Page 34 of Shadows Of Rosings Park: Part 2

"Isn't consent. We've discussed this."

Silence. The breakfast table was bright with morning light. The toast sat between them. The silver gleamed. Everything about the scene was civilised and orderly and exactly as it should be, and beneath the surface two people were conducting a negotiation about the fate of a woman who was not present and could not speak for herself.

"I should like to see her," Elizabeth said. "When we arrive in London."

"Under appropriate circumstances." He touched the handle of his cup but did not lift it.

"You keep saying under appropriate circumstances and supervised as though I am the one who cannot be trusted. I am not the person who removed a woman from her family in the night."

"Charlotte's departure was arranged. She knew. She consented⁠—"

"She submitted. There is a world of difference, and you know it, because you and I have been standing on opposite sides of that difference since the parlour floor at Hunsford."

The charge echoed in the hushed space. She did not take it back. Darcy's expression held, but his attention sharpened as he absorbed an unexpected blow.

"Your concern for Charlotte does you credit," he said at last, his voice softer than before. "But I assure you, Richard would never raise a hand to her."

"There are wounds beyond the physical."

"Indeed." He held her gaze. "Though such wounds may, with proper care, harden into something more durable than the skin they replaced."

She looked at him across the breakfast table and wondered if he was talking about Charlotte or about her. Or about himself.

"I'll see her," Elizabeth said. "In London. Not supervised. Not appropriate circumstances. I'll see my friend, and we'll speak privately, and you will permit it because you have just acknowledged — whether you intended to or not — that what you are doing to both of us requires care. And care begins with allowing the people you claim to protect to speak to each other without surveillance."

Neither spoke. Darcy's hand shifted an inch toward her, then stopped.

"One visit," he said. "Private. Unsupervised. And then we discuss the terms going forward."

Elizabeth nodded. The concession was not freedom. It was a longer leash. But it was the first time Darcy had yielded ground that he had not previously planned to yield. The difference between a calculated concession and a genuine one was visible in his face, in the slight discomfort of a man who has just done something he did not intend because someone he could not control had asked him to.

She noted it. She noted everything now, every crack, every yielding, every moment when the wall moved an inch she had not asked for.

Elizabeth wrote her response to Sir William while Darcy returned to his correspondence. She chose each word as one chooses steps on ice, testing the surface, measuring the weight it could bear.

Dear Sir William,

I am sorry to hear of Charlotte's departure and understand your distress. I believe she may have accepted an invitation to visit friends in London. This was spoken of during our recent conversations. I shall make inquiries upon my own arrival in town and write to you directly with whatever intelligence I may gather. Pray do not alarm yourself unduly. Charlotte is a woman of great good sense, and I am confident she would not have departed without sound reason.

Your obedient servant,

E. Darcy

Every sentence a lie. Every lie a brick in the wall that kept them all alive. She sealed the letter and gave it to the footman. She wondered whether Charlotte was reading a similar letter from the Colonel, polite, reasonable, explaining in measured tones why she would be leaving her family's home and entering a residence she had not chosen. Wearing a ring she had not accepted. Beginning a life designed for her by a man whose courtesy was indistinguishable from his control.

"You wrote to Sir William," Darcy said from behind his newspaper. Not a question. "I have also written to him. Our accounts will correspond."

"I told him Charlotte has gone to visit friends in London. Which is true, in the same way that our marriage is a love match — true in every particular and false in every way that matters."

He lowered the newspaper. "You're becoming quite skilled at this."

"At lying?"

"At shaping the truth. There is a distinction."

"Yes. When a poor woman lies, she is a liar. When a rich man does it, he is shaping the truth. I have learnt a great deal about distinctions since my marriage."

His mouth almost yielded to amusement before he mastered it. Her satisfaction at provoking him joined the many reactions she preferred not to examine.