This, Elizabeth suspected, must have to do with what she had overheard – with Mr. Wickham. A question formed on her lips, but she had not the chance to ask it, for Mrs. Jenningsdeclared it was time that they returned to Berkeley Street to begin their preparations for the morrow’s travels.
“We shall journey with you, for safety,” Mr. Darcy told her. “At what hour should we arrive in our carriage?”
“Ten o’clock shall give us ample time to reach Meryton before supper and rest ourselves for the fete at Netherfield the day after,” Elizabeth replied. “I hope you mean to bring your ice skates, sir.”
“And my dancing slippers,” he said with a smile, before taking her hand and giving a deep bow. “Until tomorrow, Miss Elizabeth.”
***
Jane was not ready to depart, for her conscience compelled her to tell Mr. Willoughby that Marianne never read his letters, though her courage had faltered at every chance to do so. She sought out her aunt and discreetly told her what she intended.
“I suppose greater privacy would suit you best,” Aunt Madeline said with a nod of agreement. “Shall we wait for you in the carriage?”
“Oh, no, it is a short walk home,” Jane assured her aunt; she knew she would require solitude to reflect after saying what she must to Mr. Willoughby.
Mrs. Gardiner surveyed her skeptically, but finally assented. “Oh, Jane, my poor girl. But at least let me bring all your new books home for you.”
She handed over her new treasures, averting her eyes from her aunt’s sympathy. As the party broke up, Jane sought out her dearest friend at once. Mrs. Hatchard and Sophie suddenly found themselves terribly busy at the far side of theroom as Mr. Willoughby sat down beside Jane on a large crate of books.
“There is something I must tell you,” she said.
He studied her, his gaze as serious as she had ever seen him; his jaw clenched and he nodded somberly. “Tell me.”
Jane wrung her hands, forcing the words out. “Marianne… she burned your letters. Unopened.”
Mr. Willoughby’s reaction was far less than what she feared. He only gave a slow nod and a sad half-smile. “When I received no reply to the first letter, I began to suspect the second would get no response. I am hardly surprised, given what she believes of me.”
That he should expect such ill-usage as this tore at Jane’s heart. “But how could she ever believe it of you? You were a stranger to me when I accepted Miss Williams’s account of you, but now that I have known you for as long as you were acquainted with Marianne, it seems to me she ought to have known it to be a falsehood. I am so angry with her!”
He smiled in earnest now, but there was something bittersweet in his gaze. “I hope you will forgive her. In truth, I am relieved. I have satisfied my conscience, as I might never have done without your gentle influence, Miss Bennet. But in rejecting me, your cousin has spared me the pain of offering her less than any woman deserves.”
“How can you say such a thing?”
Mr. Willoughby laid his hand atop Jane’s in the space between them. “Because it is the truth. Had she read my letters and loved me still, I could never have known the whole and unfettered joy of a marriage of true minds. From the very start it would be diminished by my guilt at offering penury that grows to resentment, under the guise of romance.”
Jane furrowed her brow. “Has it never occurred to you that not every young lady prizes material considerations over the charms of an affectionate heart? Can you not see that you are just the sort of man to inspire such an attachment?”
“You are too generous, Miss Bennet. I am, now and likely for the next several years, little more than a shopkeeper who cannot afford to live in his own manor, and must rent it to pay the debts of his father. I am dependent on the man who brought me up, and too soon I fear I shall be mourning him.”
He stared intently at her, and Jane leaned a little closer, silently willing him to understand that she no longer spoke of Marianne. His lips parted and something changed in his eyes – realization. And then Mr. Willoughby stood and offered her his hand.
“I should hardly shade your last day in London with my woes, when I ought to be telling you what a true pleasure it has been making your acquaintance, my dear friend. Will you permit me to walk to Berkeley Street with you?”
Jane rose unsteadily, balking at the notion of leaving, if it meant she would never see him again. “It is not so far; I would not trouble you. I should rather remember you as you are, here amongst the books.”
Mr. Willoughby began to protest but fell silent at a sullen shake of her head. He lifted her gloved hands to his lips and kissed it. “I hope you do remember me, even if that capricious neighbor of yours recaptures your heart.”
“He could never – I will,” Jane said, forcing a tight smile as she blinked back tears. She managed to bid Sophie and Mrs. Hatchard farewell and leave the shop before the tears spilled down her cheeks, blurring the afternoon chaos of Picadilly.
She had not walked a block when it began to rain. She scarcely felt the cold drizzle at first, hugging herself not from thechill but the breaking of her heart. A few minutes of walking was sufficient for her private distress to be put aside for reflection when she was at home, comfortable and dry. The icy rain began to fall faster, and she was wet through by the time the slushy droplets turned to proper snowflakes.
She was nearly home when she heard her name called. She turned around in a panic, hardly wishing to meet with anybody while in such a state of misery. And striding toward her was the last person in the world she wished to see.
“Miss Bennet, it is you! Good Heavens, you are quite alone, and in such ghastly weather,” Edward Ferrars exclaimed.
Jane sniffled as she gestured down the lane. “I am in sight of Mrs. Jennings’s house,” she protested.
“Allow me to see you there safely,” he said, offering her his arm.
