Jane pushed herself up against the pillows, the smile lingering. “So soon?”
“We have been here quite long enough, do you not think?” Elizabeth prompted. “Your health is much improved, and—”
“And yet,” Jane interrupted gently, “I confess I had thought… perhaps another day or two might not be unwelcome.” Her expression softened further as she added, “Mr. Bingley was most attentive last night.”
Elizabeth smiled despite herself. “Indeed, it was as fine a display of civility as one might ever hope for.”
Jane’s eyes gleamed with quiet hope. “More than civility, I think. Do you not suppose—” She hesitated. “It is foolish to be so easily convinced, I know, but he was all kindness and good humour, and I cannot help but wonder—”
“That he admires you,” Elizabeth supplied, her tone affectionate. “Yes, dearest, I do suppose it.”
Jane lowered her gaze, pressing her hands lightly together. “Then would it be so very wrong to remain a little longer? If we write home, I am sure Mama would be pleased to send for us at her convenience.”
Elizabeth released a quiet breath, feeling the sting of her own internal battle. She had urged Jane towards confidence in her own affections, and now that such confidence was emerging, it seemed cruel to suppress it. And yet, the thought of lingering at Netherfield filled her with a different kind of unease.
She turned her gaze back to the window. She had done damage by coming; of that she was certain. Darcy’s silence the night before, his preoccupation with his book, the brief yet unreadable glances he had cast her way—all were signs that her slip had unsettled him.Shehad unsettled him. And the more she thought on it, the more convinced she became that the safest course—the wisest course—was retreat.
But was it truly safety she sought? Or escape?
Jane watched her, her gentle features lined with concern. “Lizzy?”
Elizabeth turned back to her sister, pushing away her musings with a small, reassuring smile. “You are right, of course. We should write to Mama.”
A flicker of relief crossed Jane’s face. “Then you do not think it improper?”
Elizabeth let out a soft laugh. “I think Mama would be far more distressed at our early return than at our prolonged stay. However, I rather doubt she will be persuaded to send the carriage. She intended for you to remain the full week.”
“Then we must write to her and ask,” Jane said reasonably.
Elizabeth paused, hesitating for the first time. The request would be refused—of that she had no doubt. But to set it in motion would be to remove the decision from her own hands, to relinquish the chance to leave on her own terms. And yet, how could she tell Jane that she did not wish to stay for reasons wholly unrelated to Mr. Bingley’s attentions? That she feared what more time at Netherfield might reveal—to Darcy, to herself?
She let out a breath. "Yes… we must write."
Mrs. Bennet sent them word that they could not possibly have the carriage before Tuesday; and in her postscript it was added, that if Mr. Bingley and his sister pressed them to stay longer, she could spare them very well. Against staying longer, however, Elizabeth was positively resolved—nor did she much expect it would be asked; and fearful, on the contrary, of being considered as intruding themselves needlessly long, she urged Jane to borrow Mr. Bingley’s carriage immediately, and at length it was settled that their original design of leaving Netherfield that morning should be mentioned, and the request made.
The communication excited many professions of concern; and enough was said of wishing them to stay at least till the following day to work on Jane; and till the morrow their going was deferred. Miss Bingley was then sorry that she had proposed the delay; for her jealousy and dislike of one sister much exceeded her affection for the other.
The master of the house heard with real sorrow that they were to go so soon, and repeatedly tried to persuade Miss Bennet that it would not be safe for her—that she was not enough recovered; but Jane was firm where she felt herself to be right.
To Mr. Darcy it was welcome intelligence. Yet even as he told himself he ought to be relieved, his mind refused to rest easy. He recalled the remark Miss Elizabeth had made about Georgiana’s musical preferences—something known only to himself, his cousin, and Mrs. Annesley. His sister had always professed a love for Beethoven, for it was the composer most admired in their circles, but in truth, it was Clementi that she cherished. That Miss Elizabeth should have knowledge of this—how was it possible? Could it be mere coincidence, or had Georgiana confided in another? A troubling thought formed: had Wickham, who had so recently deceived his sister, shared some confidences with Miss Elizabeth?
It was absurd—surely Georgiana would never speak so openly to such a man. And yet, his mind would not let the notion go. It had been easy to dismiss Elizabeth's performance at Lucas Lodge as a coincidence, but now—now the pattern was unsettling. Was it Wickham who had revealed his tastes? Or had Elizabeth somehow come to understand him through means he could not perceive? He should have felt gratified at her departure, and yet his subconscious fought against it, restless and longing, resisting the relief that logic dictated he should feel.
His gaze drifted to Elizabeth once more, catching her in an unguarded moment as she listened to her sister. She seemed troubled, distracted. Was she thinking of him as well? He shook off the thought at once. It was unwelcome. It was impossible.
Determined to avoid her entirely, Darcy kept his distance on Saturday, exchanging no more than a handful of words with her.
By evening, however, his restlessness was unbearable. Seeking refuge in the library, he resolved to take a book and retire at once rather than risk accidental encounter.
But fate was unkind.
Elizabeth was already there.
She stood by the shelves, her fingers lightly grazing the spines of the volumes before her, lost in thought. He hesitated at the threshold, torn between civility and his own gnawing suspicions. She had not noticed him yet. He could leave without a word.
Yet as he turned, her voice—soft, hesitant—called him back.
“Mr. Darcy.”
