There was a pause, during which Bingley regarded Darcy with increasing curiosity.
“That is your difficulty in doing away with the rumours, I think: there is too much truth in them. You are fond of her,” he said at last.
Darcy did not answer at once.
The truth had been forming within him for some time, asserting itself gradually through resistance and denial untilthere was no room left for uncertainty. He had examined it from every angle, tested it against reason, weighed it against duty and consequence, and found that it remained unchanged.
He loved Elizabeth Bennet.
The knowledge brought no relief. It brought weight.
“Yes,” Darcy said quietly. “I am.”
Bingley’s face lit up at once. “Then there is nothing to be done but to act.”
Darcy shook his head. “I only wish it were so simple, but the situation is not straightforward. I cannot act, at least not in the sense that you mean.”
Bingley frowned. “You cannot mean that you will do nothing.”
“I mean,” Darcy said with measured clarity, “that I will do nothing dishonourable.”
“I cannot imagine what dishonour you apprehend.”
Darcy leaned back slightly, his gaze drifting toward the window. “She does not care for me.”
Bingley opened his mouth, then closed it again. “You cannot know that.”
“I do know it,” Darcy replied. “She agreed readily to a plan designed to separate us publicly. She offered no hesitation, no reluctance that might suggest regret.”
“Or,” Bingley countered gently, “she may be exercising propriety.”
Darcy smiled faintly. “You are generous.”
“I am hopeful,” Bingley said. “There is a difference.”
“If she felt as I do,” Darcy continued, “surely she would have given some sign. But there was nothing upon which I could pin my hopes.”
Bingley fell silent, considering this.
It was at that moment that they were hailed from across the room by a familiar figure. Colonel Fitzwilliam, who had known Bingley long enough to consider him his own friend as well as Darcy’s, looked over their table and, upon seeing their gestures of welcome, approached it.
“Darcy,” he said warmly. “Bingley. May I join you?”
“Of course,” Bingley replied.
Fitzwilliam seated himself, glancing between them with interest. “You look as cheerful as I have ever seen you, Bingley, but my cousin seems dreadfully serious. Well, then, Darcy, have you been weighed down by business or sentiment?”
“I suppose I must say sentiment,” Darcy replied reluctantly.
Fitzwilliam smiled knowingly. “Then I suspect I know the subject.”
“You may,” Bingley said with a chuckle.
Fitzwilliam turned to Darcy. “Then I shall add to it. Have you invited a lady to my mother’s ball yet?”
Darcy’s jaw tightened. “I have not.”
“You cannot intend to attend alone.”
