Elizabeth turned to look at her sister. Jane’s smile remained, but her cheeks coloured faintly, and for a moment Elizabeth saw the insult land.
“Yes,” Jane replied, steady and sincere. “It is my only job. And as for the income, it has never been about money for me.”
“Ah,” Caroline said smoothly. “It must be very simple, then.”
Bingley opened his mouth, but Darcy spoke first, his voice even and unmistakably firm.
“There is nothing simple about teaching. It requires patience, intelligence, and a discipline most people lack.”
The table stilled.
Mrs. Hurst’s expression sharpened, and Caroline’s eyes flicked toward Darcy with displeasure.
“Oh, Mr. Darcy,” Caroline recovered quickly, her smile brittle. “I didn’t mean it requires no patience. Only that, as Louisa says, living on such an income suggests one does not intend to live above the average.”
She tilted her head, feigning practicality.
“No disrespect to teaching high schoolers, but that income may not buy Teslas, after all. Or pay for children in the Ivy League.”
Darcy’s gaze lifted at last, cool and controlled.
“Not everyone measures a life by what it can purchase,” he said quietly. “Some people are content to do work that matters, rather than work that merely impresses.”
A beat of silence followed, sharp as glass.
Mrs. Hurst’s eyes narrowed, her fork pausing halfway to her plate. Caroline’s smile held, though it looked strained now, as though she were forcing it into place.
Darcy returned his attention to his plate as if he had said nothing remarkable.
But Elizabeth saw the effect all the same.
The sisters had been checked, and they knew it. They sat like stone afterwards, moving only when they had to, lifting their forks with stiff precision as though eating were the only way to keep from looking utterly awkward.
Elizabeth felt something twist—irritation, confusion, reluctant awareness. She wasn’t sure which emotion had struck first. Why was Darcy suddenly so vocal in defending the less affluent in the room? Why was he defendingthem—her family?
While she was still grappling with the thought, she caught Bingley shift beside her, his shoulders squaring, lips parting like he was about to speak.
A sharp chime broke the air.
Darcy’s phone rang, slicing through the refined quiet like a knife. He glanced at the screen—his jaw stiffened, the muscle twitching once.
“Excuse me,” he said, rising immediately. “I need to take this.”
Without asking for permission, Darcy pushed back his chair and left the table. His exit was quiet, controlled—but the tension didn’t leave with him. It pooled around the table, thick and sour.
Chapter TWELVE
THE DINNER continued with scattered conversation, the Bingley sisters attempting—without much success—to diffuse the earlier tension. Their efforts came in the form of polite tones, overly simple phrasing, and the occasional light jab, all wrapped in a thin veil of civility that barely masked their condescension.
When the plates were cleared, Bingley stood and turned to Jane. “Would you mind helping me pick a tie for my speaking event next week?” he asked with a smile.
Elizabeth nearly rolled her eyes. A tie-picking session, a full week in advance? Sure. That was either code for a quiet moment of privacy—or something far less innocent.
Jane followed him into the adjoining room, tossing Elizabeth a small smile on her way out—one that all but confirmed this had nothing to do with fashion advice.
With Darcy still absent and Mr. Hurst having mumbled something about turning in early before disappearing upstairs, Elizabeth suddenly found herself alone with the Bingley sisters— and a room that seemed to be losing oxygen by the second.
The brief silence after Mr. Hurst’s exit barely lasted. As soon as his footsteps faded beyond earshot, Caroline cleared her throat with theatrical subtlety.
