But she had found what she sought. It seemed Anne had documented everything carefully, had kept records like any goodscholar. And in doing so, perhaps she had left Elizabeth a path forward.
Elizabeth moved toward the door, her steps more steady now despite her body’s weakness. She would go down to dinner. Would play her role as Anne de Bourgh convincingly enough to avoid suspicion. Would smile at Lady Catherine and tolerate whatever company was present and give no hint that anything was amiss.
And later, she would study that journal properly. Would figure out how Anne had done this to her. Would find a way to obtain what she needed and reverse this nightmare.
She was not defeated yet.
The door opened just as Elizabeth reached it, Mrs. Jenkinson’s pinched face appearing in the gap. The companion’s eyes swept over Elizabeth with sharp assessment, taking in her appearance, searching for any sign of disruption or mischief.
“You look presentable,” Mrs. Jenkinson said finally, her tone suggesting this was qualified approval at best. “Come along then.”
Elizabeth stepped through the door, forcing her expression into something approaching serenity despite the tumult of her thoughts. She had hope now, however slight. And she had determination enough for ten women, even if trapped in a body that could barely manage a flight of stairs.
Anne de Bourgh had made a grave mistake in leaving that journal where it could be found. And Elizabeth intended to make her pay dearly for it.
Chapter Eight
ThediningroomatRosings presented its usual display of oppressive grandeur, all gleaming silver and crystal that caught the candlelight. Darcy was seated in his customary position, close enough to his aunt to be consulted on matters she deemed important, far enough to avoid the worst of her pronouncements. Miss Bennet sat across from him and several places down, positioned where he could observe her without obvious staring, though he found his gaze drawn to her inevitably throughout the meal’s first course.
The soup had been cleared away, and servants moved with silent efficiency to present the fish course. Darcy watched Elizabeth lift her fork with odd carefulness, as though relearning the gesture. She ate with small, deliberate bites, and he noticed she had consumed more than he had ever seen her manage at these dinners. Previously she had eaten with a healthy butmoderate appetite, but tonight she seemed enthusiastic about the meal, finishing everything on her plate at each course.
“The pike is excellent, is it not?” Darcy ventured, testing the waters. “Lady Catherine’s cook has outdone himself.”
Elizabeth looked up at him and smiled, the expression warm and encouraging. “Oh yes, it is wonderful. Truly delicious.” She paused, seeming to search for more to say, then added, “I have never tasted better fish.”
The response was pleasant enough, but it fell flat in a way Darcy could not quite articulate. Elizabeth typically would have made some observation about the preparation, or teased him about discussing food with undue gravity, or found some way to turn the mundane topic into something more interesting. This bland agreement felt wrong.
“I am glad you are enjoying it,” Darcy said carefully. He tried again, offering an opening for the sort of exchange they had occasionally managed. “Though I confess I find Lady Catherine’s insistence on French sauces for English fish somewhat excessive. The pike might be better served simply.”
He had thought the mild criticism might provoke Elizabeth into agreeing or disagreeing with spirit, might draw out some of her characteristic independence. Instead, she simply nodded.
“Perhaps you are right. Though it is very good as it is.” She looked at him again with that same warm smile, her gaze lingering on his face in a way that made Darcy distinctly uncomfortable.
Lady Catherine immediately dismissed Darcy’s suggestion, saying loudly that there was little point in employing a French chef if one was going to ask him to cook common household food. Elizabeth merely nodded along.
Where was her wit? Her sharp observations? Her refusal to simply agree with him for the sake of pleasantness? Elizabeth Bennet would have had an opinion about fish sauces, wouldhave either defended the French preparation with some clever argument or punctured Lady Catherine’s smugness with a witty riposte. This docile acceptance bore no resemblance to the woman he knew.
As the meal progressed, Darcy became increasingly aware that Elizabeth had angled herself toward him, had positioned her attention almost exclusively in his direction. She looked at him frequently, smiled at him whenever their eyes met, seemed to be inviting further conversation through the openness of her expression. The warmth in her gaze was unmistakable, and it sent cold dread through Darcy’s chest rather than pleasure.
This was wrong. This was all wrong. Elizabeth should be furious with him. Should be looking at him with barely suppressed anger, if she looked at him at all. Fitzwilliam had told her that Darcy had separated her beloved sister from Bingley, had interfered in Jane’s happiness, had acted with presumptuous arrogance. Yet here Elizabeth sat, smiling at him as though he had done nothing more offensive than comment on the weather.
“Mr. Darcy,” she said, leaning slightly forward as though to create intimacy across the table. “I have been meaning to tell you how much I enjoyed our walk this morning. Your company is always so agreeable.”
Always. As though they had walked together frequently, as though she had consistently found his presence pleasant. Darcy stared at her, searching her face for any sign of irony or mockery, but found only that same warm pleasantness that seemed to have replaced her entire personality.
“I am glad you found it agreeable,” he managed, his voice sounding strained even to his own ears.
Elizabeth’s smile widened, taking his stilted response as encouragement. She opened her mouth to continue, but ColonelFitzwilliam chose that moment to interject from his position further down the table.
“Miss Bennet,” Fitzwilliam said, “I had hoped to ask your opinion on something. You mentioned yesterday that you enjoyed walking in all weather. I wondered whether you preferred morning rambles or afternoon exercise, as I have found the question divides opinion quite definitively.”
It was exactly the sort of light, easy question Fitzwilliam excelled at, the kind of conversational opening that invited playful debate. Previously, Elizabeth would have seized upon it, would have engaged with his cousin with animated discussion.
Instead, she glanced briefly at Fitzwilliam, her expression cooling noticeably, and said, “I have no strong preference, Colonel.” Then she turned immediately back to Darcy, effectively dismissing his cousin from her attention.
The cut was so obvious, so deliberate, that Darcy saw Fitzwilliam’s expression shift from friendly interest to confusion to something that might have been hurt. His cousin’s smile faltered, and he reached for his wine glass with enough force that the stem clinked against his plate.
Darcy found himself watching Fitzwilliam more closely, noting details he had perhaps overlooked before. His cousin’s attempts to engage Elizabeth in conversation had been frequent during her stay at Rosings. His manner toward her had been warm, teasing, comfortable in a way Fitzwilliam typically reserved for people he genuinely liked. And now, faced with her cold dismissal, the Colonel looked rather like a man who had been slapped without warning.
