***
A few hours of restless sleep did little to settle Elizabeth’s troubled mind. At breakfast the next morning, she found herself consumed not only by the mystery of Lady Catherine’s murder but also by Mr. Darcy’s reluctant confession of admiration. The admission unsettled her: part of her was flattered, yet part seethed with indignation at his insensible frankness. How could he speak so lightly, so plainly, of her connections, and be so unmindful of the wound he gave? Had he spoken those words two days earlier, she would have rejected him without hesitation. Now she sat torn between gratitude for his candour and resentment of his conceit.
Before long, he entered the room accompanied by Colonel Fitzwilliam. Mr. Darcy’s eyes sought hers the instant he arrived, and Elizabeth quickly averted her gaze. Flustered, she turned to Maria and feigned interest in her conversation with Miss de Bourgh. The meal passed in a strained quiet until the group moved to the drawing room.
There, confined in such close proximity to Mr. Darcy for much of the morning, Elizabeth’s discomfiture grew. Conversation had dwindled to a hush so profound that even the usually loquacious parrots fell silent. Mr. Darcy kept apart, leaning against a window. Whether he looked at her, she could not tell, for she did not dare raise her eyes. Yet uncertainty gnawed at her—along with curiosity. What matter could have been so urgent as to occupy him the whole of the night?
At last, she gathered her courage and met his gaze. A faint, almost apologetic smile, and the slight inclination of his head, seemed to invite her nearer. She went to him.
“The weather is finally improving,” he said as they observed the cloudy skies together.
“It is still windy, though the rain has stopped,” Elizabeth was a bit taken aback. She had half expected him to resume the conversation of the previous night, not to discuss the weather.
With a discreet gesture, Mr. Darcy led her towards the more distant window in the room, away from prying ears. “Miss Bennet, I need your help with a matter of a delicate nature.”
“Pray, go on,” she urged.
Glancing around to ensure their privacy, he continued, “As you already know, there was an accident last night, one far graver than I initially believed. Mrs. Jenkinson. . . died.”
Elizabeth’s eyes opened wide and she covered her mouth to silence her gasp. Mr. Darcy placed a steadying hand on her back and guided her to face a painting on the far wall.
“The others know little of this,” he said. “Only the colonel is aware. I agreed with my cousin that we should delay telling Anne. She has suffered enough with her mother's loss to learn of another tragedy so soon.”
“But what should I tell her?” Elizabeth whispered. “She will demand to know about her companion at any moment.”
“Say she is suffering from a bad cold,” Mr. Darcy said quietly. “The servants have been instructed what to say. Colonel Fitzwilliam plans to sail to the mainland this afternoon to report her and Lady Catherine’s deaths. I fear this whole affair is beyond Mr. Bevan’s capacity.”
The gentleman might have been proud, even often conceited, but dishonesty was not among his faults. He knew he was at risk and that Mr. Bevan’s inexperience might have worked in his favour, yet he still sought the truth.
The possibility of him leaving struck Elizabeth with force, and a surge of anxiety overtook her. Without thinking, she blurted, “Are you going as well?”
“No. Miss de Bourgh is unfit to run the estate. And, given the latest occurrences, with my cousin gone, I am much needed here.”
She let out a breath of relief, only to tense again as she grasped the seriousness of the task with which he had entrusted her. Deception was hardly her talent, yet it was for the young lady’s sake. “Worry not, sir, I shall do my best to keep her distracted. Poor Mrs. Jenkinson. What an unfortunate accident!”
“So it is said,” Mr. Darcy murmured.
“And poor Miss de Bourgh—she will be devastated.”
Mr. Darcy’s gaze flicked towards the others then returned to her. To Elizabeth’s astonishment, his hand cupped her elbow only to retreat at once, as though he himself had regretted the liberty.
“Miss Elizabeth, we must finish the conversation we began last night.”
Her heart pounded. To accept his invitation would only feed the specific hopes she meant to discourage, and she could not allow it. She forced herself to breathe, to steady her voice, lest she wound too cruelly a man who had laid his heart before her, albeit unwillingly.
“I am sorry, sir, but your declaration did not suit my feelings. I found it quite offensive.” Her tone was gentle but firm. “Last night, you spoke as though your heart had betrayed your better judgement, as if loving me were some unfortunate compulsion you could no longer resist.”
She cast a quick glance towards the others—a subtle signal that this was neither the time nor the place for such avowals.
“When all this ends,” she continued, “I shall explain myself further. Then you will understand why the sentiments you confessed—offered more as a burden than a blessing—can never be returned. I could never love a man who thought so little of me and my family. The same man whose selfish disdain for others’ feelings tore my dearest sister from her happiness.”
Mr. Darcy’s smile faded as he absorbed her words. A heartbeat passed in uneasy silence. Elizabeth silently prayed for a reason to withdraw.
Miss de Bourgh gave her one.
“. . . visit Mrs. Jenkinson in her room? I long to know how she is!” said the heiress.
Both Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy turned.
