Miss Bingley’s gaze had not left him. “So very studious you are, Mr Darcy,” she remarked. “One might suppose you and the earl were plotting something grand!”
He did not lift his eyes from the page. “If I were, I should hardly do so at Bingley’s escritoire.”
“That is true,” she conceded. “You would prefer privacy for such things.”
The pen paused.
Darcy finished the sentence he had begun, then set the pen down. He read what he had written with a critical eye, weighing omission as carefully as inclusion.
I have observed nothing that cannot be accounted for by season, circumstance, or coincidence,he had written.
It was almost accurate. It was also incomplete. He folded the letter without sealing it and rose. “You propose an excellent idea, Miss Bingley. I will finish this in my room and shall send it down in the morning.”
Bingley crossed the room. “Is everything… quite all right?”
“Entirely.”
It was true, in the narrowest sense. No illness. No loss. No crisis demanding immediate remedy.
Nothing urgent at all, in fact.
Elizabeth had not intendedto leave her room.
That, at least, was what she told herself as she crossed to the wardrobe and drew out a gown. It was not the one Jane had laid ready the night before—too neat, too expectant—but an older favourite, plain in cut and forgiving in colour. One that suggested comfort rather than recovery, and would invite no comment should she be seen in it.
She dressed with care that bordered on caution. Not haste, exactly, but an awareness of every fastening, every small exertion. When she reached for her shawl, she paused, testing herself without movement. Her head was clear. Her limbs answered her without protest—too easily.
She froze and glanced at the open door leading to Jane’s room, then slowed her movements.
Jane must not suspect—not because there was anything to hide, but because she did not yet know how to name what she felt. Until she did, it was simpler to let her sister believe the illness lingered.
Elizabeth crossed to the looking glass and adjusted her hair with deliberate imperfection. A pin left slightly loose. A curl allowed to escape. She looked—if not unwell—then at least not perfectly restored.
It would do.
Elizabeth had just finished fastening the last pin at her shoulder when the door moved. Not a draft. Not the soft complaint of settling wood. It opened—slowly, with unmistakable pressure from the other side—until the latch yielded and the door swung inward by a careful hand’s breadth.
The dog stood in the passage, one great paw braced against the panel as if he had pushed it there and was now considering whether further effort was required. He did not cross the threshold. He did not lower his head. He simply looked at her, dark eyes intent, his stillness so complete it felt deliberate.
“Well,” she said faintly. “That is exceedingly improper.”
Brutus withdrew his paw and sat.
“You have the wrong room, sir. No doubt your master is downstairs. Shoo!”
He only blinked at her.
Elizabeth did not move. Nor, she realised a moment later, did she feel the least inclination to shut it. The dog’s presence filled the narrow space without urgency, without threat. He was not asking. He was not waiting for permission. He was simply guarding her.
“Go on,” she told him, summoning more firmness than she felt. “I am quite capable of managing my own whereabouts.”
He did not stir.
“Lizzy?” Jane’s voice came from the adjoining room. “Are you dressed? I thought I heard—” Jane appeared at the threshold just as the dog rose.
Brutus stepped back into the passage, clearing the doorway entirely, then turned and sat again, this time angled toward the corridor beyond, as if the matter had been resolved.
Elizabeth looked from the open door to the dog and found, to her own irritation, that the answer had arrived before the question was finished.
