Jane smiled, though it was tinged with hesitation. “I shall try,” she said. “But I must remain true to myself. I cannot manufacture feeling where it does not naturally rise.”
Elizabeth reached for her hand. “Nor should you. If he values you—as I believe he does—he will value you precisely as you are.”
Jane was quiet for a moment before speaking again. “Elizabeth…do you think he is raising expectations?”
Elizabeth considered carefully. “He is paying you a great deal of attention,” she said honestly. “Enough that others have begun to remark upon it. Enough that certain expectations—reasonable ones—have formed.”
Jane’s brow furrowed. “And that troubles me. What if he feels compelled to continue because others expect it of him, not because he truly wishes it?”
Elizabeth’s expression sharpened slightly. “Jane—listen to me. The burden of that decision rests upon the gentleman. Always.”
Jane looked uncertain. “But—”
“No,” Elizabeth said gently but decisively. “A man who allows himself to be carried into an attachment by expectation alone has only himself to blame. You are not manipulating him, nor are you concealing yourself. You are not encouraging him beyond what your feelings justify.”
She paused, then added quickly, “It is not a lady’s duty to diminish her own worth to prevent a gentleman from acting foolishly.”
Jane laughed softly at that, though it held little mirth. “You make it sound so simple.”
“It is not simple,” Elizabeth admitted. “But it is just.”
Jane leaned back against the cushions. “I sometimes think—perhaps men imagine the world works differently than it does. As though affection must announce itself boldly, or it does not exist at all.”
Elizabeth smiled wryly. “Some would say it prudent to do so—Charlotte, for example. She claims men are accustomed to such displays. There are those who despise overt encouragement in women—who find it vulgar, unbecoming—yet are equally dissatisfied when a woman behaves with quiet reserve. It is a contradiction born of self-importance.”
Jane considered this. “You mean they wish to be pursued without believing themselves pursued.”
“Precisely,” Elizabeth said. “They wish for admiration without the discomfort of acknowledging it. And when a woman refuses to perform affection in the manner they expect, they conclude she feels nothing at all.” Aunt Caroline had taught her as much.
Jane frowned. “That seems most unfair.”
“It is,” Elizabeth agreed. “And it is why your instincts are sound. You are neither performing nor withholding. You are simply being.”
Jane sighed. “I only wish matters were clearer.”
“They will be,” Elizabeth said with confidence. “Mr. Bingley is not blind, nor is he proud to the point of imagining feelings where none exist. If his affection deepens, he will declare himself. And if it does not—then you will have lost nothing of yourself in the process.”
Jane smiled at that, a genuine, steady smile. “Thank you. I needed to hear it said aloud.”
Elizabeth squeezed her hand. “You are doing nothing wrong. Remember that.”
Jane rose then, her spirits visibly steadier. “I shall endeavor to be a little more open,” she said. “But no more than feels honest.”
“That is all anyone may ask,” Elizabeth replied.
As Jane moved toward the door, she paused. “Elizabeth?”
“Yes?”
“I am very glad you are here.”
Elizabeth smiled. “So am I.”
When Jane had gone, Elizabeth returned to the escritoire and sat once more, her thoughts unquiet.
So much certainty,she reflected,built upon observation rather than experience.How easily some judged the conduct of women without ever troubling to understand the constraints under which they acted. How readily they condemned reserve as indifference and boldness as manipulation.
She thought again of a certain gentleman’s confident assertions—of how he presumed to interpret behavior according to rules shaped entirely by his own position.
