Elizabeth pressed her lips together briefly.
Jane had borne it with the same quiet composure she brought to everything else. She had not complained. She had not faltered. She had simply continued—caring for her child, maintaining the household, ensuring that nothing of consequence was allowed to fall into disarray.
And now?
Elizabeth’s gaze remained fixed upon the movement of the set.
Now, she danced. And smiled. And was attended by a gentleman who seemed, if nothing else, entirely disposed to admire her.
Elizabeth felt a small, unexpected flicker of something like hope.
Not certainty or expectation. But something gentler. Something that said—perhaps.
The figures of the dance began to move in earnest.
Elizabeth followed as best she could, tracking Jane’s place by the motion of her gown, by the familiar line of her form as she turned, stepped, and rejoined the pattern. Mr. Bingley moved with energy—perhaps not perfect precision, but enthusiasm enough to compensate for any minor irregularities.
He laughed more than once.
Elizabeth heard it clearly.
It was not a restrained laugh. Not polite, but open and unfeigned.
She liked him for it.
To one side, Miss Bingley stood with Mrs. Hurst, their attention directed not toward the dance itself, but toward the room. Their voices—low, controlled—carried just enough for Elizabeth to detect the faintest undercurrent.
Not quite disapproval.
But something near it.
“…quite tolerable, I suppose…”
“…country society…”
Elizabeth did not attempt to follow every word. It was not necessary.
Tone was enough.
Mr. Hurst remained seated nearby, his posture relaxed to the point of indifference. He did not appear inclined to dance, nor to observe those who did.
Elizabeth’s attention shifted again.
There.
Mr. Darcy.
He had not moved far from where he had first stood. He did not join the set and he did not seek further introduction. He remained—still, composed, his presence distinct even at a distance.
Elizabeth adjusted her position slightly, turning her head so that he fell more fully within her field of vision.
He stood near the wall, not entirely withdrawn, but separate, as though the activity of the room did not quite claim him.
His expression—what she could discern of it—remained serious. Not displeased. Not bored.
Simply…contained.
Elizabeth studied him, not directly, but through the impression he gave.
