“Oh, you have no idea what you have missed,” Lydia cried. “Lizzy kissed Mr. Darcy!”
“I did no such thing,” Elizabeth said quickly. “He kissedme.”
“But you allowed it,” Kitty added, laughing.
Mary raised her eyebrows slightly as she approached the bed. “Is this true?”
Elizabeth, now quite unable to retreat, said with as much dignity as she could command, “It occurred – and was not unwelcome.”
Mary seated herself, the others making room for her. “This is a serious matter,” she said. “Such distinctions are not lightly given.”
“No, indeed,” Lydia returned. “And I wish to know every particular.”
“You shall know nothing of the kind,” Elizabeth said, though not without a smile.
“But what was it like?” Kitty asked in a lower voice.
Elizabeth shook her head. “You must be content with knowing that it was… sufficient.”
Lydia laughed. “Sufficient! What a very unsatisfactory account.”
Jane, who had been quietly observing, pressed Elizabeth’s hand.
“I think,” she said gently, “we may all be satisfied.”
Elizabeth met her sister’s eyes and smiled.
***
The morning, though advanced toward noon, retained something of its earlier softness, and the arrival of a carriage at Longbourn produced no small degree of expectation.
Elizabeth, who had been at the window more than once without owning it, was the first to observe it.
“It is Mr. Bingley,” she said.
Jane, who had been seated near her, started slightly but did not rise at once. By the time the gentlemen were shown in, however, she was composed. Or nearly so.
Mr. Bingley entered with an eagerness he did not attempt to disguise. “Miss Bennet,” he began.
Jane curtsied, her colour heightened, her smile unsteady for only a moment. “Mr. Bingley.”
Nothing more was said immediately, yet much was understood.
Darcy, who followed more quietly, made his compliments with proper civility, but his attention, though general in appearance, was not without direction.
He was sensible – almost at once – of something altered.
Miss Lydia’s eyes were unusually bright; Miss Kitty observed him with a curiosity less disguised than usual; even Miss Mary regarded him with a degree of seriousness that bordered upon examination.
He might have attributed it to chance, had Elizabeth not blushed. It was not merely colour but consciousness. Darcy understood.
A brief pause. Then, with an inward composure not entirely undisturbed, he accepted the conclusion.
She had spoken of it. He could not resent it. Indeed, he could not be surprised.
If it had been her first such moment…
He checked the thought.
