Though Georgiana shyly hung her head, she was smiling at the same time. “You, too, are too generous, Miss Bennet. I am not talented; I only practice a great deal.”
“I envy anyone with such discipline, for I lack it entirely,” Elizabeth told her.
Georgiana laughed softly. “I doubt that.”
They spoke then with ease, the conversation flowing more naturally than Elizabeth had expected. Georgiana’s reserve proved no barrier once the subject turned to music, and Elizabeth found herself warming to her with surprising speed.
With a start, Elizabeth realised she had acted exactly wrong. Thinking of Georgiana as a shy, sweet young lady, she had wished to put her at her ease, but she ought to have done exactly the opposite. They were being observed.
Not furtively, not crudely, but with that peculiar attentiveness that signalled interest rather than mere curiosity. She saw it in the angle of a gentleman’s head, in the carefulstillness of a lady’s posture as she listened while pretending not to.
They had failed again.
By introducing Georgiana to her, by allowing the conversation to proceed with such obvious harmony, they had done precisely what they ought not to have done. Instead of diminishing the rumour, they had strengthened it. What could be more persuasive than a gentleman presenting his sister to the woman he was supposed to care for?
Elizabeth felt a flicker of frustration, quickly suppressed.
She had agreed to the plan. She would not reproach Mr Darcy now, not here. Yet she could not deny the familiar sense of irritation at how easily things slipped out of control in his presence.
The bell rang, calling the audience back to their seats.
Mr Darcy inclined his head. “May we join you?”
Elizabeth nodded, for the damage was already done. They took their places once more, Georgiana seated between them. Elizabeth listened to the remainder of the recital with less focus than before, her thoughts returning again and again to the eyes she felt upon them.
When it ended, she rose with a sense of relief. The sense of being watched grew tiresome. But though likely a failure in terms of their hidden plans, the concert had at least some pleasures.
“I am glad we came,” she said to Georgiana sincerely. “It was a pleasure.”
Georgiana smiled, a little shy again. “I am glad as well.”
Mr Darcy looked at Elizabeth, his expression thoughtful. “We shall meet again soon, I expect.”
Elizabeth inclined her head, careful to keep her tone neutral. “London is very obliging in that respect.”
They parted then, with careful politeness and an equally careful absence of warmth.
As Elizabeth took Mrs Gardiner’s arm and moved toward the door, she felt a curious mix of amusement and dismay.
The plan had not worked. That much was clear. And yet as she stepped out into the crisp afternoon air, she found her thoughts lingered not on the eyes that had followed her, nor on the whispering she could not quite hear, but on the quiet sincerity of Georgiana Darcy’s smile and the careful restraint in her brother’s manner.
Both unsettled her more than she cared to admit.
Elizabeth did not speak at first as the carriage carried them home.
Mrs Gardiner, sensitive to changes of mood, did not press her. She sat quietly, her hands folded, allowing Elizabeth the space to arrange her thoughts. The silence was not uncomfortable, but it was weighted. Both understood that something had shifted, even if neither was ready to name it.
At last, Elizabeth exhaled.
“Well,” she said lightly, “if the intention was to convince London that nothing of consequence exists between Mr Darcy and myself, I fear we have failed rather spectacularly.”
Mrs Gardiner smiled, though there was thoughtfulness beneath it. “It did not look like indifference.”
“No,” Elizabeth agreed. “It looked like civility. And worse, like understanding.”
She stared out the window, watching the familiar streets pass by. The afternoon light softened the edges of the city, yet it did nothing to soften her thoughts.
Mr Darcy had not behaved foolishly. Georgiana Darcy had not behaved coldly. She herself had neither pursued Mr Darcy, nor reviled him. Nothing had occurred that could be criticised outright, and that, Elizabeth suspected, was precisely the problem. There had been too much ease, too much quiet harmony, for speculation to lose interest.
