Jane’s hand brushed her arm, a silent question.
Elizabeth forced herself forward.
Darcy inclined his head. “Miss Bennet.”
“Mr. Darcy.”
Miss Bennet?He had never called her that before. It had always been Elizabeth.
Elizabeth managed to swallow, but it did little to ease the sudden constriction in her chest. The air between them tightened, stretched thin with everything they had not said.
Before either could manage more, Caroline Bingley appeared, her smile sharp enough to cut.
“Elizabeth,” she said, voice sweet without warmth. “How… unexpected.”
Elizabeth returned the smile with equal politeness. “Miss Bingley.”
Caroline’s gaze flicked over her dress, her posture, her very presence, as though assessing an item that had wandered into the wrong room.
“I didn’t know you’d be coming,” Caroline said, her smile fixed a fraction too tightly.
Bingley stepped almost instinctively between them. “I asked Jane to bring her.”
Caroline’s brows lifted. “You should have told me, at least. We would have prepared for an extra guest.”
Bingley’s expression sharpened, though his voice remained pleasant.
“It’s my house, Caroline. I don’t have to tell you anything.” Then, with a pointed ease, he added, “Besides, you didn’t know Darcy would be here either, and I don’t hear you complaining abouthispresence.”
That seemed to swallow the argument, but it also planted something uncomfortable in Elizabeth’s mind.
A setup.
Jane and Bingley had ensured they would both be here.
Or was it only Bingley?
Elizabeth shot Jane a look, quick and questioning. Jane’s eyes widened slightly, her expression an immediate denial of any scheme.
Darcy, for his part, said nothing at all. He remained near the window, quiet and withdrawn, as though distance could protect him from the tension settling in the room.
Dinner was announced soon after, and the dining room was another quiet display of wealth: candles, crystal, and linen folded with precision. Elizabeth found herself seated opposite Darcy, close enough to notice the tension in his jaw whenever conversation stalled.
He was awkward in a way she had not expected, as though he, too, were caught off balance.
Conversation moved around them, polite and glittering. Jane spoke easily with Bingley, her gentleness smoothing the table, but Mrs. Hurst seemed determined to find the seams.
“So, Jane,” she said, tilting her head, “this teaching position of yours… is it your only occupation?”
Jane blinked, still smiling. “Yes. I teach primary school.”
“How… wholesome,” Mrs. Hurst murmured, as though the word meant small. “But that doesn’t quite answer my question.”
“Pardon?” Jane said, still polite.
“I asked if it is your only job,” Mrs. Hurst continued, her tone sharpening with false concern. “In these times, one cannot simply live on such a meagre income… unless one expects someone else to pay their bills.”
Elizabeth’s fingers tightened around her fork. She understood the implication of Louisa Hurst’s comment perfectly. And she knew this wasn’t the first time Louisa had spoken to Jane. There had been phone calls, casual messages, even a few previous visits to this house—though Elizabeth couldn’t say for sure whether Jane had met the sisters during those. Still, the remark wasn’t casual. It was pointed. A reminder. A carefully veiled nod to the financial gap between them, slipped into conversation like sugar in tea—meant to dissolve but still leave a taste.
