Two days had passedsince the walk to Meryton, and Darcy had already learned how little time a neighbourhood required to draw conclusions. Refusing Sir William Lucas’s invitation would have been read as withdrawal; attending it, at least, allowed him to hear what was said in his presence rather than beyond it. He therefore came to Lucas Lodge as expected, with Bingley beside him and his own intentions held firmly in check.
Sir William received them in the entry with a warmth that required no encouragement. “Mr Bingley, Mr Darcy, how very good of you to come. We are delighted, quite delighted.” He ushered them forward at once, speaking as he went of the pleasure of company and the fortune of such an afternoon.
The drawing room was already arranged for the purpose. Several neighbours were present, seated in small clusters that suggested conversation begun and paused rather than concluded. Miss Lucas stood near the tea table, conferring quietly with her mother. Mrs Philips occupied a chair by the window, her attention divided between the room and the door. Darcy took the chair indicated and tried to speak as little as possible. Tea had not yet been poured.
“But where are the Bennets?” Sir William wondered, glancing toward the hall. “Why, Mrs Bennet is always here first of everyone. Charlotte, my dear, did you not speak with Miss Elizabeth only yesterday?”
“I did,” Miss Lucas said. “Lizzy said they were surely coming. She did say she had been troubled with a rather persistent headache, though. Nothing serious, I am sure—but enough to delay them, perhaps.”
Mrs Philips shook her head. “Dear Lizzy is forever doing too much. Out walking without her bonnet again, no doubt. I daresay she has taken a cough, and she will not rest when she ought.”
“Quite so, quite so,” Sir William said. “But she is young and hearty, and what good is youth if one does not have a bit of gaiety?”
Darcy did not join in the speculation. The explanation was taken up and set aside with equal ease, and the room turned its attention to safer ground. Mrs Philips resumed her account of a recent party elsewhere; Sir William responded with approving exclamations; Lady Lucas moved between the chairs, greeting everyone, calling for a fresh cup, murmuring that tea was already cold and a fresh pot would be brought directly. Bingley accepted a biscuit he did not eat. The talk settled into the mild, circulating pattern of people filling time while waiting for others to arrive.
A burst of laughter sounded in the hall, and Sir William broke off at once. “Is that the Bennets? Oh! Why, no, but those fine fellows I met yesterday have come. Jolly good!”
The door opened before anyone could answer. Lieutenant Denny entered first, two officers close behind him, their voices still trailing the end of some private jest. Wickham followed last, his expression easy, his step unhurried as his gaze crossed the room and met Darcy’s without hesitation.
“How exceedingly welcome you are! Pray, come in, come in.” Sir William bowed and scraped to make himself amenable. Chairs were shifted, names exchanged, connections supplied with enthusiasm that required no encouragement. Wickham turned at once to answer a question put to him, his manner easy, his replies pitched to be heard without demanding attention. He laughed when expected to laugh, spoke when addressed, and gave no sign that anything lay between him and Darcy that was not entirely civil.
It was only a matter of time before Sir William got round to “introducing” Darcy to all the militia members, and Heaven only knew what he would say. No less, surely, than what was probably already circulating all Meryton about him, thanks to Collins.
It would not take much. A remark repeated with a flourish. A hesitation filled in by someone else. Collins had a talent for speaking with certainty where none was required, and Wickham—standing there so comfortably, answering when asked, declining to explain nothing at all—gave the room precisely the shape it needed to begin filling the gaps.
Bingley bent toward him. “It seems Sir William is a prodigiously welcoming host.”
Darcy did not reply. He watched Wickham accept a cup and thank the lady who offered it, watched the officers draw closer together, watched attention collect and redistribute itself in small, decisive movements. Whatever was said next would not remain contained. It never did.
The talk had drifted toward the window when a new rush of voices finally carried in from the passage. Mrs Bennet swept into the room still speaking, her flustered apologies—complete with one or two barbs toward her second daughter—tumbling over one another as she crossed the threshold. Her daughters followed close behind her and were already scanning the company for interest. Miss Elizabeth came in last.
She halted just inside the room, and Darcy marked it at once—not a pause of uncertainty, but the reflex of someone meeting resistance. Her smile came late and did not quite settle; a faint line appeared beside her eye, as though she were bracing against something she had learned to expect. There was nothing languid or coy in it. If anything, she looked prepared for endurance.
The recognition stirred sharply in him. Not curiosity—something nearer to alarm.
Mr Collins advanced at once beside her, his manner already shaped for possession, his smile fixed as though the moment belonged to him by right. Whatever he said did not carry across the room, but Miss Elizabeth’s response did. She recoiled—not backward, but inward—a quick, unmistakable withdrawal. Her hand lifted to her ear, fingers pressing there as though a sound had struck too near or too suddenly.
Darcy’s hand tightened around his glass before he was aware of the movement. It was an absurd response. He told himself so at once. And yet he could not look away.
She mastered herself quickly. She lowered her hand and spoke brightly to their host, with a smile that did not look like her own.
“Oh, Sir William, what is that I see on your mantel?” She turned her head decisively toward the far wall. “Is that a new volume of Fordyce?”
Sir William brightened. “Ah! You have an excellent eye, Miss Elizabeth. Pray, allow me—”
Mr Collins seized upon the opening with joy. “Indeed, sir, quite so—that volume is most instructive, most instructive indeed. One cannot but admire the care with which his words have been selected, particularly when they speak to—”
Sir William beamed and drew the book from the shelf. “Ah, you must allow me to show you—this one, for instance—”
Miss Elizabeth did not wait for the sentence to finish.
She moved quickly—too quickly to be accidental—her attention fixed solely on the narrow space that had opened before her. A chair clattered as her foot caught its leg; she checked herself with a sharp breath and a murmured, “I beg your pardon,” already past the lady she had nearly collidedwith.
“Lizzy!” Mrs Bennet called after her.
But Elizabeth did not turn.
Darcy found himself following her course across the room without conscious choice. As she passed out of the press near the mantel, something sharp flickered at the corner of his eye—a brief, involuntary spasm that vanished the moment he tried to still it. He blinked once, then again, annoyed, and fixed his attention back upon her.
