Chapter 5
Elizabeth
Darcy's apology made dislike inconvenient.
Elizabeth had relied on dislike because it simplified him.
A proud man could be dismissed with a shrug and a clever line at supper.
A proud man who examined his own conduct and then corrected it required further thought, and further thought was rarely restful.
It kept a person up past the point where the candle ought to have been snuffed.
Jane sat near the fire, wrapped in a white shawl and pretending not to tire. Bingley had left five minutes earlier after a visit of twenty. He had asked after her health seven times. Jane had answered each question as though it were the first, patient as a woman counting stitches.
"He is very attentive."
Jane arranged the edge of the shawl, smoothing a fold that did not need smoothing. "Mr. Bingley is kind to everyone."
"Not everyone receives white roses from the greenhouse."
"The red ones are too strong for a sickroom."
"You have considered the matter deeply."
Jane smiled. It was that small, private smile she wore when she knew exactly what she was doing and meant to keep doing it. "No more deeply than you have considered Mr. Darcy's apology."
Elizabeth looked at her book. She had held it open at the same page since breakfast, and the words had long since stopped meaning anything.
"An apology deserves consideration."
"Three hours?"
"His was unusually long."
"It was four sentences."
"You were counting."
"You taught me."
Sarah entered with a folded length of muslin, her steps quick and light on the boards. She had repaired a tear in Jane's sleeve and made the work so neat it was nearly invisible. You would have needed a candle and good eyes to find the seam at all.
Elizabeth set down her book. "Sarah, how much did Mr. McKeever know of Mr. Darcy's intended apology?"
The maid set the muslin down with unnecessary care, as though the linen required all her attention. "I could not say, miss."
"You could. You would simply rather not."
Sarah's colour rose, a quick, telltale flood up her neck. "Mr. McKeever told me his master meant to speak honestly. That is all."
"And how did you come to discuss his master's honesty?"
"We met in the stillroom passage."
"By accident?"
"The first time."
Jane covered a cough that sounded like laughter. She did a very poor job of hiding it. Elizabeth waited. She had learned that Sarah, given enough silence, would fill it.
Sarah lowered her eyes. "Mr. McKeever observed that Mr. Darcy watched you. I observed that you noticed him back. We thought neither of you understood the other very well. We meant no harm by it, miss, truly."
"The pavilion was harm."
"The rain was harm, miss. We only marked a book and mentioned a dry terrace.
" She said it so reasonably that for a moment it almost sounded like an excuse worth having.
It was the same defence McKeever had offered his master, word for word, near enough, as though they had rehearsed it together over the boot-blacking.
It had the singular merit of being true, which made it very hard to argue with.
"No more arranging walks."
"No, miss."
"No messages in my name."
Sarah looked startled, genuinely so. "Never."
"No lies of any kind."
"That was our rule already."
Elizabeth stared at her. Sarah realised, a half-second too late, that the phrase had betrayed a prior agreement. She closed her mouth with an audible click of teeth.
"There are rules."
"Only those three."
"What is the third?"
"Do not risk a position for a romance that may not exist." Sarah said it like a catechism, something learned by rote and repeated at bedtime.
Jane's expression softened. Against her own better judgment, Elizabeth felt her irritation lose its grip.
"That is a sensible rule."
"Mr. McKeever made it."
"Then he is wasted on Mr. Darcy."
Sarah's smile slipped out, quick and unguarded. "I do not believe so, miss."
The door opened before Elizabeth could answer. Caroline entered without a knock, as she always did, as though knocking were a courtesy reserved for people she liked.
"Jane, you look much improved. Charles will be delighted. He has paced the lower hall into a new carpet."
"He has been very kind," Jane said.
"My brother is kindness itself." Caroline sat, smoothing her skirt with two precise strokes. "He is sometimes too ready to befriend people without considering how they may be received elsewhere."
Elizabeth heard the warning tucked beneath the compliment, sharp as a pin in a cushion. Jane either did not hear it or chose, with her usual grace, not to notice.
"Good manners usually travel well."
Caroline turned to her, and her smile arranged itself by careful stages. "Not always. I do hope yesterday's adventure has not unsettled you."
"The rain was cold."
"I meant the appearance of it. A young woman alone with a gentleman in a secluded building invites interpretation."
Sarah went still beside the sleeve she had mended, needle poised, not breathing.
