlotte Lucas, which Charlotte accepted.
That Mr. Collins would propose to a woman he had barely known four days was ridiculous enough.
That Charlotte would accept was, to most of Longbourn, considerably more surprising.
Mrs. Bennet announced her opinion on the matter loudly and without particular charity.
A woman of seven-and-twenty, she declared, accepted such a proposal out of desperation and nothing else.
Elizabeth understood her mother's meaning well enough, even if she did not share her manner of expressing it.
Charlotte was practical. Charlotte had always been practical.
Elizabeth could not fault her for it, even if she wished the circumstances had been different.
Mr. Collins departed Longbourn that same afternoon in high spirits, announcing the necessity of obtaining a licence in order to hasten the marriage with the greatest possible speed. The house was considerably quieter without him, which everyone agreed was an improvement.
None of these events surprised Elizabeth as much as they perhaps ought to have. She had too much else occupying her mind.
Mr. Darcy and Georgiana had not come to Longbourn.
They had not written. They had not sent word of any kind.
Mr. Bingley had called twice since the last time Elizabeth had seen Darcy, but on both occasions he had come alone.
When Elizabeth enquired after the Darcys, he offered only that they were at Netherfield and that he would pass along her regards.
He said it pleasantly and without apparent discomfort, which suggested either that he knew nothing or that he had been asked to say nothing. Elizabeth could not determine which.
Every morning that the weather permitted, she walked to Oakham Mount hoping to see Mr. Darcy. She was thoroughly disappointed each time.
Lydia brought news of Wickham's arrest within the week.
He had been removed to a debtor's prison, according to Mr. Denny.
Lydia found this enormously diverting. Elizabeth found it interesting for entirely different reasons.
She could not prove a connection between Wickham's arrest and the expression she had seen upon Darcy's face that morning in the high street, but she could not dismiss the notion either.
The two men had known one another. That much had been plain.
And now Wickham was gone and Darcy had withdrawn.
Elizabeth had no information, too many questions, and no one she could ask without revealing more than she wished to.
It troubled her more than she cared to admit.
A day after Mr. Collins's departure, an invitation arrived for a ball at Lucas Lodge to celebrate Charlotte's engagement.
Elizabeth looked forward to it for reasons rather different from those of the rest of the household.
The Netherfield party would be there. They would have to be.
It was the sort of occasion that did not permit absence without remark.
On the evening of the ball, she dressed with more care than usual and told herself it was out of respect for Charlotte.
When they arrived, she spent the first half hour watching the door while paying only half attention to Charlotte, who came to speak to her again of her happiness and approaching marriage.
Mr. Bingley arrived with his sisters and Mr. Hurst soon enough. Elizabeth looked past them as they entered, and past the next group after them, before it became apparent that no one else was coming from Netherfield.
Later, when Bingley came to claim Jane for a set and they were standing together at the edge of the floor, Elizabeth approached him and asked the question she had been asking herself all week.
"Mr. Bingley." She kept her voice pleasant. "I had hoped to see Mr. Darcy and Miss Darcy this evening."
Bingley's smile did not falter, but something behind it shifted.
"He had business to attend to this evening."
It was all he offered.
"And Miss Darcy?"
After a brief pause, which Elizabeth suspected was spent considering the safest answer, he replied that, "She was not feeling quite herself. I believe she remained at Netherfield for that reason."
Elizabeth looked at him for a moment.
He did not meet her gaze.
She thanked him and moved away.
So that was that.
It was not business. It was not illness. For whatever reason, and she had none, could account for none, could discover no explanation that satisfied her, Mr. Darcy and Georgiana were withdrawing from her.
Deliberately and without explanation.
She was still standing with that thought when Caroline Bingley approached her. The smile upon her face sent an uncomfortable sensation down Elizabeth's spine.
"Miss Eliza." Her voice was warm. "You appear to have been expecting someone this evening."
"I had hoped to see Miss Darcy," Elizabeth replied.
The words were pleasant enough, though they emerged more slowly than usual, her surprise at her own disappointment still lingering.
"Yes." Miss Bingley tilted her head, her expression one of exaggerated sympathy. "I imagine you did. It is always disappointing when one discovers that an acquaintance has served its purpose."
Served its purpose?
Caroline Bingley’s sentence made no sense to Elizabeth
As if reading her thought, Caroline rubbed her gloved hands lightly together. "There is one thing I will say for Mr. Darcy. When he sets out to study something, he does not do it by halves."
Elizabeth frowned.
"I beg your pardon?"
"Your hearing, Miss Eliza." Miss Bingley spoke quietly.
Almost kindly. It was far worse than cruelty.
"He noticed it at the Meryton assembly. He has been observing it ever since.
You were rather useful to him, for his sister's sake, you understand.
Not for your own. Apparently the Darcys have experienced hearing difficulties in the past, and Mr. Darcy considered you a specimen worth studying for Georgiana's benefit.
I thought you ought to know, since he has apparently decided the study is complete. "
The words hung in the air, clashing violently with the lively strains of the orchestra echoing through the crowded ballroom.
Elizabeth's fingers froze against the silk of her gown.
The room, bright with candlelight, music, and conversation, suddenly felt oppressively close.
A cold dread settled in her stomach.
She did not blink. She could not.
Her eyes remained fixed upon Miss Bingley's face, searching for some indication of a jest.
There was none.
"How," Elizabeth said very quietly, "do you know that?"
Her voice was scarcely above a whisper. She forced herself to remain standing though her legs no longer felt entirely reliable.
Miss Bingley's smile widened fractionally. "Does it matter?"
It mattered enormously. And they both knew there was only one person who could have told her.
Elizabeth held Miss Bingley's gaze for one long moment. Seeing that the woman was plainly enjoying her shock and had no intention of leaving, Elizabeth turned away and walked off.
She did not look back.
But her hands, folded neatly before her as she crossed the room, were not entirely steady.
She did not stop until she reached the narrow corridor leading towards the cloakroom.
There she pressed her back against the wall, closed her eyes, and stood perfectly still while the music continued beyond the ballroom doors, bright and relentless and entirely indifferent to what had just occurred.
He had known from the beginning.
The thought had been waiting for her the moment she stepped away.
Darcy had known at the assembly. He had known at Lucas Lodge. He had known on Oakham Mount every time she positioned herself upon her better side and believed herself undetected.
Every careful question. Every deliberate kindness. Every moment she had allowed herself to believe that his attention meant something.
All of it was observation. She was being catalogued. Studied.
For his sister.
It was not his knowing that hurt her most. It was the discovery that she had entirely mistaken his motives.
She had believed his attentions arose from esteem.
Instead, she had been nothing more than an object of observation.
Why had he not acted with greater openness?
Why had he spoken of her hearing to Miss Bingley at all, knowing how carefully she guarded it and how quickly the world attached cruel judgements to any perceived imperfection?
Why he had chosen such a course, she could not comprehend.
Why he had allowed her confidence to grow under such circumstances, she understood still less.
When she opened her eyes, tears were already running down her cheeks.
The corridor remained empty. The music played on.
Elizabeth spent several minutes crying before she managed to compose herself. She straightened her spine, smoothed her gloves, and returned to the ballroom.
She took part in none of the evening's amusements and was obliged to feign smiles whenever anyone approached her.
Only one thought remained with her throughout the remainder of the evening.
How foolish she had been to trust Mr. Darcy. How foolish she had been to admire him.