“And you, Lizzy, cannot conceive that they might.”
“Jane.” I softened my voice, because something in her expression warned me that volume would lose this argument and only patience had a chance. “I am not trying to manage you. I am trying to protect you.”
“I know, and I love you for it. But I do not need protecting from a tea call, Elizabeth.”
“It is not the call that concerns me.” My voice strained at the ache of seeing my sister’s expression, bright with misplaced hope. “It is what comes after it. It is the hope that it will kindle, the expectation, the belief that Mr. Darcy’s attention means something beyond an idle afternoon spent talking about his tortoise.”
“Then we shall have nothing to fear.” Jane gave me a small smile. “Lizzy, do try not to see danger where there is none.”
Mrs. Gardiner, who had been quietly observing this exchange, set down her cup. “Elizabeth. May I speak plainly?”
“Can I prevent it?”
“No, my love, you cannot.” She smiled, which softened what came next only slightly. “I understand your concern for your sister, and it does you credit. But Jane is two-and-twenty, and she is a sensible woman. Mr. Darcy has conducted himself with propriety since the moment he stepped through our door. Your uncle and I see no reason to refuse a call from a gentleman of good character who has been polite, generous, and considerateto our children. If Jane wishes to receive him, I am inclined to support her.”
“Generous,” I said. “He gave away a tortoise he did not want.”
“I will not even hazard an answer to that, Lizzy, for you are being uncharitable. All of which is beside the point. Jane has been asked, not you. I think you ought to respect her decision.”
“I will. But she must hear me out, because I know things.” I took a breath and fixed my gaze on my sister, who did not seem as serene as she tried to be.
“What do you know, Lizzy?” Jane asked, and at least she had the grace not to ask what I thought I knew.
“I believe Mr. Darcy had a hand in separating you from Mr. Bingley. Of all the visitors to Netherfield, he was the most arrogant, the proudest, and the most certain of his consequence. The Bingleys are wealthy but with roots in trade. They befriended you at first. Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst believed you were sweet and enjoyed your conversation. Darcy had to be the man who encouraged the Bingley sisters in their snobbery and persuaded Mr. Bingley to abandon you. And he did it for nothing more than pride and a conviction that the Bennet family was beneath his friend’s consideration.”
I braced for tears, protest, or at least Jane’s usual scramble for a charitable explanation. Instead, she gave me a look as measured as a judge’s.
“Then why,” she said, “would he wish to call on me at Gracechurch Street?”
“Perhaps he has found the acceptable Bennet sister.” The words plunged out before I could stop them, like rocks rolling off a fell. Mrs. Gardiner’s gaze widened, and Jane’s brows creased with her overly solicitous concern.
I opened my mouth for a jest, but wit failed me. My tongue turned to iron; I could not swallow.
“Elizabeth, dear,” Mrs. Gardiner said. “That was most unlike you. Jane, my love, would you excuse us for a moment?”
Jane hesitated, glancing between us. “Aunt, I do not think?—”
“Just a moment, dear.”
My sister rose, pressed my hand once, and left the room. The door closed quietly behind her, the way Jane always closed doors, as though even hinges deserved consideration.
Mrs. Gardiner did not speak immediately, and the silence she let build was worse than any reprimand, because it forced me to sit with what I had said and hear it echo.
“Elizabeth. What is the matter?”
“Nothing. I am concerned for Jane.”
“Yes, and I believe you have stated it at length enough for a Parliamentary debate. What I heard was something else, and it frightens you. What has happened between you and Mr. Darcy has nothing to do with Jane.”
“Nothing happened. He stood at Bingley’s side with a face full of disapproval. Every time he looked at my family, he scowled as if we were beneath him, and he could barely tolerate the air we breathed.”
“As Jane said, he is entitled to change his opinion. The man I saw in our drawing room is not the arrogant and disdainful man you paint, so I wonder, Elizabeth, if he has wounded you in particular.”
I squirmed in my seat. Admitting weakness was not my specialty, especially to Aunt Gardiner, who could dissect a situation with surgical precision.
“I see you’ve gone quiet, and I know you care very much about Jane’s happiness. Perhaps something good can come out of this situation, and if Mr. Darcy admires Jane, can you not forgive him for any part he might have played in the Bingley situation?”
“It is not only the Bingleys.” My throat was dry, and my voice scratched. “Mr. Darcy only pretends at civility. It started at the Meryton assembly when Mr. Bingley suggested he dance. He demurred, saying that Bingley was already dancing with the only beautiful woman worth considering. But when Mr. Bingley pointed me out as being one of her sisters, and as Bingley put it, very pretty herself and just as agreeable, Mr. Darcy caught my eye, made sure I heard him, and said I was not handsome enough to tempt him.”
