Elizabeth jutted her jaw mulishly. If anyone should be angry, she should, not Mary. Elizabeth had never set out to harm her sister, while Mary had deliberately tormented her. Now Elizabeth was somehow at fault for Lady Catherine’s unreasonableness as well? That tendency seemed bred into her ladyship, not instilled there by Elizabeth.
“I do not know why you hate me,” Mary wailed, tears overflowing her eyes.
Elizabeth did not hate her sister, but could muster only a flat look, disgusted by Mary’s behavior.
Jane stood, crossing to wrap Mary in a hug. “Shh, all will be well. Come sit, and we will call for tea, and you can tell us what happened, and I am certain we will find that it has little to do with Elizabeth. She can have no influence over Lady Catherine, after all.”
“Tea for five,” Mrs. Bennet said loudly.
As the maid scurried away, Jane looked over her shoulder at their mother. “Mama.”
“Never fear.” Elizabeth stood. “Mary may have my portion. I have no appetite.” Slipping around her sisters, Elizabeth left the parlor.
She collected her outerwear and went out through the scullery. No one would stop her, she knew. Not now that Jane was married so well, even if she and Mr. Bingley had yet to dwell under the same roof as husband and wife. And if, for some reason, Elizabeth returned to find Mary waiting for her, readywith accusations, Elizabeth would have a thing or two to say to her sister.
She walked fast and far, trying to outpace the turmoil of her thoughts. Elizabeth had never realized that giving up on the pianoforte had caused a rift between her and Mary. One that, apparently, had bloomed into dislike on Mary’s side. She hadn’t meant to upset her sister.
But Mary had meant to spy on her, and to get her into trouble. Just as Mr. Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam had deliberately misled her and everyone else. Lied to her about who they were and why they were at Netherfield Park. They had even roped Mr. Bingley and his relations into their ruse.
Yet somehow Jane was happy again and would undoubtedly return to Mr. Bingley soon. Mrs. Bennet had succeeded in seeing Jane wed to a wealthy gentleman. Miss Darcy’s future seemed safe, with Mr. Wickham gone and their union never truly realized. Colonel Fitzwilliam and Miss Bingley were betrothed.
And Elizabeth was miserable. It was scant comfort that Mary seemed to be as well, for Elizabeth did not actually wish any misery on her sister. Even if that meant that Mary and Mr. Collins must be installed in Longbourn. Elizabeth grimaced at the thought, the wind whipping at her. At least they should no longer need to hear Lady Catherine lauded in every other sentence Mr. Collins uttered.
She had all but forgotten Lady Catherine’s declaration that Mr. Darcy would marry her daughter. Elizabeth had not, until now, put together that the man her ladyship meant was the man Elizabeth still privately thought of as Fitzwilliam. It was good to know, at least, that he did not intend to wed Miss de Bourgh. Not that such a lack of intention meant he’d set his sights on Elizabeth. Or that she wished him to.
When it came to Fitzwilliam…rather, Mr. Darcy, Elizabeth did not know what she felt. Emotions tangled inside her. Shecould not even be certain she knew who he was, let alone her feelings for him.
With a sigh, she turned back for Longbourn. The wind picked up more, the force stinging her eyes. Elizabeth dashed away tears born of her tumult and winter’s encroaching chill.
She returned to find Jane, not Mary, waiting in the scullery. Elizabeth dashed at her eyes again, for the wind had caused them to water the entire walk home. Jane took one look at her and enveloped her in a hug.
Elizabeth leaned her head on her taller sister’s shoulder, absorbing the love, tranquility, and warmth that was Jane. Letting out a long breath, Elizabeth straightened. “I am perfectly well, do not fear.”
Jane released her. “You are not. You are miserable, and now Mary and Mr. Collins will be staying here for a time, and your misery will worsen.”
A sigh escaped Elizabeth. “I imagined they would be, and I agree, they cannot be turned out. No matter what has been said, Mary is our sister. None of us would see her suffer.”
“Mama would. She is not pleased.” Jane smiled in the dim light filtering in through the scullery’s small window. “So much so, that she stood up for you. When Mr. Collins learned that I will be returning to Netherfield Park—”
“Oh, Jane, that is wonderful.” Elizabeth hugged her sister again, quickly. “I truly do believe you and Mr. Bingley are meant to be happy together. It is only the interference of Colonel Fitzwilliam and Mr. Darcy that has prevented that.”
“Neither of them kept Charles from telling me the truth about his uncles,” Jane pointed out, but with only faint asperity. “Regardless, when Mr. Collins learned that I am returning to Netherfield Park, he said he and Mary must have our room, but Mama assured him that they would not be staying long and so there was no need to uproot you.”
“That would surprise me, if I could not guess that Mama simply means to make their stay here unpleasant, so Mr. Collins will find a new position as quickly as possible.” If he could with a bishop turned against him.
“Well, whatever the reason, she is immovable on the matter.”
“That is good to know,” Elizabeth said, and mustered a smile for her sister.
With many hugs and well-wishes from Elizabeth and her sisters, Jane returned to Netherfield Park the following morning after breakfast, upon which Mr. Collins immediately renewed his pursuit of the larger bed chamber. After hours of putting him off and a light, strained luncheon at which the row of flower-filled vases down the center of the table fortuitously blocked Mary and Mr. Collins from Elizabeth’s view, Mrs. Bennet ordered Mary and Mr. Collins into Mr. Bennet’s study. There, she decreed, they could write letters inquiring for any prospect of a position and stay well away from her, her unmarried daughters, and anyone who might call.
Bemused to have her mother on her side for once, Elizabeth settled into the front parlor with a book she hoped might keep her from thinking about Fitzwilliam. Rather, Mr. Darcy, she chided. She must force her mind to regard him by his honorific and his surname, not his cousin’s.
The afternoon ticked on, Elizabeth having read very little by the time a knock sounded on the front door. One of the maids passed the parlor doorway, while Kitty and Lydia crowded into the window.
“That’s not more flowers,” Lydia said.
“Why would it be? Jane is no longer here.”
