“Jane! How could you…” She drew a shaking breath. “You deliberately withheld everything from Mr. Bingley and Mr. Darcy, and you knew—knew—they might be drawn into all of this against their knowledge. That they might find themselves trapped in a mess they never intended! You even used…” She struggled for the right word, her voice trembling. “Your charms! Youtemptedhim into this!”
Jane flushed deeper, but kept her head high. “I did what I thought was best. Aunt Gardiner has known them—or known of their reputation, at least—for years. Lizzy, they have influence, they have wealth. She says the Darcys were always involved in charitable ends, and Mr. Bingley has a reputation for doing the same—surely, if they understood, they might wish to help.”
“Help?” Elizabeth’s voice was nearly a hiss. “Or are they just to be used? To say nothing of Sir Thomas! He is in a desperate enough state already without being dragged into some scheme where everyone will be in for a rude surprise.” Her face was flushed with anger, but she caught herself, staring at her sister in disbelief. “And to think you would involvemein it as well! I thought it was all some odd coincidence, but you put me—both of us—forward to tempt the gentlemen here.”
“It was not like—”
“Oh, hang your excuses! Do you know how this looks? They may see through your little scheme and even connect this manipulation to our uncle. Jane, they have the power to utterly ruin him if he offended them! How could you not see that?”
Jane’s voice wavered, her eyes wide and pleading. “Lizzy, Mr. Bingley is too good to be offended. He would never retaliate against Uncle. I am sure he would forgive us.”
Elizabeth turned away, her expression set. “Perhaps Mr. Bingley. But Mr. Darcy?” She shook her head. “Mr. Darcy is not a man whose resentment one should cultivate. He might not be so quick to forgive.” She drew in a long breath, shoulders tense. “No. I cannot let this go. I will take the carriage to Netherfield myself and explain—somehow.”
“Lizzy!” Jane cried, reaching for her arm. “Please, that is too bold. Surely, they will understand.”
Elizabeth shook her head. “Mr. Darcy deserves honesty, even if it is delayed beyond reason or the cause stretches all credulity. Perhaps he can forgive some of it if he sees that I am willing to be truthful. And if it is too late… well, I would rather meet that disappointment head-on than live with the shame of being thought deceitful.”
And with that, she left the room, heedless of Jane’s protests as she scrambled downstairs and reached for her wrap. There was no time to lose.
Eleven
“Steady, girl.” Elizabeth leanedforward, patting her horse as she guided it down the narrow lane toward Netherfield. No time for a carriage. She had barely managed to get the mare saddled and away without her mother questioning her departure—or suffering some sort of mishap, for she was no accomplished rider—and now, here she was, riding alone across half-frozen fields, her breath misting in the sharp morning air.
The house rose over the ridge, and Elizabeth’s body tingled with a jolt of nerves—an odd twist of anticipation and dread. She was not entirely certain what she would say, but she knew she could not leave it unsaid.
She guided her horse around the side of the house rather than up the main drive, hoping to avoid drawing unnecessary attention. As she approached the rear entrance, she caught sight of a familiar figure bundled in a thick shawl. Miss Flora was crouched beside the back steps with a large brass bucket, disposing of ashes from the morning’s hearth cleanings. Her cheeks were flushed from the cold, and she looked up as Elizabeth dismounted, pushing a stray strand of hair back under her cap.
Elizabeth wasted no time and raised her voice to call out, “Miss Flora!”
“Miss Elizabeth?” Miss Flora straightened, her posture cautious. “What brings you here?”
Elizabeth dismounted and led her horse closer. “I need to speak with Mr. Darcy and Mr. Bingley. Are they… here?”
“Yes, miss, they have been here since last evening,” Miss Flora replied, her brows lifting slightly.
Elizabeth swallowed, nerving herself up for what must be done. Oh, dear… “Do you think there is a way I might speak with them?”
“A-alone, Miss?”
Elizabeth glanced over her shoulder as if her father could hear her even now, asking for a private audience with two unmarried men in a house most considered disreputable. “Please. It is urgent.”
Miss Flora hesitated, her gaze shifting back toward the house. “If you’ll give your horse to Mr. Jackson and come in to wait in the drawing room, miss, I shall see what I can do.”
Elizabeth exhaled, watching as the maid disappeared through the door. She had not yet considered exactly how to explain this mess, but with each passing moment, she felt the words taking shape. She let a stable boy take her horse and made her way inside toward the drawing room.
As soon as the door closed behind her, she immediately began pacing, her mind in a feverish whirl of thoughts and half-formed explanations. Every way she imagined putting the matter to Mr. Darcy felt inadequate—either too forward for any “lady”—such as she ought to be—to consider, or too restrained considering the magnitude of the offense.
At last, after what felt like an eternity, the door opened, and Mr. Darcy entered alone. Her eyes darted beyond him in some panicked disbelief. Where was Mr. Bingley? Mr. Bingley might soften the blow. He might lighten the room or be persuaded to understand…
But it was only Mr. Darcy. His expression was grave, his gaze steady but darkened with something that looked very much like disapproval. Or resentment.
So, he knew. He had pieced the puzzle together quite without her and had already formed his opinion.
She took a deep breath, steeling herself as she stepped forward. “Mr. Darcy, I hardly know where to begin, but I… I felt it necessary to speak with you directly.” She paused, hoping he might say something to soften his cool expression, but he remained silent, watching her with an unyielding gaze. Her pulse quickened, and she clasped her hands more tightly. “You have been… terribly used, I am afraid. You and Mr. Bingley both.”
His face betrayed nothing. The words tumbled out of her mouth faster than she could temper them. “I have only just learned that my sister—my sister and Aunt Gardiner, in their hope to do some good, have misled you most unfairly. I am mortified beyond measure. It was wrong, very wrong of them to deceive you so—to tempt you into coming here under false pretenses.”
She chanced a glance up at him, searching his face for any sign of forgiveness or understanding, but he stood resolute, his expression unreadable. Her voice faltered, and she dropped her gaze again, feeling the heat rise to her cheeks. “Please, do not blame my uncle,” she added. “He is innocent in this—only doing what he was asked because he… he loves my aunt, and seeks to please her.”
