At first, she did not look where she was going, only away—away from the mantel, away from Mr Collins. After several steps, her pace altered, her shoulders lowering by small degrees, as though something had loosened its hold. Darcy felt the answering pull at once: not pain, not weakness—only a persistent irritation, like a muscle refusing to settle no matter how carefully he adjusted himself.
Her gaze passed over Darcy—swiftly, without either visible pleasure or disdain—and fixed instead upon the officers standing a few feet to his left. She went to greet them at once.
When she stopped, she drew in a breath that lifted her chest fully, one hand touching her temple for the briefest moment before falling again. The strain that had carved itself about her mouth eased; the line at her brow softened, as though she had crossed some invisible threshold.
At the same instant, Darcy’s eyelid betrayed him again—once, twice in quick succession—an absurd, persistent twitch that refused command. He clenched his jaw and let his gaze drift, unwilling to be seen fussing over such a thing.
“Well!” Wickham said, turning to Miss Elizabeth as she came to a halt near them. “This is an improvement upon the afternoon. I was beginning to think the Lucases meant to overwhelm us with propriety before allowing a single agreeable face into the room.”
Miss Elizabeth let out a breath that was almost a laugh. “You have my sympathy. It appears propriety has been in robust health of late.”
Denny grinned. “You should hear Wickham complain when he is truly afflicted.”
“I do not complain,” Wickham said mildly. “I merely observe.”
“And endure?” Miss Elizabeth returned.
“Endurance is not my strongest virtue,” Wickham admitted. “I prefer variety. Conversation, for instance, that does not insist upon instructing me.”
Denny laughed again. “Then you are well placed. Miss Elizabeth has a talent for discouraging instruction.”
“I make no such promise,” she said. “Only that I listen selectively.”
“Wisely,” Wickham replied. He shifted his stance slightly, opening the small circle without breaking it. “Some subjects do suffer from being listened to too closely.” His gaze lifted then—not abruptly, but as if the thought itself had widened—and found Darcy where he stood nearby.
“You have been subjected to it longer than any of us, Darcy,” Wickham said, making a brief, careless gesture. “That rot Mr Collins was discoursing upon yesterday. I hope you did not suppose any of us took it seriously.”
Darcy did not answer at once—not because he had nothing to say, but because Miss Elizabeth had already spoken.
“Oh, I should hope not,” she said. “I have found that the more confidently a subject is explained to me, the less likely it is to improve my understanding of it.”
Her tone—dry, exact—caught his attention. He found himself watching her mouth as she spoke, the faint emphasis she placed uponconfidently, the quiet satisfaction of a thought well landed. The rest of the room receded. He was aware of Wickham again only when he resumed.
Wickham smiled. “Exactly my thought. A great many words expended to prove what requires none. One would think the matter settled generations ago, and yet it resurfaces whenever someone wishes to feel important.”
Wickham’s ease unnerved him. He spoke as though the matter were safely abstract, when Darcy knew too well how quickly such talk acquired shape once repeated aloud. Darcy felt the faint tug beneath his right eye again—irritating, insistent. He forced his mouth into stillness, held it there until the twitch subsided.
“Generations! My, that is an impressive talent,” Miss Elizabeth returned. “To say everything at once and nothing in particular and to never let old bones rest.”
Darcy’s attention sharpened further. She was engaged now—not merely teasing, but probing—and the knowledge set him on edge. He did not want her encouraged in this line of thought. He did not want Wickham entertaining her curiosity at all. The muscle along his cheek tightened without permission; he masked it at once by shifting his jaw, as though easing a stiffness that did not exist.
Denny grinned. “That sounds like half the men I’ve met since joining the regiment.”
“And all the sermons,” Miss Elizabeth added. “Though I am told one must be charitable.”
“Charity,” Wickham said, “need not extend to listening without end. Especially when one is reminded, again and again, of obligations attached to certain unwilling people.”
The words struck too near. Wickham was opening a door Darcy had spent years keeping firmly shut, and doing so before an audience he did not trust himself to disregard. A thin, crawling sensation traced the inside of his right arm, from elbow to wrist—nothing painful, merely intolerable. His fingers curled and uncurled once at his side before he stilled them.
Miss Bingley, who had drawn near enough to hear this, paused beside Darcy. “One would almost imagine you speak from experience, Mr Wickham.”
He inclined his head. “Only from long acquaintance with the subject. Some families acquire expectations as naturally as others acquire furniture, and are told it would be ungrateful to question either.”
Miss Bingley smiled. “Expectations are rarely without foundation.”
“Nor are they always welcome,” Wickham replied, just as pleasantly.
Darcy became acutely aware—too late—that he had been positioned within the circle without volition. Wickham had done it deftly, as though Darcy’s participation were a foregone conclusion. He had not spoken. He had not assented. And yet Elizabeth was now looking toward him, however curiously, as though waiting to see whether he would.
