Further down the table, Lydia was declaring that the supper was vastly inferior to the dancing, and that she should expire of fatigue if not immediately restored to the floor. Kitty contradicted her. Mary attempted to observe that moderation in amusement was always advisable but was not permitted to finish.
Soon enough, talk turned to music.
Mary required little encouragement. She rose with solemn eagerness, and Elizabeth’s fork paused mid-air. Across the table, she saw Darcy glance – not at Mary – but at her.
He understood.
Mary began. Her voice, though earnest, did not command the room. Lydia whispered audibly. Kitty stifled laughter. Elizabeth’s gaze drifted helplessly toward her father.
Mr. Bennet bore it for one verse – perhaps two – before saying, in tones of paternal authority disguised as indulgence, “That will do extremely well, my dear. You have delighted us sufficiently.”
Mary sat down, disappointed but obedient.
Mr. Collins, inspired by the subject, rose halfway from his chair.
“Music,” he announced, “is a most innocent diversion, and entirely compatible with clerical dignity – provided it be not indulged to excess.” He bowed gravely in Darcy’s direction, as though expecting theological confirmation.
Darcy inclined his head with polite neutrality.
“Miss Mary, you have been quite generous with us to share your music, and before all these people. I could listen to it forever.” Mr. Collins resumed his seat, content that he had discharged his reflection.
Throughout it all, Darcy remained composed. The room was loud; the manners imperfect; the expressions unguarded. Yet when Elizabeth’s eyes met his – apologetic, defiant, resigned all at once – he did not look away.
He had seen society at its most polished. This, at least, was sincere.
***
Elizabeth slipped from the supper table before the general movement began. No one remarked her absence; Lydia was engaged in loud complaint, Mary in injured dignity, and her mother in animated conversation. It was easily done.
The small retiring room beyond the corridor was cooler. She rested her hands briefly upon the edge of the washstand and regarded her reflection.
She had not meant to watch him.
And yet, throughout the evening, she had known precisely where he stood.
She had felt it – not by sight alone, but by that curious awareness which precedes the eye. When he crossed the room, when he paused, when he looked – she had known.
And she had not been surprised when he asked her to dance. That, perhaps, was the most surprising part of all. What startled her was learning that he had wanted to dance with her the previous two times.
She had always supposed his previous attentions to be reluctant civility. Even at Meryton – no, especially at Meryton – she had assumed he would rather have remained seated than stand beside her. When she refused him before, she had done so with an ease that now seemed… less admirable.
She had refused out of irritation. Out of spite, perhaps.
The word unsettled her. Had she been punishing him for that careless remark? For that moment when she had overheard him pronounce hertolerable– not handsome enough to tempt him?
Jane had urged her not to take it to heart. Jane, who had never been compared unfavourably to anyone in her life. But Elizabeth had grown accustomed to such comparisons. Her mother’s voice echoed easily enough in memory – that her beauty was but a shadow of her sister’s. It had been said lightly, often laughingly. Yet repetition lends weight to trifles.
Perhaps she had felt more than she admitted. She exhaled.
And yet tonight, he had not been reluctant.
He had been attentive. Engaged. Almost… earnest.
He really could be pleasant company – if he chose. That discovery disturbed her more than his former reserve. For it seemed he chose to be so in her presence.
And Charlotte. Elizabeth’s expression softened.
She had not expected that. She had known – of course she had known – that Charlotte was an afterthought. Mr. Darcy had asked her because he stood beside her. Because it was proper. Because she was watching.
