Page 56 of A Most Unwelcome Acquaintance

For a moment Caroline’s composure slipped, and Elizabeth saw not contempt but alarm. It vanished beneath a smile.

“You think me interfering.”

“I think you have taken a lot of trouble to protect me from an expectation I never expressed.”

“A woman need not express an expectation for it to become visible.”

“Then mine should be difficult to see, as I do not possess it.”

Caroline studied her. “You mean to say Mr. Darcy’s attention is of no consequence to you?”

Elizabeth could have answered at once. Instead, she remembered him standing in the lane with dirt on his cuffs, asking what she wished him to do. She remembered the ease with which he obeyed and the greater ease with which he judged.

“Mr. Darcy’s conduct is his concern,” she said. “My opinion of it is mine.”

“That is not an answer.”

“It is the only one I am going to give you.”

Caroline rose and crossed to the mantel. “You mistake me. I do not presume to direct your feelings.”

“Only my understanding of his.”

“I know him well.”

“So you have often told us.”

“I have known him for years. I know his family, his habits, and the expectations attached to his position.”

There it was at last, stripped of concern. Elizabeth did not need Caroline to say Pemberley, rank, fortune, or connection. They stood between them as plain as furniture.

“And because you know those expectations,” Elizabeth said, “you have appointed yourself their guardian.”

Caroline turned. “Someone must speak with honesty.”

“Honesty does not require disguise.”

“I have disguised nothing.”

“You began with country manners, moved through reputation, and arrived at Mr. Darcy when I insisted upon knowing whom you meant. That is not honesty, it is an insult delivered slow enough that you hoped I would thank you before recognizing it.”

Caroline’s face hardened. “You are determined to take offense.”

“No. I am determined not to accept condescension as kindness.”

The room fell silent. Beyond the windows, a gust moved through the yews and sent a scatter of dry leaves across the terrace.

Caroline looked toward the lawn. “I had thought you less susceptible to wounded pride.”

Elizabeth stood. “And I thought you more skilled at concealing your own.”

Caroline faced her again.

Elizabeth had no desire to continue. She had answered the warning, and anything more was cruelty. Caroline’s object was plain now. She was frightened, not because Elizabeth had claimed Darcy’s regard, but because Caroline had noticed it herself and could not control what it might become.

“I should find Jane,” Elizabeth said.

“They have not returned.”