“I trust you slept well, Mr. Darcy?” Lady Eleanor inquired withthe particular brightness reserved for invalids who were clearly not sleeping well at all.
“Tolerably,” he replied, taking the seat opposite Elizabeth. He avoided her direct gaze, focusing instead on the tea a footman poured for him. “The storm has passed, I see.”
“Indeed, though the grounds are rather sodden,” Lady Eleanor observed. “Mr. Pullen reports several fallen branches near the south pasture.”
Darcy nodded, his throat unexpectedly raw when he swallowed his tea. He reached for a piece of toast but found his appetite lacking. Elizabeth’s presence created an uncomfortable awareness he could not entirely suppress. The knowledge he possessed should have inspired only proper contempt, yet he found himself instead filled with a strange protective fury directed not at her, but at Collins.
“I have written to Bingley this morning,” he announced, partly to fill the awkward silence, partly to observe Elizabeth’s reaction. “Regarding potential society connections for Miss Mary. Mr. Bingley has connections throughout Yorkshire and may prove useful in making appropriate introductions.”
Elizabeth’s head lifted sharply, her fine eyes brightening with interest. “Mr. Bingley? Is he well?”
“I believe so, though we have not corresponded recently,” Darcy replied, studying her expression carefully. “His duties as a newly married man likely occupy much of his attention.”
A shadow passed across Elizabeth’s features, quickly masked by a polite smile. “Yes, of course. Jane wrote so happily of their first months of marriage. I—” She stopped abruptly, as if catching herself in an impropriety.
Darcy pressed his advantage, driven by a need to confirm his suspicions. “You correspond with your sister, then?”
Elizabeth’s cheeks colored slightly. “Not directly. The Gardiners occasionally include news of her in their letters.”
“I see.”
Elizabeth hesitated, then spoke with careful dignity. “If it wouldnot be an imposition, might you convey my regards to Jane when you write to Mr. Bingley? I know it’s presumptuous, but I do so miss her letters.”
The wistful quality in her tone confirmed everything Darcy had suspected. Here was clear evidence of Elizabeth’s social exile—a woman forbidden from corresponding with her own family due to the shame she had brought upon them.
Despite her situation—perhaps because of it—he found himself nodding. “Of course. They married while I was still indisposed, although I was apprised of it later on.”
“Then you remember my sister, Jane?” Elizabeth asked, leaning forward slightly. Something like hope flickered in her eyes, as if his recollection of her family carried unexpected significance.
Darcy shifted uncomfortably, aware of the sudden tension around the breakfast table. “I’m afraid I do not recall her with any clarity, having not attended the wedding.” He hesitated, then added, “I do recall that Bingley’s sisters objected vehemently to the match. They considered it far beneath his station.”
Lady Eleanor’s sharp intake of breath cut through the silence. “Fitzwilliam! What an extraordinary thing to say at breakfast.”
Elizabeth’s face had drained of color, her earlier animation replaced by a still dignity that pained him to witness. She lowered her gaze to William, busying herself with adjusting the child’s collar.
An irrational urge to offer comfort seized Darcy, so powerful he nearly reached across the table to touch her hand. He checked himself just in time, appalled by the impropriety of such an impulse. What was it about this woman that continually prompted him to forget himself?
“I shall mention your regards,” he said stiffly. “I am certain she would be gratified to know of your continued health.”
Her exclusion from corresponding with her sister, hidden away at the grange without attending her sister’s wedding, spoke volumes about the depth of her disgrace. His hands clenched of their own accord. God help Mr. Collins if he were indeed the miscreant whohad abandoned Elizabeth and her son. Even if she had refused his offer before knowing about the child, an honorable man would have renewed his addresses.
Then again, why was Darcy perversely pleased that the toad hadn’t?
A piece of bread hit Darcy’s forehead, flung from William’s direction. Elizabeth’s mortification was immediate.
“William! No, sir, we do not throw food.” She pried another piece of bread from the child’s fingers. “I do apologize, Mr. Darcy.”
“It is of no consequence,” he replied, finding his voice oddly hoarse. He cleared his throat, which produced a sharp pain he attributed to speaking too much upon waking. “He is clearly exhibiting the Bennet enthusiasm.”
Now, where did that notion come from? He hadn’t met any Bennets other than Mary and Elizabeth. The baby, however, took his words as encouragement, his dark eyes lighting with mischievous delight.
“Da! Da! Da!” William crowed, bouncing in his high chair with such vigor that Elizabeth had to steady it with one hand.
“William, please,” Elizabeth’s cheeks flushed with embarrassment.
But William was not to be silenced. He gurgled and kicked his feet against the wooden tray, all dimples and sparkling eyes, his tiny hands opening and closing in Darcy’s direction as if demanding to be picked up.
A peculiar notion struck him then, so absurd he dismissed it immediately. The child resembled no one so much as Darcy’s own father in the miniature portrait he kept at Pemberley. But that was impossible, a trick of his confused mind and growing headache.
