Darcy almost repeated himself in the hopes that Scripps would believe him, but he stopped himself in time. It did not matter whether Scripps believed him or not. It only mattered that Elizabeth did—and what her response to his admission would be.
“Thank you, Scripps,” he said when the man was done, and Scripps hurried away to assist his master.
Miss Bingley was waiting for Mr. Darcy—lying in wait like the carnivorous plant from America that the botanist Mr. Ellis had written of so exactly. Only Mr. Darcy was not an insect, and he was unlikely to be caught no matter how long Miss Bingley waited.
Elizabeth had believed she would enjoy seeing Miss Bingley’s face when she first encountered Mr. Darcy and learned he had been hiding himself away in the guest wing of the house, but this game had grown tiresome. Charles had already informed Miss Bingley of Mr. Darcy’s presence in any case, and Elizabethhad refused to eavesdrop near the study door to hear what the woman’s reaction might be. She did not wish to act like a child, no matter how sorely she was tempted.
She did not wish to tease Mr. Darcy either, not really. She wished to speak to him like the rational creature she knew herself to be.
She could tease him afterward.
His expression, when he did arrive, was stoic and perfectly composed. “Miss Bingley,” he said flatly, and then turned to Elizabeth. “Miss Bennet. I trust you have not suffered any lasting harm from your accident yesterday?”
“As you see, sir,” she replied with a little smile.
He returned it, though his smile was fleeting.
“Accident?” Miss Bingley asked slyly, as though she now had intelligence that might be of use to her. “You really must take care, Eliza. I had not thought you so clumsy, but I suppose traipsing through the woods as you do, a certain number of mishaps are inevitable.”
“This particular mishap was not my fault,” Elizabeth informed Miss Bingley pertly. It was the truth. She glanced at Mr. Darcy. It was also a tease.
Mr. Darcy said nothing, but he met Elizabeth’s eye, his gaze promising retribution. Elizabeth felt a little thrill in the pit of her stomach.
“They never are, are they, dear?” Miss Bingley asked, the sweetness of the words undercut with the rancour of the message.
Elizabeth did not reply, as Charles and Jane were arriving. Charles offered her his other arm and she took it without comment, though she would have rather Mr. Darcy offered his. Instead, Mr. Darcy was left to lead Miss Bingley into dinner. No doubt the deluded woman thought it a great honour to her.
She gathered her wits and determined not to be petty. It was beneath her.
Elizabeth was seated next to Charles and Mr. Darcy sat next to Jane, with Miss Bingley on Elizabeth’s other side. So close, yet too far away to speak to one another. It did not really matter, she consoled herself, dipping her spoon into her soup with rather more energy than required. It was not as though they could converse frankly in the presence of the other three people now seated at the dining table.
She placed her spoon down and waited for the footman to remove her bowl.
Charles leaned over just a bit. “Was there something wrong with your food?”
“Not at all,” she responded quietly. It was not the food, it was being so close to Mr. Darcy without being at liberty to speak with him. She was too anxious to eat.
He waited another moment, but when she did not elaborate, he gave her a sympathetic glance and resumed his meal.
Elizabeth’s eye wandered to the windows. It was dark, but there seemed to be something drifting in the wind. Was that . . .?
“It is snowing!” she exclaimed happily and stood to go look.
Miss Bingley huffed at the impropriety, lifting another spoonful of the soup to her lips.
“Oh,” Elizabeth said, half-turning to address the entire party. “I beg your pardon.”
“Not at all,” Charles said from just behind her. Elizabeth suspected that her new brother had stood and joined her to make her own breach of etiquette less noticeable, and she loved him for it.
“Does it not normally snow here?” he asked amiably.
“It varies,” Jane said from her seat at the table.
“There are many years where we have only rain and frost in December,” Elizabeth explained. “But last year was very cold, as you know, and the spring very wet.”
“It was the same in Derbyshire,” Mr. Darcy said. Elizabeth turned to face him, as he remained at the table. “Planting was delayed, and because there was so much rain in the summer, the harvest was smaller than normal.”
“But you have managed Pemberley so brilliantly that you will hardly see the difference.” Miss Bingley nearly purred her words.
