Still playing, she said with quiet amusement, “And you rarely appear uncertain.”
A pause. The music swelled.
“I find I am so more often than you might think.”
She tilted her head slightly. “Then I wonder why you come to stand at my shoulder. Surely not to be reminded of it.”
He hesitated. Then, softly: “Perhaps because you do not seem inclined to make sport of it.”
This time, Elizabeth looked up at him — briefly, sidelong — and returned her gaze to the keys.
Colonel Fitzwilliam, who had drawn closer under the pretence of admiring the instrument, gave a light laugh. “You’re brave, Cousin. Most men would not attempt to hold conversation with a lady while she is armed with Beethoven.”
Elizabeth replied without missing a note. “Then it is fortunate Mr. Darcy enjoys a challenge.”
“You speak as though you know him well,” the colonel said with a smile, though his eyes lingered too long. “Better, perhaps, than you ought.”
Elizabeth gave no answer. Only her playing spoke now — strong, steady, and strangely resolute.
Lady Catherine, who had not missed a word of the exchange, sniffed in disapproval. "I dare say, Miss Bennet, you would play quite well—if only you practised more. Such pieces require dedication to be truly mastered."
Colonel Fitzwilliam, though smiling, tilted his head with an unreadable expression. He had to admit, silently and with some surprise, that his cousin had not exaggerated. Her fingers moved with a confidence and expressiveness that rivalled even Georgiana's.
And yet... there was something curious about her.
As he watched Elizabeth across the gleam of the piano lid, Colonel Fitzwilliam found himself echoing part of his cousin’s unease. It was not alliance with Wickham that he suspected—no, her demeanour bore none of that false cheer. But still, she knew things. Too many things. And he could not yet puzzle out how.
Mr. Darcy stood a little apart, his gaze fixed upon Elizabeth with a frown that was not displeasure, but something far more difficult to name. Her playing—so precise, so unfaltering—should not have surprised him, and yet it did. She played not as one interpreting music newly learned, but as one remembering something intimately known. And worse—she knewhim. Her every glance, every turn of phrase, suggested an understanding far deeper than their brief acquaintance could justify. There was something beneath the surface of her composure—something unnerving, compelling. It drew him in against his better judgment, and he found, to his quiet frustration, that he did not wish to look away.
Elizabeth, for her part, played as though she had nothing to hide, and yet every note was deliberate—every flourish calculated. She met Darcy’s gaze once over the movement of her hands, and for the briefest moment, something unspoken passed between them.
When the music ended, polite applause sounded around the drawing room, but Elizabeth felt her heart beat faster—not from exertion, but from the game now plainly afoot.
Chapter 32
Elizabeth was sitting by herself the next morning, a sheet of paper laid neatly before her, the ink just beginning to dry. She had been writing to Mary, sharing what general news she could, avoiding all mention of the feelings that had lately kept her in so constant a state of mental unease. Mrs. Collins and Maria had gone to the village on some business or other, and Elizabeth had found a rare moment of solitude—solitude she half dreaded, half craved. Her pen lay idle now, and her thoughts, instead of composing sentences for her sister, had turned towards a certain gentleman who had occupied them increasingly of late.
She tried not to look at the clock, but the slow-moving hand seemed to press upon her nerves. She had no reason to expect him. None at all. And yet… when the bell rang, sharp and sudden, she startled in her seat and stood almost involuntarily.
She knew.
When the footman announced Mr. Darcy, the confirmation did not surprise her half as much as the look of astonishment on his own face when he entered and found her alone.
"Miss Bennet," he said quickly, his voice just a little too formal, "I had understood that all the ladies were at home. I must beg your pardon for the intrusion."
"Not at all, Mr. Darcy," she replied with composure, though her hands trembled slightly in her lap. "Mrs. Collins and Maria are merely gone to the village and will return shortly."
They sat down. For a few minutes, the expected inquiries were made and answered, their tones polite, their expressions guarded. But the conversation began to falter, as if neither could summon the proper courage to breach the walls they had each raised.
Suddenly, Mr. Darcy spoke.
"I have kept my word," he said abruptly, his voice tinged with tension. "With regard to Mr. Bingley, I did not interfere."
Elizabeth turned to him, her expression softening as she considered his words. "I thank you for that, sir. Though I confess, your efforts may have been in vain. His sisters seem determined to act in your stead."
He gave a slight frown, clearly reluctant to acknowledge the truth. "Yes," he admitted, his voice lower. "That may well be the case. Still, I thought it right… you should know."
There was a brief pause, the weight of their conversation hanging in the air.
