He had mis-stepped.
Not in feeling—he would not concede that—but in expression. He had allowed himself to speak in a manner that left room for misunderstanding, and Elizabeth Bennet, who had learned through necessity to guard herself against precisely such misunderstandings, had taken him at his word.
Or rather, she had taken him at what she believed his word to mean.
Darcy straightened at last. Remaining where he stood would accomplish nothing. Whatever had passed between them couldnot be resolved here, alone, with only his own thoughts for company.
He turned and made his way back toward the house.
The drawing room appeared much as he had left it, though the atmosphere shifted almost immediately upon his return.
Miss Bingley’s gaze found him at once.
“Mr. Darcy,” she said, her tone light, though her eyes held a sharper interest. “We feared we had lost you to the elements.”
“I had no such intention,” he replied.
Mrs. Hurst regarded him with mild curiosity. Bingley, who had been standing near Jane, glanced between them with an expression that suggested he had missed something and did not much like the omission.
Elizabeth had not yet returned.
Darcy took his place near the window, his posture composed, though his thoughts remained anything but.
Conversation resumed, though it did not hold his attention. He found himself listening without hearing, aware of each passing moment with a degree of impatience he did not trouble to disguise.
When at last Elizabeth reentered the room, her expression was entirely composed.
Too composed.
She resumed her place as though nothing of consequence had occurred, responding to Lydia’s remarks, inclining her head at something Jane said, her manner unexceptionable in every regard.
No one would have guessed.
Darcy did not trust himself to look at her again.
The visit did not extend much longer.
Mrs. Bennet, satisfied with the success of the afternoon, made no attempt to detain them beyond what politeness required. Bingley lingered as long as he reasonably could, his attentionstill fixed upon Jane. Miss Bingley, by contrast, appeared eager to depart, her civility thinning with each passing minute.
At last, farewells were exchanged.
Darcy bowed. “Miss Bennet.”
“Mr. Darcy.”
Nothing in her tone betrayed what had passed between them.
It was a courtesy.
Nothing more.
The carriage ride to Netherfield was lacked the cacophony than the journey there.
Bingley attempted conversation more than once, but it faltered, meeting with little response. Mrs. Hurst settled into her usual silence. Georgiana watched her brother with concern, though she did not speak.
Miss Bingley, however, did not remain silent for long.
“I cannot think,” she began, with a small, dismissive laugh, “what possesses some people to thrust themselves so persistently into notice.”
