“I was on my way to call on you. If I might just take my horse?—”
“I do not think a call would be appropriate today.”
“Pardon?”
“I cannot allow you to come in.”
Darcy belatedly perceived the fire in her eyes. She was angry, then. He tried not to be vexed in turn, but it seemed unlikely the interview would go as he had imagined, and disappointment tugged resentfully at his composure.
“Might I enquire why not?”
“My sister is too distressed to see you.”
“Miss Bennet?”
“Yes. You recall her, I suppose? I find it difficult to believe you can have forgotten the unfeeling words you spoke to her at Mrs Hurst’s house. I assure you she has not.”
Darcy must have gripped the reins tighter, for Jupiter tossed his head in displeasure. He absently stroked his muzzle. “I have not forgotten, but I assumed you knew. Am I to understand that you have only just been informed?”
“Do you truly think I would have been indifferent to it, had I known? You think I would have willingly walked through London, sat to drink tea, danced a waltz—doneanythingto encourage rumours that I was involved with a man who holds my most beloved sister’s happiness in utter contempt?”
He took a long, measured breath. “I regret that my words gave you or your sister any pain, but they were necessary.”
She gaped at him. “You stand by them?”
“I do.”
“Jane is—” She paused as someone walked by them. Jupiter snorted impatiently into the hiatus, and Elizabeth resumed in a low but heated voice. “Jane is a gentleman’s daughter. Pray tell me why an alliance between her and the son of a tradesman should be ‘out of the question’.”
“Is this not all moot? Surely her heart is not still engaged.”
“If it were, it would be in vain, for it seems you have done everything in your power to keep her away from Mr Bingley.”
Darcy comprehended, with grim resignation, that he was going to have to tell her the truth.
“Can you deny it?” she demanded.
“I have no wish of denying it. If we might go somewhere more private, I shall explain. It is not a discussion to be had in the middle of Gracechurch Street.”
“Oh yes! Heaven forbid you should be seen in this part of town. I can only imagine what mortification it must have cost you to come into it. Pray do not remain on my account. Andyou must not feel under any obligation to keep your engagement with my aunt and uncle on Monday.”
Darcy regarded her with rising indignation. He had overlooked the inferiority of those very relations and come into this dreadful part of town to ask for her hand. It felt rather as though she had delivered it to him in a stinging blow to his cheek.
“You mistake my meaning, madam,” he said more coldly than he meant to.
“Do I? Will you tell me, then, that you do not disdain my aunt and uncle’s situation?”
“I trust you saw last night that I made every endeavour to engage them both.”
“I did, and foolishly, I thought that meant you recognised their worth. But in the cold light of day, the acquaintance is not quite so innocuous, is it?”
“No,” he snapped, tired of being admonished. “Their condition in life is decidedly beneath my own, and I will not be ashamed of observing as much—but neither will I scruple to admit that they conducted themselves very agreeably last night. Would that all your family could boast such decorum.”
“Is this about my mother?”
Darcy baulked. That was precisely his meaning, but he regretted invoking the matter so crudely. He opened his mouth to repeat his request that they go somewhere more private that he might explain, but Elizabeth anticipated him with a sharp exhalation and a shake of her head.
“You said I could depend on your secrecy—you all but insisted that I tell you my concerns. Now I find that you have taken what I said to you in confidence and used it as another excuse to justify your part in separating my sister from your friend.”
