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When Miss Bingley finished her piece, she turned on the bench and addressed Mr Darcy in the bright, intimate manner of one who has just been privately thinking of him. “What do you say to a duet, Mr Darcy? Mrs Hurst is asleep, and I think we are quite dull enough to require some animation. You sing so very well.”

“You play very well as it is,” he said, without looking up. “I am well entertained.”

“But a duet —”

“Thank you, I think not.”

There was a brief silence, during which Miss Bingley’s expression underwent a rapid sequence of adjustments before settling on something pleasant and unconcerned. She turned back to the pianoforte and began a quiet, reflective air, as though this had been her intention from the first.

Elizabeth returned to her book, and for a moment, had the distinct impression that she was not the only person in the room who was privately amused by something. She glanced up. Mr Darcy’s eyes were on his page with the careful fixity of a man who intends to see nothing else. His expression told her nothing at all.

She dismissed the impression and went back to reading.

∞∞∞

As the week went on, Jane’s fever abated. Her strength returned gradually; her smile regained its natural serenity. Elizabeth’s worry for her eased, though her vigilance did not, and her care was at last rewarded with a significant improvement in her sister’s health. The improvement was then so advanced that Jane ventured downstairs for a short while, leaning lightly on Elizabeth’s arm.

Mr Bingley’s pleasure was unfeigned. He hovered near Jane with such transparent concern that Elizabeth’s heart warmed.

Miss Bingley, observing this, seemed momentarily diverted from her attentions toward Mr Darcy. She and Mrs Hurst said everything that was right and proper about how glad they were to see Jane recovered and how excessively tiresome it was to be ill, but Elizabeth could not help feeling that their concern rang rather hollow.

That afternoon, Elizabeth encountered her in the library. Without Jane by her side, Miss Bingley made little pretense of civility, let alone friendship.

“How fortunate for your sister that the weather detained her here,” Miss Bingley remarked, selecting a volume without looking at it. Elizabeth looked at her in shock for a moment, taken aback by the hostility and nearly open rudeness of the comment, before Miss Bingley added, “When one considers how unfortunate it would have been to be elsewhere, I mean. Netherfield Park can so readily host another guest.”

That was at least somewhat more civil, or at least more of a pretense at civility. Elizabeth met her eyes steadily. “We are grateful for the hospitality shown.”

“Hospitality is nothing,” Caroline Bingley replied lightly. “It is society that matters. And the society here is, I flatter myself, superior to that of Meryton.”

Elizabeth cocked her head to the side. “Surely one cannot have society without hospitality. It all comes down to the generosity of a host, does it not? Without generosity, neither the finest ball nor the humblest farmer’s gathering would be possible.”

Miss Bingley’s lips curved, though her eyes remained intent. “To compare a ball with a gathering of rustic labourers is surely rather odd, Miss Eliza. Do you place no importance at all on refinement?”

Elizabeth inclined her head. “Refinement is a virtue indeed — one I consider of secondary importance only to kindness.”

Miss Bingley’s fingers tightened upon the book. She seemed perhaps about to speak, but at that moment, Mr Darcy entered the room, and Miss Bingley turned to him, whatever she had intended to say to Elizabeth immediately forgotten.

Mr Darcy, for his part, acknowledged both ladies with equal courtesy.

As Elizabeth excused herself, she was conscious of his gaze following her departure.

It would be better to say nothing of the odd encounter to Jane. The gentle-spirited, kindly Jane would find it inexplicable and slightly sad; and since Elizabeth was not yet entirely certain what she found it, she preferred to keep her own counsel.

∞∞∞

By the close of the week, Jane was sufficiently recovered to contemplate her return to Longbourn; their stay at Netherfield would soon come to its end.

Elizabeth was rather more relieved than she had expected to be. The stay had not been without its merits. Netherfield was a handsome house. Its library, though a little neglected compared to her father’s, was at least large, and best of all, Mr Bingley was every bit as agreeable and attentive to Jane as they could have wished. But a week of close society with people she knew only a little, in rooms that were not her own, had produced in Elizabeth a deep hunger for the familiar: for her father’s study, for the lane behind Longbourn, for conversations free of calculation or design. She was entirely pleased to bid Netherfield farewell. The last day before their departure could not pass quickly enough.

That evening, the household assembled for supper in a spirit of relieved conviviality.

Elizabeth found herself seated between Mr Bingley and Mr Darcy. Miss Bingley was seated on the opposite side of the table, her composure immaculate.

Conversation flowed easily at first, drifting from the weather to the harvest and the improvement in Jane’s health. Yet beneath the surface, Elizabeth sensed odd, unsettling undercurrents. Miss Bingley’s laughter came a shade too quickly. Her glances toward Mr Darcy lingered a fraction too long.

Mr Darcy responded with uniform civility, but Elizabeth, attuned now to the nuance, saw the faint reserve in his manner. She wondered involuntarily whether he longed to escape from such attentions.

The thought startled her. Why should his comfort concern her? She chastised herself for her presumption and told herself to forget her foolishness.