Darcy felt suddenly foolish, but the question had haunted him too long. “Your niece—the young woman who found the treasure. I hope she has been well. Is she still in London, or has she—?”
Mr. Philips stared at him for several seconds; then, to Darcy’s complete bewilderment, the man began to laugh.
Darcy blinked, surprised. “Did… did I say something amusing?”
“You do not know?”
“I am afraid I do not know what I do not know.”
Mr. Philips shook his head, humor still playing about his mouth. “Yes, well. She was quite filthy that day, and the light was dim. No, Mr. Darcy, she is not in London. She is here in Hertfordshire. In fact, I believe you saw her at the assembly the other evening.”
The room seemed to contract around Darcy.
For one dreadful instant, every sound vanished save the hard beat of his own heart. Fine eyes. A plain gown. A glass of lemonade. Color rising into her cheeks as she looked down.
No.
No.
Mr. Philips’s smile faded. “I see,” he said quietly. “Youdoknow of whom I am speaking, then.”
Darcy swallowed. “Yes, sir. I do.”
“And?”
Darcy forced himself to meet the older man’s gaze. “And I am ashamed of my behavior. I did not know until this moment that the young lady was your niece—”
“That is no excuse.”
“No, sir.” Darcy bowed his head slightly, accepting the rebuke because it was deserved. “It is not. I should not have spoken of any lady so. Before this conversation, I had already resolved that the next time I saw her, I would request an introduction and apologize properly.”
Mr. Philips did not sit again, but neither did he leave. His eyes, usually mild with humor, had become stern. “Why would you say such a thing? In public, no less, where anyone might hear you?”
Darcy looked away. There was no honorable way to explain it entirely. He could hardly confess that seeing Miss Elizabeth’s eyes had unsettled him because they recalled the young womanfrom Gracechurch Street, and that his own foolish desire to banish both memory and attraction had sharpened his tongue. That would make him sound not only ungentlemanly, but mad.
He exhaled slowly. “We had travelled that day, and I was more ill at ease than I anticipated. That is an explanation, not a defense. I had forgotten how much I dislike crowds when I know no one in them. In Lambton, even at assemblies, I know the families, their histories, their concerns. With the militia, I knew my place. In London, reserve is expected and even welcomed. But at Meryton, I felt observed, pressed, and entirely out of command of myself. Bingley urged me to dance when I wished only to be left alone, and I spoke the first foolish, defensive thing that came to my tongue.”
“And wounded my niece in doing so.”
“Yes.” Darcy’s voice was quiet. “I realized it the moment the words left my mouth. I attempted to find her, to request the introduction, but she had already left. I was not entirely certain how to go about speaking with her in order to make amends.”
Mr. Philips studied him for a long moment. “I can sympathize with discomfort in a crowd, Mr. Darcy. I cannot admire its result. But as I said, it is not to me the apology must be made.”
“I agree entirely. I would offer it at once, if I could.” Darcy hesitated. “Is she living with you?”
“With me?” Mr. Philips’s brows rose.
“I only mean—” Darcy stopped, aware he was about to worsen matters again. “Forgive me. What is her full situation? I knew she was connected to the Gardiners, and seeing her in Gracechurch Street, I did not understand—”
“No,” Mr. Philips said, and this time the laughter returned, though more gently. “I do not suppose you did. My niece—Miss Elizabeth Bennet—is a gentleman’s daughter. She lives at Longbourn, her father’s estate, where the Gardiner children are also settled.”
Darcy stared at him. “She is a gentleman’s daughter, then? Her father is not in trade?”
Mr. Philips’s eyebrows climbed rather high at this, and the look on his face turned from amused to severe in a moment.
Darcy flushed. “Not that it would make any difference to the apology. It would not. I only meant that, when I first saw her at Mr. Gardiner’s house, she was so entirely engaged in the work of the place, and in such a state from the cellar, that I had assumed—incorrectly, it seems—that she was perhaps a relation from trade, or attached to the household in some way.”
The frown on Mr. Philips’s face gave way to a chortle. “Yes, I do believe I can see how you might not have thought her gently born. Lizzy has more spirit than many gentlewomen find convenient, and it is not uncommon for her to come home with her hem inches deep in mud. But not usually as covered as she was that day.”
