“Then it was from her that you formed your opinion,” Elizabeth said, more quietly than a moment before—but with a steadiness that carried more weight than a raised voice. She straightened, and her tone sharpened as she continued. “Knowing that she is clearly not your friend, how could you accept anything she wrote without question? She has not written to you in months—could you not suspect some ill intent in her writing now?”
“I… I believe now she may have dissembled,” Jane said, her voice unsteady.
“But you did not believe so until it was pointed out to you,” Elizabeth returned, unable to check the heat rising in her tone. “When I arrived, you trusted what was written in that letter. You doubted me—your own sister. Why, Jane?”
Jane’s hands tightened where they lay in her lap, twisting together until, with a sudden motion, she rose. For a moment she turned away, as though she might master herself—but when she faced Elizabeth again, whatever restraint she had attempted was gone.
“Because everything comes so easily to you!” she burst out, her voice sharper than Elizabeth had ever heard it. “You speak of being my dearest sister, yet you have never needed me as I have needed you. You form attachments wherever you go—you confide in others—” She broke off, her breath uneven, then pressed on. “And now—now youhave yourdear Fitzwilliam.” The faint mockery in her tone startled Elizabeth, who had never before heard her sister speak in such a manner.
“You will leave me,” she said, the words breaking from her before she could restrain them. “You will go—just as the others do—and I am to remain, to endure all that is left behind.” Her voice faltered, but she pressed on. “I am the eldest. Mama has always said it was my duty to save the family by marrying well, and yet—I have never even had the advantage of a proposal to refuse. Those who have shown me attention have all left me, once they have seen how our family behaves.”
She drew in a trembling breath, her gaze fixed upon Elizabeth with an expression at once wounded and searching. “How, then, can Mr Darcy truly wish to marry you, after seeing what our family has done? You said that he was dismissive of them in April, but now, when Lydia has nearly ruined us, how can he still wish to marry into our family?”
Stopping abruptly, Jane appeared to be startled by her own words; yet the colour in her cheeks and the brightness of her eyes did not abate.
Elizabeth stood quite still, the force of her sister’s accusation rendering her, for a moment, unable to reply. When she did speak, her voice was steadier than she felt.
“Had I wished it, I might have insisted that, if Mr Darcy truly desired to marry me, we would do so in Derbyshire. A common licence could have been obtained, and we might have been married at Pemberley, without troubling ourselves to return home at all.” She held Jane’s gaze. “I came back, Jane, because this is my family—and because you said you needed me.”
“I do need you, Lizzy,” Jane returned, though the sharpness had not wholly left her tone, “but you have spent this entire day speaking only of him, and of your plans. You will still marry and go, and I shall remain—left to hear Mama’s complaints for the rest of my life.”
“But you do not have to,” Elizabeth insisted, taking a step closer, her hands lifting slightly as though she might reach for Jane, before she thought better of it. “You have been invited to London—and to Pemberley. Lydia will go away to school; Uncle intends to ensure thatPapa writes to enquire about a placement for her. If you are resolved to remain here, then Kitty may go to London, and Mary may be invited to join Georgiana at Pemberley. But, if you wish it, you may choose either place for yourself as well.” She paused, her expression softening, though her tone remained earnest. “Papa may engage a companion for Mama—and for any of my sisters who remain. If fewer of us are at home, he can easily afford it.”
Turning away, Jane moved a few steps towards the window, her hands clasping tightly together. “And what will Mama do,” she asked, her voice low but strained, “when all her daughters desert her?”
Although Elizabeth followed her, she kept a small distance between them, unwilling to stand too near, as her own anger was scarcely contained. “Has she not always wished for us all to marry?” she returned. “There is no one here for us to meet, and the behaviour of Mama—and of our youngest sisters—does little to recommend us to any gentleman.” She hesitated, then went on, more quietly, “Yes, men have been dissuaded because of our family. Charlotte and I both urged you to show a little more of your feelings for Mr Bingley, but you would not.”
Jane’s shoulders stiffened at the mention of her former beau, but she did not turn.
Drawing in a slow breath, Elizabeth watched her sister closely, unable to wholly calm herself. She was still angry—she could not deny it—but even so, she could see how deeply her sister was affected.
“I can tell you, with some certainty, that he still cares for you. He showed particular interest whenever your name was mentioned—but, if he does return to Netherfield, it seems unlikely he will ever offer unless he has reason to believe his regard is returned.” Elizabeth paused, her hands tightening together before she forced them still. “I had hoped that, after I marry, you might have an opportunity to meet him again—but I begin to wonder whether that is even what you wish, if you are so determined to remain here with Mama.”
She had scarcely finished speaking before she saw Jane’s shoulders falter, the tension draining from them all at once. A moment later, her sister’s composure gave way entirely, and she turned aside, covering her face as she began to weep.
Elizabeth hesitated only a heartbeat. The sting of her sister’s words still lingered, but it could not withstand the sight before her. Crossing the remaining distance, she reached for Jane and drew her into her arms, holding her fast.
“I was so pleased to hear from Caroline again that I did not stop to consider why she might be writing to me,” Jane murmured against her shoulder, her voice broken. “She said that you had done something to offend Mr Darcy—something so dreadful that he would wish to have nothing more to do with our family and encouraged his friend to do the same.”
Feeling her shudder as she struggled to compose herself, Elizabeth tightened her grip reflexively in response.
“As a consequence of whatever you had done—Caroline did not say what, only that it must have been most grievious—the Bingleys had been obliged to leave Pemberley as well, and that they would never return to Netherfield. She hinted that he had intended to come back before his lease expired, and that there had once been hope—” Jane’s voice faltered—“only to insist that it was entirely at an end since there was no possibility of his ever connecting himself to our family now.”
“Had Mr Bingley wished to return to Netherfield before now, there was nothing to prevent him from doing so,” Elizabeth replied, the words escaping more sharply than she intended.
She felt Jane stiffen in her arms and draw back at once.
“What do you mean?” Jane asked, seeming to search her face to determine her meaning.
Elizabeth closed her eyes briefly, drawing in a steadying breath before she stepped away. When she opened them again, she squared her shoulders.
She knew she must be honest—she had known it from the moment Jane spoke. She and Fitzwilliam had discussed the matter more than once during their journey, and she had even raised it with her aunt; yet none of it made speaking now any easier.
“When Mr Darcy first proposed, I was deeply offended by the manner in which he spoke of my family,” she began, her voice measured. “But, upon reflection—and after many readings of the letter he gave me before he left Kent—I was forced to understand why he had done so.” She moved away a step, unable to remain still, her hand trailing along the back of her chair as she passed it. “Pemberley is… everything one might expect it to be, and more. I cannot but consider how Mama might be received there—and I begin to comprehend what he must have anticipated when he considered marrying me when he first offered.”
She turned back to face her sister, her expression earnest, though still touched with agitation.
“It is, in truth, remarkable that he persisted in his attachment to me, given all that might have arisen from our family—and from Lydia in particular in this instance.” She drew in a breath, then went on, more firmly, “Yet he did persist. He offered for me once, despite believing the match imprudent, and then he humbled himself to ask again, after I had refused him most harshly only a few months ago. He had no surety of my acceptance, yet he asked anyway. I have seen the strength of his regard, and I cannot doubt it—or him.”
