Nor could she dismiss it.
It unsettled her in ways she did not entirely understand. It was not merely that Mr. Darcy had spoken with kindness. Others had done as much. It was not even that he had shown her consideration, though he had. It was the manner of it—the steadiness, the absence of hesitation, the refusal to accept what she herself had long believed.
He had spoken as though she were mistaken. And part of her, however reluctantly, had wondered if he might be right. That was the danger.
Elizabeth shifted in her seat, drawing her shawl more closely about her shoulders as she sat near the window in the smaller sitting room. The light beyond the glass was muted, softened by a veil of cloud that spared her the strain of brighter days. Her book lay open upon her lap, though she had not turned a page in some time.
She ought not to think of him so often. She had determined as much more than once. Yet determination, she was beginning to understand, did not always command obedience.
She had built her life upon acceptance. Upon the deliberate shaping of expectation into something manageable. She had done so not in despair, but in necessity. It had allowed her to find purpose where she might otherwise have found only loss.
To disturb that balance now—
Elizabeth pressed her lips together. It was foolish. It must be set aside.
The arrival of the Netherfield party that afternoon was not wholly unexpected.
Mrs. Bennet had expressed, more than once, her disappointment at the lack of recent visits, and though she had not said so plainly, there had been an increasing restlessness in her manner that suggested she would soon have sent inquiries herself had no invitation been forthcoming.
The sound of wheels upon the drive drew Elizabeth from her thoughts.
She rose at once, smoothing her gown with hands that were steadier than she felt. From the hall came the familiar stir of movement—voices raised in greeting, the opening of the door, the exchange of pleasantries that marked the arrival of guests.
Elizabeth stepped into the drawing room just as the party entered.
Miss Bingley led, her expression composed into a polite brightness that did not extend to her eyes. Mrs. Hurst followed, her manner more languid, though no less observant. Mr. Bingley came next, his countenance animated, his attention already fixed upon Jane. Mr. Darcy entered behind them.
Elizabeth felt his presence before she fully turned toward him.
It was absurd.
And yet undeniable.
“Miss Bennet,” he said, inclining his head.
“Mr. Darcy.”
Her voice was composed. It must be.
She did not trust herself to look at him fully at once. Instead, she turned slightly, angling her face so that she might take in the room as a whole. It was a small precaution, but one she found necessary.
The younger girls, along with Miss Darcy, had already retreated upstairs at Lydia’s eager insistence. Their laughter carried faintly from above, leaving the drawing room to the elder members of the party.
Conversation began as it always did, with inquiries after health and remarks upon the weather.
It did not remain so.
Miss Bingley, after a brief exchange with Mrs. Bennet, turned her attention toward Elizabeth with a smile that held just enough sweetness to disguise its intent.
“We have missed your society these past days, Miss Bennet,” she said. “Though I imagine the change in weather must be particularly… inconvenient.”
Elizabeth inclined her head. “The weather has been less agreeable than before.”
“Yes,” Miss Bingley said lightly. “It must be difficult to navigate such conditions when one cannot—” She paused, as though searching for a more delicate phrasing. “—when one’s movements require such forethought
There was a brief stillness.
Elizabeth felt it settle over the room, subtle but unmistakable.
