“Only that his name is Mr Redbridge, not where we might find Mrs Randall.”
He caught the flash of disappointment on her countenance before she dropped her gaze, mumbling, “I am much obliged to you for discovering that much.”
He wanted desperately to lift her chin, to look into her eyes and assure her she need not worry, that he would do whatever it took to find her mother. He knew she would not welcome his touch, but when she raised her eyes of her own volition and let him see her misery, the struggle not to pull her into an embrace was overwhelming.
“It is a beginning,” he said. “Something may come of it.”
She gave him a wan smile and nodded, then looked about awkwardly. “We had better not talk for too long. It will only encourage them.”
It was on the tip of Darcy’s tongue to tell her that he did not care, but she looked so uncomfortable in his presence that for her sake, he acquiesced, wishing her well and walking away. He searched the room for his cousins, hoping to persuade them to leave, but changed his mind when Elizabeth was called upon to play. He returned to his seat and did his best to pretend that he had not noticed how those nearest him watched him watching her approach the instrument.
He guessed that she would choose her usual piece, and he was right; he smiled as she played the familiar opening bars.He supposed it was because it was familiar to her, for it must be nerve-racking to perform in front of such an audience. Yet, watching her play, he quickly dismissed that notion. Elizabeth was nervous of neither attention nor rank—she was far too self-assured. She played it because it pleased her.
She was approaching that part of the song that she always sang incorrectly, and Darcy watched her mouth enveloping each word, his stomach roiling in anticipation of her error. She sang the words wrong. His chest squeezed. She was completely unaware, entirely unconcerned with what anyone thought, and her song sounded sublime regardless. But then, Elizabeth did everything in her own way, and she always did it with unfaltering elan, and good Lord how he loved her for it.
His smile fell away. He felt winded. Love? No wonder he had been unable to reason himself out of it—there was nothing rational about being in love. Perhaps that was why he had not comprehended that he was. It was an overwhelming and bleak realisation. Of course he loved her. She was the finest woman he had ever known.
And she hated him.
He came quietly to his feet and quitted the room, leaving his apologies for his hosts and his carriage for his cousins, and trudged the long walk home in the dark.
27
TRUE COLOURS
Elizabeth took the post from Hannah and thanked her. The uppermost letter, she could immediately see, was from her father. She tucked it into her pocket, for she dared not risk her sister asking to read it. Mr Bennet’s last letter had been full of melancholic remonstrations against her mother and repeated warnings as to the consequences of her continued absence—as if it was in Elizabeth’s power to do anything about it. Much though she pitied him, she was growing increasingly frustrated with his reliance on her to resolve the matter. Her sagacious and constructive solution was to continue to disregard his letters.
“Still nothing from Mama,” Jane said once Hannah had left. “Do you think it odd that she has not written to us?”
Elizabeth broke the seal on her second letter. “I think it more than odd—I think it unpardonably selfish.”
“Unless she is too ill to write. Remember how unwell Mrs Randall was.”
Elizabeth remembered perfectly well. “She is not too ill, Jane—but I am too cross to think about it. Let us talk of something else.”
Something else promptly presented itself for their diversion, when the content of Elizabeth’s next missive turned out to be so absurd it made her laugh.
“What is it?” Jane asked.
“An invitation to dine with the Countess of Marling.”
“Are you acquainted?”
“Yes. She was at Lady Rothersea’s soiree. But I shall not be going.”
“Why not?”
“It is addressed to me and Mr Darcy. Which is ridiculous. Lady Marling knows very well that we are not engaged, and even if we were, I could not accept on his behalf—only his wife could do that. She is making a point, and I shall not give her the satisfaction of rising to it.” Elizabeth tossed the invitation aside and flopped backwards on the sofa. After a moment of silence, she lifted her head and peered at Jane, who was smirking at her embroidery as she worked on it. “You would laugh at my misery?”
“Most people would be flattered that the first circles had formed such a high opinion of them. You are the only person I know who could find a way to be offended by an invitation from a countess.”
“Oh Jane, you must admit it is nonsense,” Elizabeth said, sitting up. “Such a furore over a silly, unfounded rumour.”
Jane raised her eyebrows and said, gently, “Are you sure it is unfounded? You certainly seem to have seen a good deal of Mr Darcy since we came to town. How many times have you met now—a dozen?”
“Nowhere near that many! Seven or eight. Ten at most—and none of them by design.”
Jane smiled pityingly. “Ten since you came to London. Many more if you include his time in Hertfordshire. Plenty of people get engaged on flimsier acquaintances. Ten is more times than Iwas in company with Mr Bingley before you decided we must be in love.”
