"Yes." Miss Bingley tilted her head, her expression one of exaggerated sympathy. "I imagine you did. It is always disappointing when one discovers that an acquaintance has served its purpose."
Served its purpose?
Caroline Bingley’s sentence made no sense to Elizabeth
As if reading her thought, Caroline rubbed her gloved hands lightly together. "There is one thing I will say for Mr. Darcy. When he sets out to study something, he does not do it by halves."
Elizabeth frowned.
"I beg your pardon?"
"Your hearing, Miss Eliza." Miss Bingley spoke quietly. Almost kindly. It was far worse than cruelty. "He noticed it at the Meryton assembly. He has been observing it ever since. You were rather useful to him, for his sister's sake, you understand. Not for your own. Apparently the Darcys have experienced hearing difficulties in the past, and Mr. Darcy considered you a specimen worth studying for Georgiana's benefit. I thought you ought to know, since he has apparently decided the study is complete."
The words hung in the air, clashing violently with the lively strains of the orchestra echoing through the crowded ballroom.
Elizabeth's fingers froze against the silk of her gown.
The room, bright with candlelight, music, and conversation, suddenly felt oppressively close.
A cold dread settled in her stomach.
She did not blink. She could not.
Her eyes remained fixed upon Miss Bingley's face, searching for some indication of a jest.
There was none.
"How," Elizabeth said very quietly, "do you know that?"
Her voice was scarcely above a whisper. She forced herself to remain standing though her legs no longer felt entirely reliable.
Miss Bingley's smile widened fractionally. "Does it matter?"
It mattered enormously. And they both knew there was only one person who could have told her.
Elizabeth held Miss Bingley's gaze for one long moment. Seeing that the woman was plainly enjoying her shock and had no intention of leaving, Elizabeth turned away and walked off.
She did not look back.
But her hands, folded neatly before her as she crossed the room, were not entirely steady.
She did not stop until she reached the narrow corridor leading towards the cloakroom.
There she pressed her back against the wall, closed her eyes, and stood perfectly still while the music continued beyond the ballroom doors, bright and relentless and entirely indifferent to what had just occurred.
He had known from the beginning.
The thought had been waiting for her the moment she stepped away.
Darcy had known at the assembly. He had known at Lucas Lodge. He had known on Oakham Mount every time she positioned herself upon her better side and believed herself undetected.
Every careful question. Every deliberate kindness. Every moment she had allowed herself to believe that his attention meant something.
All of it was observation. She was being catalogued. Studied.
For his sister.
It was not his knowing that hurt her most. It was the discovery that she had entirely mistaken his motives. She had believed his attentions arose from esteem. Instead, she had been nothing more than an object of observation. Why had he not acted with greater openness? Why had he spoken of her hearing to Miss Bingley at all, knowing how carefully she guarded it and how quickly the world attached cruel judgements to any perceived imperfection? Why he had chosen such a course, she could not comprehend. Why he had allowed her confidence to grow under such circumstances, she understood still less.
