“No, I—” Elizabeth stopped, and in a quieter voice said, “Would you please let her know I should like to speak to her?”
Her companion disappeared through a door at the back of the lobby without responding. Elizabeth, having turned to watch her go, noticed Darcy and flushed a deep red.
“Mr Darcy! What are you doing here?”
He hesitated. He would rather not mention Bingley lest she attempt to speak to him herself, but he disliked the idea of lying to her. She did not give him the chance to think of an alternative.
“Forgive me. That is none of my business. Good day.” She curtseyed and left.
Darcy stared after her, taken aback by her manner. She had gone without her friend and did not appear to be otherwise accompanied. Furthermore, it appeared that, now she was outside, she knew not where to go, for she stood on the spot, looking anxiously up and down the street. When she took three steps in one direction, only to whip around and stare back the other way, wringing her hands, his mind was made up.
“Mr Darcy?” the porter asked again.
“One moment,” he told him, then he crossed the lobby in quick steps and left the hotel.
“Is everything well, Miss Bennet?”
With a pained expression, she admitted, “I have lost my bearings. I did not pay attention on the way here, and now…”
“Where do you wish to go?”
“Henrietta Street. It is not far.”
It was above half a mile, but Darcy knew such a distance would be no obstacle to Elizabeth.
“If you would be kind enough to point me in the right direction?” she added.
“Allow me to accompany you.”
“Oh! Thank you, but that is not necessary. I would not inconvenience you.”
“Is your friend coming back?”
A strange look passed over her countenance. “Mrs Randall is my mother’s friend, and I do not know what her plans are.”
“Then please, allow me.” He gestured for her to walk with him, and when she eventually fell in beside him, he set them off towards Haymarket, absurdly pleased that her brief reluctance had not lasted. She was nevertheless uncommonly quiet, repeatedly looking away to the other side of the street, each time sighing quietly or biting her lip. He hated seeing her distressed.
“Mrs Randall was ungenerous to abandon you in that manner.”
She sighed more openly. “I cannot wholly blame her. I rather imposed myself on her.”
Darcy did not presume to ask for an explanation, but she must have caught his curious glance, for she gave one regardless.
“I did not wish to end our conversation, but she had a prior engagement and had to leave. So, I walked with her, when I think she would have preferred that I had not. As would my uncle’s coachman—he is still waiting at Henrietta Street.”
“He would have had to wait considerably longer had it been any other woman who decided to walk across London and back.”
She did not reply, and they strolled in silence for a while, but not wishing to be accused of taciturnity again, Darcy forced himself to speak. “Are you enjoying your stay in town?”
“We have not done much beyond a little shopping and some morning calls. My sister has not felt in much of a humour for social engagements.”
Darcy understood her implication and rued the speed with which they had arrived at the topic of Bingley. It hung like a spectre between them—but there it would have to stay, for he had no intention of broaching the matter, or allowing her to, if he could help it. He diverted them to a less incendiary subject.
“My sister very much enjoyed meeting you last week.”
“As I did her.”
“Was she what you expected?”
