“…adjusting.”
Jane studied her for a moment before giving a small, knowing nod, as if she understood precisely what Elizabeth meant.
Elizabeth frowned. “And what of you?”
Jane blinked. “Me? Why do you ask?”
“Well, I only thought it would be impolite not to. After all, you asked how I was, so I now ask you the same. Are you well?”
Jane’s shoulders stiffened—just slightly—but her expression remained neutral. “Oh—yes, of course.”
Elizabeth followed her gaze—to the drive. No one was coming—no carriages or horses or even gardeners on foot. But Jane seemed to be looking for someone, nonetheless.
Jane looked back to her embroidery, then looked up at Elizabeth. “I have been meaning to ask… what have you heard from your family?”
Elizabeth narrowed her eyes. “My family?”
“Yes, surely they have written by now to see that you are settled in and content here. Your mother must miss you terribly.”
Oh. Yes, the mother in… Shropshire? Was that it? She cleared her throat. “I am sorry to say, I have not received one letter since my arrival, so I do wonder how they are getting on without me.”
Jane’s brow furrowed slightly. “Well, Papa mentioned that your father is ever so devoted to his fishing.”
Fishing. Right. That had been her story. Elizabeth forced a smile. “Yes. Quite devoted.”
“And your mother?”
“My mother?” Elizabeth repeated, stalling.
Jane nodded, waiting patiently.
Elizabeth’s mind was a blank. Who was her mother supposed to be? She had not the faintest idea what sort of woman she was meant to describe.
“Ah,” she said finally, keeping her tone light, “she is much the same. You know how mothers are.”
Jane smiled. “Indeed.”
Elizabeth made a mental note to speak with Mr. Bennet before the day was out. She would need a great deal more information if she were to continue this charade. Jane Bennet might be quiet and polite, but she was surely not stupid.
Elizabeth studied her face in silhouette, pondering about this girl who was so different from herself. Quiet… no, that was not right.Reserved—that was a better word. A riot of feeling was tossing on the stormy seas of Jane Bennet’s blue eyes, but it was kept in vicious check—for what reason, she could not say.
Then, unexpectedly, Jane’s grip on her embroidery tightened. Elizabeth frowned. “Are you well?” Jane’s shoulders tensed, just slightly, but her expression remained neutral. “Oh—yes, of course.” Elizabeth followed her gaze—again, to the drive.
Where a certain gentleman was stepping down from his carriage.
Mr. Bingley.
And suddenly, Elizabeth understood.
It was in the way Jane did not move, did not call out to him, did not let even a flicker of anticipation cross her face. It was too careful. Too measured.
Too much like a girl who had long since given up hoping.
Elizabeth turned back to Jane, watching her for a moment longer. Then, ever so casually, said, “Your Mr. Bingley seems to have arrived.”
Jane’s fingers jerked on the embroidery hoop. A single drop of blood welled up where the needle pricked her skin.
Now, this was interesting.
