He stopped, his back still half-turned to her. For a moment, she faltered. He could see the way she pressed her lips together as though debating the wisdom of what she meant to say. And then, with quiet resolution, she stepped forward.
“Please, Mr. Darcy,” she tried again, her voice lower now, almost pleading. “The comment I made about your sister—I meant nothing by it. It was merely an educated guess, drawn from conversation.”
He turned fully at last, studying her. “An educated guess?” His tone was even, but there was a thread of skepticism beneath it. “Miss Bennet, you spoke with remarkable certainty for mere conjecture.”
Elizabeth swallowed. “I—I suppose I have a habit of speaking in such a way. I did not intend to alarm you.”
His gaze remained sharp, searching. “No? Then tell me, how exactly did you arrive at such an observation?”
She hesitated. There was no ready answer—none that would satisfy him. "It is simply that… I have often observed that young ladies of refined taste do not always follow popular sentiment. Beethoven is widely admired, but I have found that those with a true appreciation for music often favor Clementi. Your sister’s age and temperament suggested to me that she might share that preference."
He said nothing, but his expression did not soften.
Feeling the weight of his scrutiny, she pressed on. “I regret if I have given you any cause for unease, but I assure you, I had no improper knowledge—”
“Improper knowledge?” he repeated, seizing upon the phrase. A shadow of something unreadable crossed his face. “Tell me, Miss Bennet, have you ever had occasion to speak with Mr. Wickham?”
Elizabeth felt the blood drain from her face. The question had been too casually posed, and yet it carried an unmistakable weight. She hesitated for a fraction of a second—long enough to realize that denying it would be futile.
“I have heard of him,” she admitted cautiously, choosing her words with care. “But we have never spoken.”
A muscle in his jaw tightened. “I see.”
Silence fell between them. Whatever thaw had begun in their conversation was gone.
Elizabeth’s mind raced. Oh no. What have I done?
It was too late to take it back. His suspicions were already there, firmly planted. She had knowledge of Wickham—his greatest enemy. And now Darcy believed… what? That she had taken Wickham’s side? That she had somehow been a party to his past? That Wickham had given her knowledge of Georgiana?
Her stomach turned. She had only meant to fix matters between them, to undo whatever offense he had taken. And now she had made things immeasurably worse.
Darcy inclined his head stiffly. “Good evening, Miss Bennet.”
And then he was gone.
Elizabeth stood frozen, her heart hammering.
What have I done?
She barely breathed as the implications sank in. Wickham was his greatest enemy, and now—oh God—Darcy must think she had obtained intelligence from him. And in a few days’ time, she would see him again. The thought filled her with dread.
On Sunday, after morning service, the separation, so agreeable to almost all, took place. Miss Bingley’s civility to Elizabeth increased at last very rapidly, as well as her affection for Jane; and when they parted, after assuring the latter of the pleasure it would always give her to see her either at Longbourn or Netherfield, and embracing her most tenderly, she even shook hands with the former. Elizabeth tried to take her leave of the whole party in the liveliest of spirits.
Yet, as she glanced about the room for the last time, her heart sank. Mr. Darcy was nowhere to be seen. He had not troubled himself to bid them farewell. She knew why. Their last conversation had left him suspicious—convinced, perhaps, that she was in league with his worst enemy. Would it be better to confess the truth? To be thought mad rather than deceitful? But when and how could she speak to him again? A meeting was inevitable, and she feared what would come of it.
She forced herself to smile as Mr. Bingley escorted Jane to the carriage, his attentions so marked that even Jane could not mistake them. His solicitous concern over her comfort, the warmth in his manner—it should have been cause for delight, and yet Elizabeth could scarcely attend to it. She felt herself already slipping into the shadow of what was to come.
Miss Bingley, preening in triumph, was all politeness, but Elizabeth took no notice. She climbed into the carriage beside Jane, and as they pulled away from Netherfield, she held her breath, willing herself to keep composed.
Their return to Longbourn was met with no great display of warmth. Mrs. Bennet, upon seeing her daughters, exclaimed in astonishment rather than delight. "Well! What a piece of nonsense this is! To return so soon! I am sure it was very ill-judged of you both, especially you, Jane. You have scarce had time to secure Mr. Bingley’s affections before running off again. What trouble you have given, and all for nothing! I declare, you are both very foolish, indeed. And I should not wonder if you have quite ruined everything."
Jane bore the rebuke in silence, though a flicker of disappointment passed over her countenance. Elizabeth, however, felt her temper rise. Their mother had no true concern for Jane’s health, nor any gratitude that she had recovered; it was only the lost opportunity that occupied her mind.
Mr. Bennet, though never one to waste excessive sentiment on comings and goings, looked up from his book with something like genuine pleasure. "Ah, so you have returned. The house has been uncommonly dull without you. I was forced to endure your sisters' conversation without the benefit of your wit to soften the ordeal. Welcome home, Lizzy. Jane, my dear, I trust you have not caught another chill on the journey?"
"No, Papa," Jane said gently, "I am quite well, thank you."
"Well, that is something, at least. Your mother might never forgive you otherwise."
