Elizabeth felt the weight of his gaze. “I am perfectly well, Mr. Darcy. Only a trifle fatigued from our busy fortnight in Bath.”
“I am sorry to hear it. Perhaps Bath has proven too taxing. The city can be overwhelming for those unaccustomed to its diversions.”
There was a question beneath the words—what has changed?—but it was veiled enough that the others at the table heard only polite solicitude.
“I see.” He did not sound convinced. “You leave in three days, I understand.”
“Yes.”
“That is very soon.”
“Not soon enough,” she murmured, too low for him to hear clearly, then immediately regretted the words.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I said the time has passed quickly enough.”
He studied her face for a long moment, and Elizabeth had the uncomfortable sensation that he could see through her pretense, that he knew something had changed but could not fathom what.
At the other end of the table, Mr. Bingley was regaling Jane with an animated account of his plans to return to Netherfield. Jane listened with glowing eyes, occasionally offering a soft word that made Bingley's expression brighten further.
At least Jane's happiness was secure. That thought sustained Elizabeth through the remainder of the meal.
When dinner concluded, they removed to the drawing room. Mrs. Gardiner, noticing the pianoforte, remarked that it was a fine instrument.
“Do you play, Mrs. Gardiner?” Mr. Darcy asked.
“A little, in my youth. But my niece Elizabeth is far more accomplished.”
"Perhaps Miss Elizabeth would favor us," Mr. Darcy said, his tone careful. "I have had the pleasure of hearing her play before, and I know the instrument would be in capable hands."
Elizabeth felt every eye turn toward her. “I am out of practice.”
“This is not an orchestra, Lizzy,” Mrs. Gardiner said with a smile. “Surely whatever you play will be far better than anything Jane or I could attempt.”
She wanted to refuse. Wanted to claim a headache, a sore finger, any excuse to avoid giving him even this small thing.
But Mrs. Gardiner was already smiling encouragingly, and to refuse would create the very scene Elizabeth was trying to avoid.
She rose and moved to the instrument with reluctant steps.
The pianoforte was indeed well-maintained, its keys responsive beneath her fingers. She chose a simple piece—something that required no thought, no feeling—and played it mechanically, her mind far from the music.
When she finished, there was polite applause. Mr. Darcy remained silent, watching her with an expression she could not read.
“That was lovely, Lizzy,” Jane said warmly.
“You are too kind.”
Elizabeth returned to her seat, and the conversation turned to other matters. Mr. Gardiner and Mr. Darcy discussed trade routes. Mrs. Gardiner and Mr. Bingley compared opinions on Bath's various attractions.
Elizabeth said nothing unless directly addressed. And when she was, she offered the minimum required by civility and no more.
By the time they took their leave, she felt hollowed out—exhausted by the effort of maintaining her composure, of smiling when she wanted to rage, of being polite to a man who had just proven himself unworthy of even basic respect.
Mr. Darcy handed her into the carriage himself. His fingers brushed hers briefly, and she pulled away as though burned.
“We shall call tomorrow, if that is agreeable,” he said, addressing the group but his eyes on Elizabeth. “Bingley is eager to take Miss Bennet to see the new circulating library.”
