Bingley blinked. “So, you say that though propriety dictates a man address the lady first, it is not always observed? That Miss Bennet ought to approach me?”
“That is my belief,” Darcy replied. “Your sister, for example—she places herself at my side whenever I enter a room or speaks to me before I can so much as acknowledge her presence. While that is rathertooforward, it leaves one in no doubt of her interest.”
Bingley looked genuinely perplexed. “But you have said on more than one occasion that Caroline ought not to behave in such a manner.”
“Just because a thing ought not to be done,” Darcy said dryly, “does not mean it is not done with alarming regularity.” He struck the ball cleanly into a corner pocket. “Watch her next time we are in company. Miss Bennet may find you agreeable, but she finds society itself agreeable. Her manner toward you differs in no material way from her manner toward others.”
He immediately regretted the bluntness of his words when Bingley’s expression fell. His friend was accustomed to easy attachments and easy recoveries, but this interest seemed deeper, more reflective. Darcy softened his tone. “It is early days yet. Perhaps Miss Bennet does not yet know her own heart.”
The consolation was imperfect, and Darcy knew it. Still, Bingley seized upon it with characteristic optimism.
“Yes. Yes, that is just so,” he said, a hopeful smile returning. “Thank you, Darcy.”
Darcy inclined his head, but his thoughts were less sanguine.Do not thank me yet,he reflected. In his judgment, Miss Bennet was not merely reserved; she was content. Indifference, not uncertainty, marked her demeanor. It would take time for Bingley to see it clearly, but at least now he might proceed with caution.
Darcy took his next shot in silence, the click of ivory on wood punctuating the unspoken truth between them.
Elizabeth was seated at the small escritoire in her chamber, sealing a letter she had half-written and rewritten twice over, when a light knock sounded at the door.
“Come in,” she called, already suspecting who it would be.
Jane entered quietly and closed the door behind her. She did not sit at once but lingered near the window, hands folded, her posture betraying a restraint that Elizabeth had learned to read with precision.
Elizabeth set the letter aside. “You have something on your mind.”
Jane smiled faintly. “I always forget how well you know me.”
Elizabeth rose and crossed the room. “Sit,” she said gently, drawing Jane toward the small sofa by the hearth. “Now—tell me. Is this about Mr. Bingley?”
Jane nodded, her composure wavering just enough to be honest. “Yes. I believe it must be.”
Elizabeth waited.
“I like him a great deal,” Jane said simply. The words seemed carefully chosen, weighed and measured before being allowed to exist aloud. “He is kind, attentive, and unfailingly good-natured. I enjoy his company exceedingly.”
Elizabeth felt a quiet satisfaction at hearing it said so plainly. “And yet?”
Jane exhaled. “And yet I find myself wondering whether I am…expressive enough.”
Elizabeth lifted her brows slightly. “Expressive?”
Jane twisted her fingers together. “I cannot help thinking—perhaps I ought to give him greater encouragement. He seeks my company whenever possible. He looks for me when we enter a room. He speaks to me with such warmth that I fear my own reserve may be mistaken for indifference.”
Elizabeth considered this. “Do you feel indifferent?”
“No,” Jane said at once. “Quite the opposite. But politeness—propriety—dictates that a gentleman must declare himself first. I have always believed that a lady should not presume upon a man’s intentions.”
Elizabeth nodded slowly. “That belief is not without foundation.”
Jane’s voice softened. “I do not wish to place him in an awkward position. If I appear too eager, too encouraging, he may feel obliged to pursue an attachment he has not fully examined. I would never wish to pressure him.”
Elizabeth studied her cousin’s face—so open, so earnest, so entirely free of calculation.How different,she thought,from the assumptions others make.
“You are behaving with perfect propriety,” Elizabeth said firmly. “No one who understands decorum could fault you. You are attentive without being forward, warm without being indiscreet.”
Jane looked relieved, though uncertainty lingered. “And yet—”
“And yet,” Elizabeth continued gently, “it would not injure your dignity to allow your pleasure in his company to be seen. There is a wide space between indifference and boldness, Jane. You already occupy it more gracefully than most.”
