“Then you must read it and tell me what it says. Has he returned to Pemberley? Does he wish for us to join him? You recall, I am sure, how suddenly we were obliged to leave his estate—no doubt for some reason connected to that odious Eliza Bennet. I shall never understand what she was doing there, nor how she contrived to arrive at precisely the same time. I can only suppose it is part of some design to entrap him.”
His sister spoke so rapidly that he could scarcely follow all her questions. After another moment of this, he interrupted.
“Caroline, I shall never know what he has to say unless I read his letter. Will you allow me to do so?”
“Of course, Charles,” she said, waving her hand impatiently. “But you must tell me what he says immediately after.”
“Yes, Caroline,” he replied, breaking the seal and beginning to read, his astonishment increasing with every line.
In the midst of it, he recollected the second letter, and glanced down to see it still lying upon the floor. Careful not to attract his sister’s notice—she had already turned her attention to scolding the innkeeper’s wife for some perceived deficiency in their meal—he bent to retrieve it.
The direction caught his eye at once. It bore the same mark as his own.
A sudden recollection stirred—how often his sister had mentioned that Miss Jane Bennet had never troubled herself to write after their departure from Hertfordshire; how frequently she had cited this as proof of Miss Bennet’s indifference. He supposed that she had only said these things when he himself mentioned Hertfordshire or the Bennets, and he again recollected how much he had enjoyed their time together at Netherfield.
Yet despite all her claims that she had not written to her, here was a letter. At least one from Hertfordshire, but if not from Miss Bennet, then who else would be writing to her?
Casting another glance towards his sister, and seeing her wholly occupied by a question from a servant, he carefully broke the seal. It had been some years since he had practised the art of opening a letter without disturbing its appearance, but he found the skill had not entirely deserted him.
His eye fell first upon the signature.
Jane Bennet
For a moment he only stared, his thoughts crowding in upon one another. If this letter had been written, then one must have been received prior to this—and if Caroline was receiving a letter from Miss Bennet, then was it possible they had been writing to each other all along? Why would Caroline have lied to him? He thought she had liked Miss Bennet well enough, but even if Miss Bennet had not returned his affection, why would Caroline have not just said that.
It was impossible to avoid the many questions this letter raised, and he was determined to learn what else he could, particularly in light of the letter from Darcy.
Holding the two letters together, he hastily read what it contained. It was brief—only a few lines—but each one struck with increasing force.
Miss Bingley,
I suppose I ought to thank you for providing me with your expected direction, that I might reply to your letter regarding the ‘gossip’ surrounding my sister after her return. Yet you were unsuccessful in whatever purpose you intended by sending it, and I must reject entirely the unjust accusations it contained.
Elizabeth arrived home on Saturday afternoon, and with her came her intended, Mr Fitzwilliam Darcy. There is little doubt in my mind that they are deeply in love and will be happy together—unlike you, who appear determined to be unhappy, and to render others so, whilst circulating falsehoods wherever you suppose they will be believed.
It was wrong of me ever to suppose you were my friend. That truth should have been apparent when you ‘lost’ each of the letters I sent, and again when I visited you in London and found you so clearly displeased by my presence. Your brief call at my aunt’s house rendered it undeniable.
Finally, your recent letter—accusing my sister of improper conduct at Pemberley, and professing a wish that we might remain friends in spite of these things—has made your meaning perfectly clear.
Do not write to me again. Should we ever meet, I ask that you notpretend to have any former acquaintance with me or with any member of my family—particularly my sister, Mrs Elizabeth Darcy.
Jane Bennet
Bingley was thoroughly at a loss. This second letter confirmed all that Darcy had written—particularly regarding his marriage to Elizabeth Bennet. He was surprised by such a turn of events; and though he could recall Darcy observing the lady with some attention the previous autumn at Netherfield, he remembered far more clearly the change in him at Pemberley. There, his regard had been unmistakable—and, if he judged rightly, had been returned.
That they should have met again—by chance, as Darcy claimed—and now be married was almost beyond belief. Had the letter come from any other friend, Bingley might have suspected a jest; but Darcy was not a man given to such things, and he could not doubt the truth of it.
Noticing his sister’s attention return to him, Bingley lowered both letters to his lap and folded them with care, taking particular pains to replace Miss Bennet’s where it had fallen.
“Well, Caroline,” he said at last, waiting until she looked fully at him, “it seems my friend has good news to share.”
“Yes?” she asked, clearly intrigued.
“He is married.”
He allowed the words to settle, watching as a succession of emotions crossed her face—shock, disappointment, anger, and frustration—but nothing resembling genuine attachment.
Before she could speak, he added, “To Miss Elizabeth Bennet.”
