Page 54 of The Vanished Bennet Sister

He had been watching her. Not obviously — he had too much of his wits remaining for that — but with a peripheral constancy borne from accepting that he could not stop. She had been composed in the carriage, earnest when she spoke to him, comforting to her mother, and sufficiently calm with Bingley; her sense of self was authentic, even as it revealed that keeping a brave face weighed on her deeply. He was aware of all of these with a clarity that had nothing to do with rational attention.

He was in love with her.

The realisation arrived as sudden recognition. A strain of understanding that he must have known for some time and had not named.

It had the sensation of a room he had been walking past for months, aware of without acknowledging. Now he had opened the door, and the contents were exactly what he would have found if he had opened it several weeks ago, or at the interval at Almack's when she had told him the square was considerably better than people said and he had stood in the middle of that subscription ball thinking about her for the remainder of the evening.

Perhaps he had not been unconsciously setting her aside. A better description for it was that he was making room. Space for a new type of bond between them. Room for all the future memories they'd make.

He was going to have to do something about this. Not today, because it had requirements that superseded everything else. But the decision to act on his growing feelings for Elizabeth would be addressed soon enough.

He knocked on the door once again. The first few knocks had gone unanswered and everyone seemed to be holding their breath.

Elizabeth’s eyes met his eyes and he gave her a slight knock that communicated steadiness—we are here, we are close, she will be found—and the weight on her shoulders appeared to ease a little bit. She matched his nod with one of hers and an expression that was not quite a smile but was just as real.

The door opened. It was held slightly ajar by a woman who appeared to be Alice Haverford, judging by the distinct similarity her face bore to Mary’s. That provided a useful hint regarding the household’s arrangement.

Alice had the composed bearing of someone who was accustomed to managing her own responses before the world and a wariness in her expression that had not been there when she opened the door and had crept up now.

Her gaze moved across the assembled group on her step: Darcy, Elizabeth, Bingley, Mr Thwaite, the rest of Mary’s sisters and Mrs Bennet. When it reached Mrs Bennet, her eyes grew steely with recognition.

Mrs Bennet had been weeping since most of the carriage journey and had not stopped.

If Alice wondered why Mrs Bennet was in tears, she did not show. She appeared impassive as she asked what it was they wanted.

"We are looking for Mary Bennet," Elizabeth said. "She was last seen in your company yesterday morning, according to a few observers at St. James Park."

"I only know her through correspondence. I presume you must be her family."

The response was too quick, as if the words had been practised over and over, due to be uttered in the present circumstances.

"The footman who delivered a note on her behalf yesterday morning informed us he came to this address," Darcy said. "He has confirmed the note was directed to a woman known as Elena. We also have correspondence, several months of it, with a person of the same name, now located at this address. We know you are the person we are looking for. That is established."

There was a brief pause, followed by an expression of uncertainty that was not her best effort. "Elena. Yes. I sometimes use another name in correspondence. It is an old habit. I do not deny speaking to Mary, but 1 maintain it was solely done via letters."

"Return my daughter to me." Mrs Bennet snapped. Her voice was direct, stripped of everything except the feeling it contained. "I want my daughter. I know who you are, Alice, and so do the Bow Street Runners who will ensure you're duly punished for what you've done."

"Your daughter," Alice repeated. "I understand your feelings, genuinely. But you must understand mine. I cannot admit to what I have no knowledge of."

"You have not seen her at all," Elizabeth murmured.

"That is what I said."

"Then you will have no objection to our searching the house."

Alice’s composure held for one more second. Then: "This is my house. You have no right to—"

"You are lying."

The words were uttered bluntly and without apology, devoid of any of the social cushioning that most people applied to direct accusations in public spaces. Alice turned to Elizabeth with sharpened attention. It was obvious that she had not expected such a level of confrontation and was deciding how to receive it.

"You have been lying," Elizabeth continued, "since you opened the door. The denial was too quick. The concern arrived too late and in the wrong order. And you looked at my mother before you looked at any of the rest of us, because she is the person you know, and she is the person you are most afraid of." She did not raise her voice. She did not step forward. She simply looked straight at Alice without hesitation. "I am very good at knowing when I am being lied to and I will not pretend otherwise. My sister must be somewhere in this house."

Alice snarled. "You insolent girl!"

Her polished surface of it was breaking apart, revealing a woman whose attempt at feigning calm had been punctured and who did not, within herself, have a great deal of patience remaining. She took one step towards Elizabeth, and a protective instinct in Darcy rose to the surface.

Elizabeth did not step back.