15. Chapter Fifteen #3
Miss Bingley continued before she could answer. “You possess wit and liveliness. Naturally such qualities amuse him. But Pemberley receives many visitors. Mr. Darcy’s position requires graciousness.”
Elizabeth’s throat ached unpleasantly.
Because part of her—small, frightened, humiliatingly vulnerable—had already wondered this.
Miss Bingley watched her too carefully.
“He would never intentionally encourage expectations unsuitable to his situation,” she said gently.
Unsuitable.
Elizabeth stared at the stream, babbling and flowing away from her.
Several ducks moved lazily through the reeds beneath the bridge. One disappeared underwater before resurfacing several feet away. The absurd normality of it steadied her slightly.
“He has shown your family exceptional consideration,” Miss Bingley continued. “Indeed, more consideration than most gentlemen of his consequence might extend.”
That hurt.
Not because Elizabeth believed it fully.
Because some part of her feared she might.
She remembered Kent with awful clarity. Remembered his proposal. Remembered every painful word regarding inferiority, family impropriety, obstacles overcome.
Had anything truly changed except his manners?
Miss Bingley stepped nearer.
“I would dislike seeing you mortified publicly, Miss Elizabeth.”
Elizabeth raised her head.
That expression.
Pity.
She would rather have endured cruelty.
“You are very obliging,” Elizabeth replied. Her voice sounded strangely calm to her own ears.
Miss Bingley appeared encouraged by that composure. “I speak solely from concern.”
“Of course.”
“I hope you understand.”
Elizabeth smiled then.
Not because she wished to.
Because pride demanded it.
“I understand perfectly.”
Miss Bingley relaxed visibly.
That alone nearly made Elizabeth laugh. Whatever truth Miss Bingley had spoken, she had chosen each one for its power to wound. Elizabeth could no longer mistake jealousy for concern.
A branch cracked somewhere beyond the trees.
Both women turned.
Darcy stood several yards away upon the orchard path.
He had clearly arrived recently. No expression betrayed whether he had heard anything.
Yet the instant he saw Elizabeth, his face changed.
He crossed toward them.
“Miss Bingley.” His tone remained perfectly civil. “Mrs. Hurst has been searching for you.”
Miss Bingley hesitated.
Darcy waited.
Nothing in his posture invited argument.
At length she inclined her head slightly. “Then I must not delay her further.”
She departed without acknowledging Elizabeth further.
Silence followed.
Elizabeth could not endure his eyes upon her just then. She moved toward the bridge railings instead, gripping the worn wood harder than necessary.
Darcy stopped beside her.
“What has happened?”
“Nothing.”
A terrible answer.
She knew it the instant it escaped.
Darcy knew it too.
“Elizabeth.”
The use of her name nearly undid her.
She watched the stream again. “Your tenants appear very devoted to you.”
“That has no relation to whatever Miss Bingley said.”
Her fingers gripped the railing.
Too perceptive.
Always too perceptive where she mattered.
“She merely advised me against misunderstanding your attentions.”
Darcy went utterly still.
Elizabeth wished instantly she had not spoken so plainly.
The silence afterward became unbearable.
Then Darcy said, very carefully, “And do you misunderstand them?”
Her breath caught sharply. There ought to have been safety in evasion. Instead, she met his eyes.
The expression upon his face destroyed every prepared defense she possessed. He was almost offended that she could doubt him.
Elizabeth’s composure faltered completely.
“I do not know what to think anymore,” she admitted.
Darcy took one step closer.
Not enough to touch her.
Enough to make retreat impossible.
“You may think,” he said, each word controlled with visible effort, “that my regard for you has altered in no direction except stronger.”
Elizabeth could naught but stare.
The orchard abruptly felt too small for breathing.
Darcy’s hand raised slightly before stopping midway between them, restraint reclaiming him at the last moment.
“I cannot regret loving you,” he said.
The words struck so directly she forgot every sensible response.
Behind them the picnic carried on faintly beyond the trees. Distant laughter. A dog barking. Lydia shouting triumphantly about something incomprehensible.
The ordinary sounds of the afternoon threw the moment into greater contrast. Elizabeth fiddled with the edge of her bonnet ribbon.
“You should not say such things unless you mean them.”
Darcy gave a short disbelieving breath. “Elizabeth. I have never meant anything more.”
The cruel little doubts Miss Bingley planted struggled weakly against the man standing before her now.
And failed.
Somewhere behind them Lydia yelled, “Mr. Darcy! Horace has eaten another tart!”
Darcy shut his eyes once.
Elizabeth grinned despite herself.
When she raised her head again, he was watching her with such helpless affection that her pulse stumbled painfully.
The picnic, apparently, had not ended with dignity for anyone.