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He opened them. She held his gaze while she lifted her hips against him, and he began to move, slow and deep, watching her face as if he would read every change in it and obey it. She wrapped her legs about him and pulled him closer. The bed creaked. Somewhere below a door shut. She pressed her mouth to his shoulder to keep quiet. “Harder,” she said against his ear. He gave it to her, his breath ragged against her temple, saying her name over and over as though he were afraid of losing it.

When his release came he buried his face in her neck and held her so tightly that she felt it in her ribs. She held him back. She had not forgiven him. She had wanted this anyway. She had taken it.

They lay together until their breathing slowed and the light had moved a little way across the ceiling. He asked her nothing about what it meant.

Later, when they were dressing for her departure, Darcy brought her the small pin she had been unable to find. She thanked him, fastened it herself and saw him turn away to give her the privacy she wanted. The tenderness of that ordinary courtesy was almost enough to make her weep. She was content to have been with him. She was also going to leave.

* * *

The carriage returned at the agreed hour. Elizabeth heard its wheels from upstairs and put on her gloves while Darcy stood beside the dressing-table. Her body was tired, her thoughts unquiet.

“I shall see you tomorrow,” she said.

“At my aunt's.” He made the place part of the answer, acknowledging what the appointment was. There would be other people, difficult accounts and no occasion to suppose the afternoon had settled them.

“Yes.” Elizabeth took her reticule. “I am glad I came.”

Darcy's face changed. He had been so careful not to ask for reassurance that she could see how badly he wanted it. She gave him that much truth willingly, then went downstairs with him. The driver held the carriage ready. Darcy helped her into it and stepped back when she was seated.

He did not ask her to stay for dinner. She waited almost until the wheels moved to believe that he would not. She wanted him. She wanted the carriage to keep going.

At the Gardiners Jane was sewing in the parlour, with Charlotte reading a letter beside her. Elizabeth gave her aunt the simple assurance that she had returned as arranged and went to put away her bonnet. No one required an account of her private afternoon. When she came down again, Charlotte moved the letter towards her.

Lady Catherine had confirmed the time for the following day in another note which managed to complain while conceding nothing new. The solicitor had sent a list of the papers he would bring. Elizabeth read both, then asked whether Charlotte wished to sit beside her or her father.

“Beside you,” Charlotte said. “Papa will have difficulty enough remaining quiet without imagining that every movement I make is a request for his assistance.”

They arranged what must be said first and where either would ask the other to stop. Elizabeth described no conversation which belonged privately to Darcy, but she said he knew that neither woman would permit him to speak in her place. Charlotte accepted the assurance as something to be tested tomorrow.

That evening Elizabeth set out the dress she intended to wear. She chose it because it was comfortable and suited her, which were reasons she would once have considered sufficient without having to think about them. Before bed she took out Darcy's acknowledgement and read it once more. Then she put it with her other letters, extinguished the candle and lay down beside her sleeping sister.

CHAPTER 10

ELIZABETH

Lady Catherine had placed herself at the head of the table before the others arrived on Thursday. Elizabeth recognised the intention at once and found, to her surprise, that it troubled her less than the journey there. A chair could declare as much importance as its occupant wished. It could not answer a question.

Charlotte entered beside her, with Sir William following. Gardiner had accompanied them in the carriage. The solicitor arrived separately and joined them as they were shown into the drawing-room of the house her ladyship had taken for her stay. Darcy was already present, standing near the window. He looked at Elizabeth, but did not cross the room to take charge of her chair or her introduction. She sat beside Charlotte as they had agreed, and Sir William took the place on his daughter's other side.

The Colonel had been asked to attend later and was waiting in another room. Lady Catherine announced this as if the inconvenience had been inflicted upon her rather than proposed in correspondence she had accepted. Elizabeth acknowledged the information and placed her gloves on the table. Her hands were cold despite the warmth of the day.

“I trust we may at last bring this unnecessary business to a conclusion,” Lady Catherine said. Her attention rested upon the solicitor. “I cannot imagine why a family matter should require such attendance.”

“I asked him to come,” Charlotte said. “I wish to have advice while it is discussed.”

Sir William shifted in his chair, then remained silent. Elizabeth saw the effort it cost him to let his daughter answer for herself, and was grateful to him for it.

The solicitor asked that the servant standing by the door withdraw before they began. Lady Catherine gave the order with visible displeasure. The door closed. The solicitor set the packet of papers upon the table without opening it. Elizabeth and Charlotte had agreed beforehand that Darcy might speak of his own directions and bargain. Charlotte's account of the blow would not be recited merely to satisfy another person's curiosity.

Lady Catherine folded her hands. “Well?”

Elizabeth could hear a carriage pass outside. For an absurd moment she wished she were in it, travelling to some trivial appointment with nothing more serious to fear than an unsuitable hat. Then Charlotte's sleeve touched hers. She looked directly at her husband's aunt and asked to see the account of the lantern.

* * *

The letter came from a case beside Lady Catherine's chair. She drew it out reluctantly, holding it by its upper edge while explaining that the writer had answered enquiries concerning the night before Mr. Collins was found. He lived upon the estate and had no reason, she asserted, to embroider his recollection.

The solicitor asked whether he might read it. After a pause she handed it to him. He examined the signature and date, then read the relevant passage aloud. Some hours after midnight the writer had seen a light come out from the back of the parsonage. It had gone along the path behind the house and down through the churchyard towards the embankment, and by it he had made out two men carrying something heavy between them. He could not see their faces. He had not approached.