Elizabeth placed her book on the table with a small, deliberate click. "We were in an open pavilion after the path flooded. Your brother, Mrs. Hurst, Mr. Darcy's valet, Sarah, and you found us there. Which part requires interpretation, exactly?"
"The duration, perhaps."
"You watched us leave the terrace. You watched the storm begin. You came with the others. You know the duration better than any gossip in Meryton could invent."
Caroline's lips thinned to a hard line. "I speak only from concern."
"Then your concern may rest easy."
Jane reached for her tea. The cup rattled once against its saucer, a small, betraying sound, and Elizabeth regretted letting the exchange sharpen in her sister's sickroom.
Caroline saw the movement. Her face assumed sympathy the way a person puts on a coat, quickly, and only because the weather demanded it. "Dear Jane, we must not tire you. I shall ask Charles to keep his visits shorter."
"That will not be necessary," Jane said.
It was the firmest sentence she had spoken all morning, and it landed like a small closed door.
Caroline rose. "As you wish."
She left, skirts whispering against the doorframe.
Sarah crossed to close the door behind her, then stopped with her hand still upon it.
Darcy stood in the corridor. He had heard enough.
Elizabeth saw it in the particular stillness of his face, the way a man goes quiet when he has decided something.
"Miss Bingley," he called.
Caroline turned at the end of the passage.
"A word, if you please."
"Certainly, Mr. Darcy."
He glanced into the room. "Miss Bennet. Miss Elizabeth. Forgive the disturbance."
Then he followed Caroline downstairs, his footsteps unhurried and final. One sentence carried back up the stairwell before a distant door closed.
"You will not make Miss Elizabeth's reputation a subject for speculation again."
Elizabeth went to the door but did not step into the corridor. She had overheard him once already and profited far too much from it. She would not make a habit of listening at doors, however much the habit tempted her.
Sarah had fewer scruples. "I will fetch more hot water."
"You will remain here."
"Yes, miss." Sarah sat back down with the air of someone who had tried.
Jane waited until both women were seated. "You wanted to hear."
"Wanting is not permission."
"That is very correct of you."
"I lived through a proposal yesterday. Correctness is my last remaining defence."
Jane stared. Sarah dropped the reel of blue silk with a small clatter that seemed very loud in the quiet room. Elizabeth had not meant to say it. The words had simply come, the way water finds the crack in a jug. Silence now would only make it worse.
She told Jane the essentials: the storm, the risk, Darcy's offer, her refusal, and his apology after.
She did not repeat the look on his face when she had accused him of duty.
That belonged to him, and she found she did not want to hand it over even to Jane.
Jane listened without interruption, her hands still in her lap.
Sarah retrieved the reel and pretended to inspect it for damage.
"Do you dislike him?" Jane asked, gently.
"Less than I did."
"That is not what I asked."
Elizabeth looked towards the rain-bright window.
Below, Darcy crossed the lawn with Bingley, walking slowly to match his friend's shorter stride.
Bingley talked with both hands, as he always did when enthusiasm outran his vocabulary.
Darcy listened. Really listened, head tilted, the whole of his attention given over.
"I do not know him," she said, and was surprised to find it true.
"Then perhaps you should."
Sarah found sudden, urgent purpose in the workbasket.
"Do not encourage her."
"I did not speak, miss."
"You have become skilled at it."
That afternoon, the household gathered in the drawing room. Jane remained upstairs. Elizabeth had meant to stay with her, but Jane insisted she take an hour away from medicine and broth and her sister's determined cheerfulness.
Darcy stood near the window with Bingley. Caroline occupied the sofa and made no reference at all to the pavilion. Her silence was so polished it could only have been deliberate. Mrs. Hurst proposed cards. Hurst had already begun without her, cheerfully cheating at patience in the corner.
Elizabeth chose a book. She had read three pages when Darcy approached. Three pages she could not later have summarised to save her life. He sat near enough that she caught the scent of clean linen and, faintly, damp wool from the corridor, as though he had only just come in from somewhere colder.
"May I ask what you are reading?"
She showed him the spine. "A novel. I understand gentlemen disapprove of them when women are present, and borrow them the moment the women leave the room."
"I disapprove only of poor novels. Poor histories are equally dangerous and receive far better bindings, which seems unjust."
"Then we agree again, and McKeever will be pleased."