Jane sighed. “And yet his sisters…”
She paused, searching for words that were neither uncharitable nor naïve.
“They were not unkind,” she continued carefully. “Not openly. But there was a chill beneath every civility. Miss Bingley questioned me closely—about our family, our connections, our habits here in the country. Mrs. Hurst scarcely addressed me at all unless she was obliged. The other gentlemen were not in attendance.”
Elizabeth’s expression hardened. “It is as I suspected.”
Jane looked down at her hands. “I am certain now that they do not approve of their brother’s attention. They watched us constantly. Miss Bingley in particular seemed displeased whenever he addressed me directly.”
“And Mr. Bingley?” Elizabeth asked. “Did he notice?”
“I think he did,” Jane admitted. “He attempted to smooth matters—to draw his sisters into conversation, to praise the neighborhood, to insist upon its comforts. But it only seemed to vex them further.”
She hesitated before adding, “It left me wondering whether his regard can withstand such disapproval. How can a fledgling affection survive being smothered at its source?”
Elizabeth leaned forward, her voice firm but gentle. “If Mr. Bingley allows his sisters to dictate to him—if he permits their disdain to govern his feelings—then he is not a man worthy of my favorite cousin.”
Jane looked up, startled but thoughtful. “You truly believe that?”
“I do,” Elizabeth said without hesitation. “Affection that must beg permission from others is already on precarious ground. Aman who cannot stand by his own judgment will not stand by a wife when it matters most.”
Jane considered this in silence. At length, she nodded. “I believe you are right. Still…” Her voice softened. “It is disappointing. I had hoped—”
Elizabeth reached for her hand. “Hope is not foolish,” she said kindly. “But neither is caution. You have conducted yourself with perfect propriety, and whatever comes of this will be no reflection upon you.”
Jane smiled faintly, squeezing Elizabeth’s fingers. “Thank you, Lizzy. I am glad to have spoken of it. I feel lighter for it.”
“So you should,” Elizabeth replied. “Now, you must rest. Tomorrow will bring its own discoveries—and we shall meet them together.”
Jane rose then, her spirits steadied if not wholly restored, and as the candlelight dimmed and the house settled into sleep, Elizabeth remained awake a little longer, resolved that whatever course this attachment took, it would do so on terms worthy of the woman she loved as a sister.
Chapter Sixteen
“Mr. Darcy, good morning.” Miss Bingley’s saccharine smile was the last thing Darcy wished to see first thing in the morning. Her perfume wafted toward him—overly sweet, cloying—and it was all he could do to suppress the look of distaste that threatened to betray him before he had fully fortified himself with food.
“Good morning,” he replied with practiced civility as he filled a plate from the sideboard. Good heavens—it was nearly midday. He rarely kept such hours. Town habits crept in like weeds when one was not vigilant, and Miss Bingley and the Hursts positively encouraged them. Darcy had requested a light repast in his chambers when he rose shortly after six, but the morning’s restlessness had left him in need of something more substantial. He selected eggs, cold beef, and bread with deliberate care, grounding himself in the familiar ritual.
Bingley wandered in moments later, looking as though he had not long been awake. He was impeccably turned out, as always—coat brushed, cravat perfectly arranged—but there was a hollowness beneath the polish, a faint shadow beneath his eyes that suggested a restless night.
“Charles! Goodness, have a little more care for yourself. You look dreadful.”
Darcy winced inwardly. Miss Bingley’s agreement with his own private assessment did nothing to improve his mood.
“I thank you, sister, for your concern,” Bingley replied mildly, though his tone lacked its usual warmth. “I am well.” He added food to his plate with uncharacteristic slowness and deliberately chose a seat as far from Miss Bingley as the table allowed.
Almost as soon as he had settled, Miss Bingley spoke again, her voice bright with anticipation. “I imagine you will be interested in knowing what I have discovered about the Bennets.” She smiled with unmistakable satisfaction, as though the information were a prize she had hunted down and now displayed.
Darcy paused with his fork midway to his mouth. Bingley’s shoulders stiffened.
“You will not rest until you have had your say,” Bingley observed dryly. “Speak.”
The surliness was unusual. Darcy glanced at his friend with mild concern.Charles is not so easily provoked,he thought.Something weighs upon him more heavily than he will admit.
Miss Bingley ignored the rebuke entirely. “The Bennets are a family of little wealth or standing,” she declared, as though pronouncing judgment from a tribunal. “This insignificant backwater is their greatest claim to consequence. Mr. Bennet’s estate is entailed upon a distant cousin, and the ladies have no great fortune to speak of—only modest dowries. And Miss Elizabeth Bennet is not their daughter at all, but a niece—a dependent relation—forced to divide her time between her mother’s family and her father’s.”
Darcy had, of course, become aware of Miss Elizabeth’s position only recently. Even so, he failed to see why her birth or guardianship should be discussed with such relish.
“And what,” Bingley asked curiously, “has any of that to do with Miss Bennet’s worthiness?”
