Page 5 of What to do with Fitzwilliam Darcy?

"Oh yes," said Bingley. "Absolutely thrilled. All of the advice on the purchase. Yes, of course."

Bingley was bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet, and Darcy once again regarded his friend curiously. What was he about?

"Let us show you to your room, Mr Darcy, so you can rest after your journey. Dinner is at seven, if that is acceptable to you."

"Yes, madam, most acceptable. I thank you for your hospitality," said Darcy in a monotone, itching to be alone so that he could drop his mask of civility.

The Bingleys led him to his usual chambers, and he declined Bingley's offer to join him for a drink before dinner. "We shall deal with business tomorrow, Bingley, if this is acceptable to you."

"Of course, of course, my good man. Rest and recuperate. We have the most excellent dinner being prepared for you."

Darcy would much rather have had a tray in his room. But he supposed that would be churlish after Bingley had gone to the trouble of inviting him, and he could hardly avoid his hosts entirely for the duration of his stay.

"Seven, then," he said.

Bingley beamed. "Seven."

The door closed behind them, and at last Darcy was alone.

Chapter Four

Elizabeth sat in the parlour at a quarter to seven while her sister and her husband beamed at her. The effect was quite unsettling, and she had no idea what she had done to cause such mirth. She was only sitting quietly and pretending to read a book, though they need not know she was pretending.

"Lizzie, we are so pleased to have you here, my dear, dear sister," said Charles, for what must have been the fifth time that evening. "It is wonderful to be surrounded by the people we esteem most in the world."

Elizabeth gave a small frown. Her brother by marriage was always exuberant, but this was a strange and overly effusive remark even for him. Jane gave him a meaningful look, although Elizabeth could not for the life of her work out the meaning behind it.

"Yes, of course," said her sister lightly. "We are always glad to have you, Lizzie. Now tell me, did you pass the afternoon quite comfortably?"

"Of course, Jane. I have already told you that my rooms are exceptionally comfortable. I could want for nothing."

"We had hoped to see a little more of you today. It is a shame that your head pained you so. Is it better now?"

"Yes. I think I have told you that already."

Elizabeth glanced at the clock, something her sister had been doing continuously for the last thirty minutes.

"Is it time to go in for dinner?" Elizabeth asked tentatively.

"No," said both her sister and her brother in unison, causing Elizabeth to jump slightly in her chair.

"Very well. It was just that you have both been gazing at the clock, and I wondered if we were late for this spectacular feast." She tried for an easy smile, but suspected it came out more as a painted grimace.

"We are just waiting..." said Bingley, and then let out a little "oof" as Jane elbowed him in the ribs.

It was such an uncharacteristic behaviour that Elizabeth could only stare. "Waiting for what? It is just us three to dine, is it not? We do not usually stand on so much ceremony."

Jane stood and walked across the room, beginning to fuss with the curtains. "Everything is well, and people will let us know when things are ready. Do not worry, Lizzie. All is well."

"Very well, Jane." Elizabeth felt a little as though she had stumbled into the middle of a farce without a script. Perhaps there had been some minor quarrel between her sister and her new husband? She supposed all married couples must have them eventually, even those who seemed so blissfully in love. Charles was certainly tapping his foot against the carpet continuously and had seemed somewhat agitated all evening. He rose now to stand beside his wife and appeared to be whispering to her in low tones.

Elizabeth attempted to turn her attention back to her book. A minor squabble, then. That must be it. She had just turned a page when the parlour door opened, and she looked up, expecting to see Digby announcing that dinner was served. It was not Digby. It was Fitzwilliam Darcy, master of Pemberley, in the flesh and standing in the doorway of her sister's parlour.

She blinked several times, wondering if her melancholy had gone so far that her eyes had started to betray her, but there he was. Tall and looking thinner than when she had seen him last and a little tired, but still undeniably the most handsome man she had ever encountered.

He was staring at her, his mouth opening and closing, but no sound coming out. Was he angry? Horrified? Terrified? It was certainly not an expression of affection that lingered on his features. The next moment seemed to stretch endlessly for Elizabeth, before he said, "I must go," and turned on his heel.

She felt tears prick the backs of her eyes. She knew he must now dislike her. She had not thought the force of his hatred would be so visceral.