Elizabeth’s mind raced for an escape, some plausible reason for her knowledge. “I only assumed from what you have said of her before. And Miss Bingley herself has remarked often on Miss Darcy’s taste.” She glanced at Miss Bingley, willing her to confirm this, but the lady only narrowed her eyes in irritation.
Miss Bingley recovered swiftly. “Oh yes,” she said sweetly, though the sharpness in her gaze did not fade. “Georgiana has such exquisite taste. I do so look forward to seeing her drawings again. That little landscape she completed last summer was utterly charming.”
Elizabeth could not suppress a wistful smile. She knew the drawing of which Miss Bingley spoke. How many times had she sat in Georgiana’s rooms, watching as her delicate hands sketched the rolling Derbyshire hills? The ache of missing her sister, for that was what Georgiana had become to her, pressed upon her heart.
It was strange only two months ago her time, Georgiana had been so much more. She was engaged to Rupert Cavendish, second cousin to the Duke of Devonshire, who owned a modest estate of about four thousand a year close to Pemberley. Yet what he was best known for was his love of music, a passion he shared with Georgiana. And in that time, Elizabeth had known her not just as a dear sister but as a friend, confidante, and nearly a daughter. Yet in this timeline, they were but strangers—Georgiana still struggling to regain her confidence after Wickham’s betrayal, her sweet future husband writing to cheer her spirits. The thought of all that had been, and all that was yet uncertain, weighed upon Elizabeth’s heart.
Miss Bingley’s voice, now saccharine with false admiration, drew her from her thoughts. “I am sure Miss Darcy will be utterly enchanted to find that she is so well thought of here. How fortunate that she is so universally admired.”
Elizabeth, understanding the meaning behind these words, merely inclined her head and resumed her needlework. Miss Bingley, however, was not finished. “You seem to have an uncommon interest in my dear friend’s sister, Miss Eliza.”
Elizabeth met her gaze with an easy composure. “She sounds most admirable. Surely, it would be difficult not to be interested in so accomplished a young lady.”
Miss Bingley’s smile was taut. “Indeed.”
Darcy, though he had resumed his writing, was no longer wholly engrossed in it. His mind was occupied, not with his letter, but with Elizabeth. The familiarity with which she spoke of Georgiana, the ease with which she referenced her preferences—he could not make sense of it. Had he spoken of his sister more than he realized? Had she learned of Georgiana through mutual acquaintances? Or was it something else entirely?
Then there was the song she had played at Lucas Lodge—his favorite. It was too much to be mere coincidence. The realization, combined with her unguarded remark, left him unsettled. He had already been grappling with his growing admiration for her, but now, the feeling took on a new depth. It was not only her wit or her fine eyes that drew him;it was the sense of familiarity, of understanding, that he could not explain. And that, above all, was what troubled him most.
He was drawn from his thoughts by Bingley’s jovial voice. “That will not do for a compliment to Darcy, Caroline,” cried her brother. “Because he does not write with ease. He studies too much for words of four syllables. Do not you, Darcy?”
Darcy, shaking off his reverie, responded with measured calm. “I do not believe an excess of contemplation necessarily impedes one’s fluency.”
“My style of writing is very different from yours,” Bingley said with a grin.
“Oh,” cried Miss Bingley, “Charles writes in the most careless way imaginable. He leaves out half his words, and blots the rest.”
“My ideas flow so rapidly that I have not time to express them; by which means my letters sometimes convey no ideas at all to my correspondents.”
Elizabeth knew what her next line should be, but her mistake and the disquiet of her husband—no, not her husband, Mr. Darcy, she must remember that—gave her pause. He was distracted, she could see it well. Should she speak as before, tease as she once had? Would returning to their familiar discourse be of any help? Addressing Bingley rather than Darcy directly, she replied, “Your humility, Mr. Bingley, must disarm reproof.”
The conversation carried on, a debate both familiar and comforting. She had missed this—engaging in their verbal sparring, feeling the charge of his intellect meeting hers. And yet, even as they spoke, her mind turned to Bingley, to Jane, to the future that had once seemed certain. Mr. Bingley was as easily persuaded as ever, his good nature a ready tool for those who would seek to influence him. She knew too well how things would unfold when they left Netherfield, how Darcy and his sister would work upon him. Could she stop it? Could she offer Bingley enough encouragement in Jane’s absence? She would have to ponder it more.
Darcy took up his letter once more, but when it was finished, he did not request music as he had last time. Instead, he remained seated, a familiar expression upon his face—one of deep contemplation. Elizabeth had hoped their conversation would distract him, but it was of no use. When a thought took hold of him, he could not easily set it aside. Oh, she had once been able to occupy his mind for hours, but never could she truly banish his introspections when he was so inclined.
Miss Bingley, sensing his distraction, attempted to draw his attention with music. Though he had not requested it, she seated herself at the instrument and began to play, casting frequent glances in his direction. Yet Darcy never moved from his place on thecouch. He did not ask Elizabeth to dance, did not even seem aware of the company around him. And for the first time, a terrible doubt crept into her mind.
Had coming to Netherfield been a mistake? Had allowing Jane to fall ill been a mistake? She had thought herself prepared for this, but now, uncertainty pressed upon her, suffocating and unwelcome. The weight of it settled in her chest, and she longed to weep.
The next morning, Elizabeth took a turn about the gardens, seeking solace in the fresh air. The November chill had painted the grounds in crisp golden hues, and she had just begun to collect her thoughts when voices ahead halted her steps. Instinct bade her to retreat, but something in the low murmur of Darcy’s voice held her in place.
“It is a curious thing,” Miss Bingley was saying, her tone light but pointed. “I had always understood Georgiana to be most devoted to Beethoven, yet Miss Eliza declared Clementi to be her favorite. I suppose she wished to impress.”
Darcy hesitated. “Indeed,” he said at last. “Georgiana has a great admiration for Clementi’s precision. Yet she is not unmoved by Beethoven’s depth.”
Miss Bingley let out a soft, knowing laugh. “How intriguing that Miss Eliza should make such an error. One might almost call it a pretension—an attempt at familiarity where there is none.”
Elizabeth’s breath caught. For a fleeting moment, she allowed herself hope, for Darcy had not agreed outright, had even offered some defense. Yet his pause before answering, the measured way in which he spoke—she knew it well. He was weighing it. Considering.
And suddenly, the knowledge struck her like a physical blow. He was already suspicious of her, puzzled by her words, her actions. She had not meant to err, but she had done so thoughtlessly, and now it preyed upon his mind. He was questioning her—and now, Miss Bingley had only sharpened that doubt. Worse still, Elizabeth realized with growing dread, her mistake had touched upon the very fears that continued to haunt him: his failure to protect Georgiana, his wariness of those who sought to impose upon his family.
She had provoked his instincts, but not in a way that would draw him to her side. Instead of stirring his affection, she had reinforced his reservations. And in that moment, she understood: she had given him reason to hesitate, to doubt, and perhaps even to withdraw.
Miss Bingley continued speaking, but Elizabeth heard no more. She turned and fled back toward the house, her heart pounding with the weight of her own folly.
Chapter 11
Elizabeth, upon the ladies’ retreat from the dining room, made her way swiftly to Jane’s side. Her sister, already bundled in shawls against the evening chill, looked up in mild surprise at Elizabeth’s determined approach.
