“I have been thinking—more than I care to admit—about the difference between Mr. Bingley and Colonel Fitzwilliam.”
Elizabeth said nothing, content to let her sister continue.
“With Mr. Bingley,” Jane went on carefully, “I always felt… admired. He praised my looks often, and my temper, and my manners. I was grateful for it. I still am.”
She hesitated.
“But when I spoke of anything of substance—my opinions on a book, or my thoughts on a subject—he would laugh. Not unkindly, but with the sense that he was amused rather than engaged.”
Elizabeth felt a slight tightening in her chest. She had noticed it too.
“And Colonel Fitzwilliam?” she prompted gently.
Jane’s eyes lifted, thoughtful. “He listens. When I speak, he considers what I have said and responds to it. We disagree sometimes—and he does not seek to smooth it over with flattery. He seems to enjoy the exchange itself.”
Elizabeth smiled, warmth spreading through her. “That is no small distinction.”
“No,” Jane agreed softly. She faltered, the word hanging between them. “Does Mr. Bingley not have some claim upon my consideration? He showed interest first. He sought me out. It feels—unkind—to allow another gentleman to step into his place so readily.”
Elizabeth leaned back against the chair, folding her arms loosely. “Jane, may I speak plainly?”
Jane nodded.
“Mr. Bingley admired you,” Elizabeth said. “He did not claim you. There is a difference. He has not asked for a courtship. He has not sought Papa’s permission, nor yours. Courtesy does not bind you where no promise has been made.”
Jane absorbed this in silence.
“You are not pledged,” Elizabeth continued. “You are not engaged, nor even formally courted. You have done nothing to encourage impropriety. You have only responded with civility to attention that was offered—and attention that respects you.”
Jane’s shoulders eased marginally, though her brow remained knit. “I do not wish to be unfair.”
“Nor are you,” Elizabeth said firmly. “Affection is not a race, Jane. There is no prize awarded for arriving first. You are free to choose—not merely who admires you, but whoknowsyou.”
Jane exhaled slowly. “I am conflicted.”
“As any thoughtful woman would be,” Elizabeth replied, reaching for her hand. “Guard your heart, my dear sister—but do not lock it away simply because someone else once knocked upon the door.”
Jane’s fingers tightened around Elizabeth’s. “You always make things clearer.”
Elizabeth smiled, though her thoughts strayed—briefly, unbidden—to Darcy, and to the quiet certainty with which he listened, questioned, and understood.
Perhaps clarity,she reflected,is born not of certainty, but of being heard.
And in that, at least, Jane was beginning to find her way.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Bingley returned as he had departed: with little notice. Mrs. Hurst had an express telling of his return mere hours before he trotted his horse up the drive. Darcy hoped that whatever business that had kept him so long past his ‘one day’ in town had improved his mood.
It was not so, for Bingley was as disgruntled as he had been when he left, if not more. He barely acknowledged Darcy and Hurst, pushing past them to go to his rooms to ‘rest’ before supper.
“Shall we press him, Darcy?” Hurst asked in low tones.
“We can try, but I suspect we will be told to leave off…again. If he rejects my help, then I shall respect his wishes, no matter the destruction that may occur.”
Later that afternoon, Hurst and Darcy knocked on the door to Bingley’s private sitting room. He called for them to enter. Hurst immediately threw himself into a comfortable chair, while Darcy remained standing.
“Well, Brother? How did your business in Town turn out?” Hurst gave him a speculative look, and Bingley flushed before turning away.
