Page 7 of The Servants’ Matchmaking

"Caroline says a great many things."

Bingley laughed, though the concern did not quite leave his face. "Would you think me a fool if I paid Miss Bennet particular attention?"

Darcy had once found the match imprudent. He could still, if pressed, name every objection in order. And yet upstairs, at that very moment, Elizabeth had spent the whole day cooling her sister's fever while Caroline measured mud upon a hem as though it were a moral failing. Objections, he was beginning to suspect, were not character. Why did that simple distinction feel like something he ought to have understood years ago?

"I would think you a fool if you let another person decide whom you value."

Bingley's expression cleared, like sun breaking through. "That is excellent advice."

Darcy had not followed it himself. Not once. Not in his whole careful, dutiful life. The thought sat in his chest like something swallowed wrong.

The door opened. Elizabeth stood on the threshold with Cowper in her hand. She wore a pale gown that was too long for her, the hem catching at her ankles, and fatigue had taken the brightness from her face without touching the intelligence in her eyes at all.

"Forgive me," she said. "I came to return this."

Darcy rose. Bingley took the book from her and at once began asking after Jane, question tumbling over question. Elizabeth answered with patience. The fever was lower, Jane had taken broth, she might sleep through till morning.

"Then you must sleep as well."

"You sound very like my mother. I assure you that is not always a recommendation."

Bingley laughed. Darcy did too, once, the sound surprising him more than it surprised anyone else in the room. Elizabeth's attention moved to Darcy, and he watched, helpless to stop it, the exact instant she remembered the assembly. Her amusement cooled. Not into hostility exactly, but into something wary and careful. Darcy deserved it. The knowledge sat low in his stomach, uncomfortable and entirely fair.

"Was Cowper tolerable?" he asked, and there was something in his own voice he did not quite recognise. Not hope, surely not that, but its careful, unacknowledged cousin.

Her brows lifted. "More than tolerable. The selection was well judged."

"Sarah chose the page," Bingley said, entirely too pleased with himself. "McKeever chose the book. Darcy merely owns an opinion of the poet."

Darcy looked at him.

"Nicholls told me," Bingley said, unrepentant.

Elizabeth examined the blue marker between two fingers. "Then the servants have achieved what their employers might not. They have agreed upon something useful."

"A dangerous precedent."

"For employers?"

"For servants who discover their own competence."

Her pleasure returned then and altered her whole face. Lit it, really, the way a candle changes a room. Darcy had remembered that look too accurately from Lucas Lodge, and not accurately enough, both at once.

Bingley looked between them, sensing something he could not name. "I should see whether Jane needs anything."

"Mr. Bingley, she is sleeping."

"Then I will ask Nicholls."

He left with what could only be called indecent speed, nearly catching his sleeve on the door frame. Elizabeth took one step into the room, still near the open door, as though keeping a line of retreat available. "You need not entertain me, Mr. Darcy. I came only to return the volume."

"It is the finest conversation I have had at Netherfield today."

"We have exchanged six sentences."

"My claim remains."

That pleased her. He saw it cross her face, quick and unguarded, gone a moment later when she remembered to govern it. Then she looked towards the windows.