He, too, had begun to wonder where Bingley had gone. A quiet word from his friend might have smoothed the worst of the afternoon. But there had been no rescue, no interruption. Only Caroline Bingley, smiling like a woman who already thought she had won. He left her standing in the entrance hall, alone beside a bust of Hadrian that looked about as sympathetic as he felt.
Chapter Twenty-Two
10 December
The parlor was quiet.
Jane sat by the window with a bit of mending, though the needle had not moved in some time. Aunt Gardiner had joined the children upstairs for tea. The fire clicked and settled in the grate.
Elizabeth turned a page of the morning’s society circular without reading it. Her eyes passed over a column on last week’s art gathering. Lady Frances had been praised for her red velvet. A foreign nobleman had admired the bust of Caesar. Miss Partridge had been described as “expressively dressed,” and Darcy was listed among the “notable gentlemen quietly surveying the field.”
Elizabeth’s name was nowhere on the page. Not mentioned. Not mocked. Simply—absent. She folded the paper, a little too roughly, and laid it aside.
“I did see her,” Jane said quietly.
Elizabeth looked up. “Who?”
“Miss Bingley,” Jane clarified. “At the exhibit. I thought perhaps I imagined it at first, but it was her. She passed me without speaking.”
Elizabeth rose and crossed to the sideboard. “That sounds precisely like her.”
“She looked well,” Jane added, too quickly. “Very much the same. Her gown was green.”
Elizabeth opened the teapot, found it almost decently steeped, and shut it again. “Yes, I saw her.”
“I heard her mention her brother. She was speaking to another lady—laughing, and surely loudly enough that she had to know I heard her.”
Elizabeth grunted. “Surely. Tea?”
“She said he was standing near the Neptune sculpture.”
That stopped her. Elizabeth lowered the pot. “She said he was present? At the exhibit?”
Jane nodded. “She said he had been speaking with a friend of hers. A lady. She claimed they were standing just behind the sculpture of Neptune.” Her hands had stilled completely. “I never saw him.”
Elizabeth swallowed. “Perhaps—he did not know you were there. Or perhaps he was not there at all, and Miss Bingley only suffers from an active imagination.”
Jane’s jaw flexed. “Perhaps.” She pressed the needle through fabric, once, twice, without anchoring it to anything.
Elizabeth moved to speak. Then stopped. Then said nothing.
“I do not blame him,” Jane said suddenly. Her voice wavered. “I never did. If he was misled—or if he simply found someone else—”
“Oh, Jane—”
“I only wish he would say so. I wishsomeonewould sayanything.” Her fingers trembled, and the needle bent slightly in her grip. “Why is it so hard to be clear?”
Elizabeth hesitated. There were too many answers. None of them kind.
Because people like Miss Bingley never had to explain themselves. Because men like Mr. Bingley could vanish without consequence. Because silence always looked like virtue on a woman—until someone decided it was arrogance instead.
Because Elizabeth had dragged her sister to London on a promise. Of clarity. Of fairness. Of a chance.
And none of it had materialized.
“I am sorry,” she said at last. “I should not have brought you here.”
Jane shook her head. “It is not about the place.”
