“Lizzy!” she heard an anxious voice exclaim. “Why do you sit here in the dark? Are you unwell?” It was Mary, yet Elizabeth had not heard any carriage approaching.
Mary lit a candle and seated herself beside her.
“What are you doing here?” Elizabeth asked.
“I was uneasy. You cannot stay alone like this; come at least and pass the evening in a chamber at Netherfield, if you feel unwell.”
To her own surprise, Elizabeth consented without any other word.
Mary assisted her in dressing and arranging her hair; all was done in haste, though there remained ample time before dinner. Yet it was the rhythm Elizabeth herself imposed, and Mary could silently perceive how eager she was to reach Netherfield, until the truth appeared with painful clearness in her mind.
“You love him,” she said in the carriage, and Elizabeth answered simply,
“Yes.”
Mary’s heart contracted with pain and regret. She had long suspected it, yet the manner in which Elizabeth confessed betrayed the depth of her despair.
“Tell him!” Mary said.
“He knows,” murmured Elizabeth.
“But you cannot leave matters thus.”
“And if he were to break his engagement, how could I then address Mr Clinton, to whom I stand bound by a solemn promise to manage the school for five years? Never would I break my word, and abandon the Academy.”
“Then you will marry Mr Clinton,” Mary said softly.
“Perhaps…when I have emerged a little from this suffering.”
They ascended the steps hand in hand and paused in the hall.
“Would you rather go directly upstairs?” Mary asked even if she knew the answer, and Elizabeth shook her head without speaking.
Then they entered the drawing-room, bright as day, and all applauded at her appearance. Still, all that she saw was Darcy, standing at a distance by a window, turning as the commotion occasioned by her appearance began.
Their eyes met across the room, indifferent to the noise around them, and for both, the evening became unique.
∞∞∞
“You came,” he said after dinner, when they met before the fireplace in the drawing-room, where they had sometimes conversed in former times.
“It was not the wisest choice,” she confessed with sincerity, avoiding his gaze and looking instead at the company—family and friends—thankful that none observed them too busy to surround the future bride and groom.
“No,” he agreed. “Yet I wondered at not finding you.” These were his words, but his eyes spoke another truth—that he had been desperate not to find her there; and she blushed, for she felt it.
“I could not stay away,” Elizabeth murmured, and, as before, the meaning was different—she had been desperate to know him so near and yet not see him.
He smiled at her smile, for they thought and felt alike.
“We are ever parting,” Elizabeth said at last. “It had become a habit to say goodbye.”
“Yes, and we must part indeed…once and for all…for ever—”
“After tomorrow,” she said quickly; and he nodded with relief.
“After tomorrow, Elizabeth.” Her name he uttered in a whisper, yet she heard it and whispered in return,
“Agreed, Fitzwilliam.”
