Page 17 of The Difference of a Darcy
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The fire in the blue parlor at Rosings crackled softly the following evening. The tea service had been cleared away, though Lady Catherine remained stationed like a general at her usual post. Mr. Collins had found a footstool and was attempting to recount a secondhand anecdote about the Bishop of Norwich. Charlotte sat listening with admirable patience.
Elizabeth stood near the instrument, already regretting that she had acquiesced to Lady Catherine’s demand that she “entertain the room.” The pianoforte at Rosings was better tuned than the one at Longbourn, but the room itself had all the warmth of a marble mausoleum.
She rifled through the sheet music on the piano and discovered a faded copy of a little German piece she had learned from her aunt Gardiner years ago. It was sweet and notterribly long: precisely the sort of thing one could offer without inviting criticism for either ostentation or indolence.
When she finished the first movement, Mr. Darcy stepped forward.
“May I turn the pages for you, Miss Bennet?”
She looked up in surprise and wariness.
“If you wish,” she said lightly.
He stood beside her as she began again. For a few moments, neither spoke.
It was maddening.
She had been trying, since yesterday, to make sense of his presence, of his odd expressions, of that intense gaze he seemed to fix on her whenever he thought she would not notice. But now—standing so near, watching the sheet music with dutiful solemnity—he seemed not at all inclined to speak.
Very well, then.Shewould.
“You must miss your friend Mr. Bingley,” she said softly, keeping her eyes on the keys. “I know the neighborhood in Hertfordshire grew quite fond of him.”
There was the briefest pause. Then: “Indeed? That is kind of you to say.”
Elizabeth’s fingers faltered for half a note, but she recovered. “Yes. I believe his return is still hoped for by many.”
“I doubt it,” Darcy said. “He has no real reason to return. His sisters prefer the society in town, and the lease at Netherfield was never a permanent one.”
She stopped playing.
Darcy looked at her in question.
“I beg your pardon,” she said, turning the page unnecessarily. “My hands were cold. They have gone stiff.”
But it was not cold. It was fury.
Of course.Of course. Mr. Bingley had not simply drifted away. He had beenguidedaway—steered, no doubt, by thesame man who stood beside her now, polite and inscrutable, speaking of Jane’s heartbreak as though it were a trivial matter.
He had done it. She was sure of it now.
He had separated them.
She pressed on through the remainder of the piece, though she could barely see the notes. When the final chord faded, she rose at once and curtsied.
Lady Catherine gave a reluctant nod. “Adequate, I suppose. You really will never play well unless you practice, Miss Elizabeth.”
Elizabeth murmured her thanks and returned to her chair, barely hearing anything around her. Darcy had resumed his seat without comment and stared at her. She determinedly avoided his gaze, focusing her attention on Lady Catherine giving Mrs. Collins instructions about calls to pay the following morning.
She could not even look at him.
The walk back to the parsonage was cold and quiet. Charlotte spoke only once—something about the quality of the orange marmalade—and Elizabeth mumbled a vague reply.
She went to bed early, pleading a headache.
But it was not pain that kept her awake. It was fury. White-hot and slow-burning.
