She resumed her pacing, though more slowly now.
“If Mr Bingley has been persuaded to remain away from Netherfield for so long, then I must question whether his attachment was ever of the same depth. Can a man truly in love be so easily guided by others—by his sisters, or even by his closest friend?” She stopped, looking back at Jane. “I do not believe Fitzwilliam could have been dissuaded—certainly not in April—whatever objections might have been raised. Mr Bingley is a man grown, but he has made no attempt to discover where you were, nor did he even act as a gentleman ought when he left Netherfieldso abruptly.”
Jane did not answer at once, and Elizabeth watched her in silence as she once again turned her back towards her, moving back towards the window, her hands braced lightly against the sill as though she required its support.
“I do not know what to think any longer,” she said at last, her voice low and uneven. “I only know that I have been mistaken so often before—and I cannot bear to be so again. Mr Bingley was all that a young man ought to be, or so I believed, and I was heartbroken when he left me. There was Lydia—Mama was so distressed—and then I received Caroline’s letter, and I did not know what to think.”
Elizabeth watched her in silence, unaccustomed to being at odds with her sister. Jane had never spoken so forcefully—nor so angrily—and Elizabeth knew she herself had rarely, if ever, addressed Jane with such severity. She could not wish her words unsaid—they had been true—but she could not deny that she had spoken them more harshly than she had intended.
“And so you thought the worst of me,” she said at last, more quietly. “You chose to believe Miss Bingley, rather than wait to ask me what had occurred.”
Jane closed her eyes, her fingers tightening against the wood, but she did not turn.
“I did not know what to think,” she repeated.
That, more than anything, struck her. For a moment she could not speak; she did not understand how Jane could think so ill of her.
At length, she drew herself up, the softness that had begun to return to her manner retreating once more into composure.
“I see,” she said, though she was far from understanding.
Neither moved.
After a moment, Elizabeth inclined her head, more from habit than feeling. “It grows late,” she added, her tone polite, though it carried none ofits usual warmth. “We had better return downstairs, or they will wonder at our absence. I wish to speak with Aunt Gardiner before we retire.”
Jane nodded and turned, and they made their way from the room together.
Elizabeth hesitated only a moment before following, closing the door softly behind them. Neither spoke as they descended the stairs, and they entered the sitting room in silence.
Sixteen
Sunday, 9 August 1812
Darcy woke that morning in an unfamiliar room, in an unfamiliar bed. As was his habit, he rose early, although he remained abed for a few moments, turning over the events of the past days in his mind.
He was to marry Elizabeth within a matter of days, and the thought stirred a satisfaction far deeper than he cared to examine too closely. If he were entirely honest with himself, he had desired her for months, long before his first proposal in April.
Despite every effort to banish her from his thoughts following that disastrous episode, he had never truly succeeded in doing so; even at his most resolute, she had persisted, unwelcome and unbidden, yet impossible to forget. At the most unexpected moments, the recollection of her smile, or one of her lively, pert replies, would return to him with such clarity as to render every attempt at indifference entirely futile.
There were other recollections, too—less easily named—moments when her nearness, the warmth of her presence, or the lightest brush of her hand lingered with a force he could neither explain nor wholly dismiss.Once or twice, in sleep, such impressions had taken on a more vivid form, only to leave him, upon waking, both unsettled and unwilling to examine them too closely.
It was strange to find himself in Hertfordshire again after all that had passed; yet the circumstance that brought him there left little room for dissatisfaction. That he should so soon call Elizabeth his own, and with her willing affection now so readily displayed, was a prospect he found himself returning to with increasing frequency, despite his efforts to govern his thoughts. The knowledge that she would soon be wholly his—trusted to his care, and sharing his life—was one he could not dwell upon without a degree of feeling that demanded restraint.
There were moments, even now, when he could not entirely persuade himself that he was not waking from some most agreeable dream, one that must inevitably dissolve.
At last, he rose from the bed and began to prepare for the day, forcing such thoughts from his mind, at least for the present.
Some time later, he arrived at the church in Meryton that he had visited the previous autumn. Briefly, he wondered how his sudden appearance would be received, particularly since he intended to walk into the church with Elizabeth on his arm, but those thoughts barely troubled him. He had timed his arrival well; he was just stepping out of his carriage when Elizabeth and the rest of the Bennet family appeared along the lane.
It was obvious they had walked to church; he recalled they had done so the previous year as well. He had not wondered about it then, but he wished he had thought to send his carriage. This morning, he was pleased that he might at least escort Elizabeth and his sister back to Longbourn after the services. Before greeting Elizabeth, he spoke briefly to his driver, instructing him to call for him that evening at Longbourn.
That done, he strode forward to join Elizabeth, who walked beside Georgiana and her sister Mary, with Mrs Annesley following close behind with Kitty. The entire Bennet family was in attendance, but it was evident that several in the party were displeased.
Lydia no longer had her hair arranged in the manner of a young lady, and her dress lacked all the ornament expected of a young lady who was out. She appeared once more like the young girl she was, though her jutting lip indicated her displeasure. Her aunt and uncle stood on either side of her like guards, while Mrs Bennet walked beside her husband, her own face pinched with unhappiness.
Darcy knew he had been fortunate to have been out of doors when Mrs Bennet was informed of the final plans for the wedding, but he had hoped she might display some pleasure this morning, knowing that their wedding would be announced at the conclusion of the service.
Elizabeth seemed at last to notice him, for she quickened her steps and, a moment later, arrived at his side. “Good morning, Fitzwilliam,” she greeted him quietly, with little outward display of her enthusiasm. Still, he could see it plainly in her eyes, and felt it answer something in himself he had not yet learnt to govern.
