Page 142 of Near Pemberley

“I can imagine.”

“He was considerably less delighted when I informed him that Georgiana and I are staying with your family.”

Elizabeth’s eyes sparkled. “You told him directly?”

“I saw no reason not to.”

“And what did Sir William do?”

Darcy’s expression became almost thoughtful. “For perhaps half a minute he appeared engaged in a severe internal debate.”

“A debate?”

“I believe he was attempting to determine whether he ought to warn me of your family’s disgrace.”

Lydia made an indignant sound.

Elizabeth, however, laughed. “Oh, poor Sir William.”

Darcy shook his head. “Eventually, he concluded that I must already know.”

“And then?”

“He appeared immensely relieved.”

Elizabeth smiled, but her smile gradually faded. “He expected you to leave us.”

“I believe he did.”

“And yet you told him you were our guest.”

“I merely stated a fact.”

She looked at him for a long moment. It was, she realised, precisely because he regarded it as no more than a fact that it affected her so deeply.

Society expected him to distance himself.

He had done the opposite, without hesitation, and without imagining he deserved credit for it.

She lowered her eyes. Her heart gave one quick, unexpected beat.

Across from her, Georgiana saw the look that passed over her brother’s face as he watched Elizabeth. She smiled to herself and quietly turned towards the window. Some conversations, she thought, were best left uninterrupted.

Conversation gradually gave way to a comfortable silence.

Lydia leant her head against the squabs and, despite every intention of remaining awake, was asleep within a quarter of an hour. Georgiana smiled at the sight and returned to the book resting upon her lap.

Elizabeth, however, found her attention wandering elsewhere.

Mr. Darcy had said nothing for several miles.

He sat opposite her, one arm resting against the window, his gaze fixed upon the passing countryside. There was nothing remarkable in the posture itself. It was only because she had spent the last few days observing him so closely that she noticed the difference.

The alertness had gone.

His shoulders had relaxed at last. There was weariness in his face she had not seen before, as though the effort of remaining composed had finally become greater than he could sustain.

She realised, with a slight tightening of her heart, that while everyone else had been celebrating Lydia’s return, he had spent the morning purchasing Wickham’s debts, the previous night reading yet another disappointing report, and the days before that searching half of London.