“Not with as little justice.” Bingley leaned forward. “You cannot imagine what patience is required of me.”
Darcy allowed himself the faintest smile. “I assure you, I can imagine a great deal.”
Bingley’s expression sharpened with immediate interest. “Can you?”
Darcy turned a page he had not read. “You have not been subtle, Bingley.”
“That is not an answer.”
“No,” Darcy replied calmly, “it is an observation.”
Bingley laughed, then shook his head. “I ought not press you. You reveal what you wish in your own time. Only do not wait so long that everyone else is made miserable by it.”
Darcy did not answer.
The remark, offered lightly, lodged where it would not easily be dismissed.
He had no wish to prolong uncertainty. Not his own, and certainly not Elizabeth Bennet’s. Yet he was increasingly persuaded that haste would serve neither of them. Something in her had begun to open toward him—not suddenly, not with youthful abandon, but with the caution of a woman who had learned the cost of misplaced hope and did not intend to surrender herself to it merely because she wished to. He respected that. More than respected it, he found himself almost grateful for it, difficult though it made his own restraint. What he sought from her must be given freely, not drawn out by pressure, gratitude, or emotional confusion. If he had once been in danger of being misunderstood, he was now resolved that no word or action of his should give rise to the same error again.
This resolution did not make him tranquil.
On the contrary, the more time he spent in her company, the more difficult composure became. He had thought, at the first, that admiration might settle into a form he could govern—thatesteem, once acknowledged, would become easier for having been named. He had been entirely mistaken. Nearness had only sharpened it. Her voice, her wit, the changing shades of her expression, the directness with which she answered when she chose to answer plainly—none of it diminished with familiarity. Everything increased.
And she had begun, in return, to meet him with less reserve.
It was not dramatic. Elizabeth was not a woman inclined toward open demonstrations where feeling was concerned. Nonetheless, he perceived the variance with a scrutiny so intense that he sometimes questioned his own ridiculousness. She no longer turned every serious remark aside with irony. She did not always retreat when conversation neared dangerous ground. Once or twice, when some shared understanding passed between them in company, she had allowed her gaze to rest in his for a moment longer than before. Such things might have meant nothing to another man. To Darcy, they meant everything.
One afternoon, when the weather had confined them all indoors and Mrs. Bennet had settled herself with a shawl and a catalogue of household concerns that required Jane’s attention, Elizabeth found herself near the farther window of the drawing room, a book in hand and no immediate prospect of being interrupted. Darcy, who had entered with Bingley and been made to sit, as usual, where Mrs. Bennet might best observe his civility, had endured the first quarter hour with decorous patience before taking the earliest acceptable opportunity to cross the room.
“What have you there?” he asked.
Elizabeth turned the book slightly so he might see the cover. “Only a volume of sermons my mother believes will improve me.”
“Only improve you?”
She smiled. “I confess the effort seems likely to prove excessive.”
Darcy took the chair nearest her, though not so near as to invite remark from the rest of the room. “Then perhaps the sermons ought to be spared the labor.”
“That would be charitable to all involved.”
He glanced at the page. “Have they persuaded you of anything?”
“Yes,” Elizabeth said gravely. “That one may endure a great deal under the appearance of moral benefit.”
He laughed then—more freely than he had intended—and the sound drew Lydia’s attention at once from the card table.
“Lizzy,” she said, “whatever have you said to Mr. Darcy? I did not know him susceptible to amusement in daylight.”
Elizabeth’s expression brightened. “It appears I possess hidden powers.”
“You do,” Lydia returned, “but I had not thought them ecclesiastical.”
Mrs. Bennet, who had heard only enough to know laughter was occurring in the neighborhood of two people she watched with increasing interest, looked between them and declared that good spirits were always a sign of health, which she wished for everyone, though particularly for those who had the most reason to be happy. This produced a fresh blush in Jane and an expression of poorly concealed delight in Bingley. Elizabeth lowered her eyes to hide her own smile, while Darcy, who had long since learned that resistance to Mrs. Bennet’s enthusiasm only prolonged it, said nothing at all.
The conversation turned, and because the room had resumed its general business, Darcy found he might remain where he was without challenge.
“You are easier now,” he said softly, once no one was directly attending to them.
