Page 59 of Dear Friend

“We spoke of Derbyshire and Hertfordshire, books, Papa, Mr. Bingley...” Elizabeth glanced sideways at her sister and was rewarded with the faintest colour in Jane's cheeks. “And Julia.”

That removed the teasing from Jane's expression. “Julia?”

“Yes. I hardly know how we came to the subject, but once we did, I told him considerably more than I intended. Her illness, her leaving Hertfordshire, the letters...” Elizabeth frowned. “Even foolish little things I have not thought of in months.”

“Perhaps you wished to speak of her.”

“I always wish to speak of her. That has never made it easy.”

Jane reached for Elizabeth's hand. “Perhaps Mr. Darcy made it easy.”

Elizabeth was quiet for a moment. “Surprisingly, yes. He did.”

There was something about admitting it which made the morning feel more significant than it had upon the hill.

“He listens very attentively,” she continued. “Not merely waiting for his opportunity to speak, as so many people do. When he asks a question, one has the impression that the answer genuinely matters to him.”

“That speaks well of him.”

“Yes.” Elizabeth hesitated. “And yet there is something peculiar about it.”

“Peculiar?”

“At times his interest seems almost to come before the question.” She shook her head, dissatisfied with the explanation. “I cannot describe it properly. He will ask something and then look at me as though my answer has confirmed what he suspected rather than told him anything new.”

Jane considered this. “Perhaps he is simply perceptive.”

“Perhaps.”

“Mr. Bingley says he has always been reserved.”

Elizabeth turned towards her at once. “Does he indeed?”

Jane coloured.

“How fortunate that Mr. Bingley has already supplied you with such useful intelligence concerning his friend.”

“He happened to mention it.”

“Naturally.”

“Lizzy.”

Elizabeth laughed and squeezed her sister's hand. “Very well, I shall spare you. Perhaps you are right. Mr. Darcy may simply be a quiet, observant gentleman, and I am determined to make him mysterious because I should be disappointed to understand him so easily.”

Jane retrieved her book. “You still have not answered my question.”

“Which question?”

“What you found upon your walk that made you smile.”

Elizabeth gave her a look which warned against asking the question again, though the amusement in it spoiled the effect. “I believe I have.”

Jane's answering smile was insufferably knowing.

Elizabeth rose before her sister could make anything further of it, gathering her bonnet as she did. She had enjoyed the morning. There was no reason to deny something so simple merely because Jane might attach greater importance to it.

What was less simple was the question which followed her from the room.