“Indeed, I do. Fitzwilliam was wrong to interfere. It was presumptuous, and it was none of his business.”
Miss de Bourgh paced the path, her eyes locking onto Elizabeth’s once more.
“But let us examine the other side of this tragedy, Miss Elizabeth,” she said, her voice cutting through the morning air like a scalpel. “You place the entirety of the blame on my cousin. You view Mr Bingley as an innocent victim of Fitzwilliam’s plotting.”
“He was persuaded!” Elizabeth argued defensively.
“Exactly.” Miss de Bourgh pounced on the word. “He was persuaded. Tell me, Miss Elizabeth, what kind of man allows his sisters and his friend to separate him from the woman he purportedly loves?”
Elizabeth opened her mouth to reply, but no words came out.
“If Mr Bingley truly loved your sister,” Miss de Bourgh pressed, her tone relentless, “if his heart was truly engaged, would a few words from a friend be enough to make him pack his trunks and escape to London? Would a true lover not fight for her? Would he not defy his sisters, defy my cousin, and remain in Hertfordshire to claim the woman he adored?”
The ground shifted beneath Elizabeth’s feet. She had spent months directing all her fury at Miss Bingley and Mr Darcy, turning them into the architects of Jane’s misery. She had never once aimed that critical eye at Charles Bingley himself.
“Mr Bingley is... he is amiable,” she stammered, her defence sounding weak even to her own ears. “He is modest and values his friend’s judgment.”
“He is weak,” Miss de Bourgh corrected bluntly. “He is a weather-vane, blown about by whatever strong personality happens to be standing nearest to him. Fitzwilliam blew him to London. His sisters will likely blow him into the arms of some heiress before the season is out.”
She stopped for a moment, allowing her words to land on Elizabeth’s righteous indignation.
“I challenge you to consider this, Miss Elizabeth.” Miss de Bourgh’s voice dropped to a fierce whisper. “If your sister is as wonderful, as gentle, and as sweet as you claim... does she truly deserve a husband as weak-willed as Charles Bingley?”
Elizabeth stared at the heiress of Rosings Park, utterly dismantled.
The image of Jane, weeping in her bed at Longbourn, rose in her mind. But for the first time, the anger was not directed at Darcy. It was directed at the empty, amiable, smiling space where Charles Bingley should have stood firm.
What kind of man walks away so easily?
The question pierced her heart, challenging the last threads of her resentment against Mr Darcy. He had been in the wrong, yes, but he had not forced Bingley onto a horse. He had offered an opinion, and Bingley—good, pliable, spineless Bingley—had folded like a cheap fan.
Before she could formulate a response, the sound of crunching gravel alerted them to approaching company.
“Oh, look!” Mrs Jenkinson’s voice fluttered through the trees. “AnotherRhododendron ponticum! The place is full of them! Mrs Collins, you were correct, the leaves are distinctly oblong!”
The aftermath of the intense conversation was instantly erased. In a flash of movement so rapid it defied the entire College of Physicians, Anne de Bourgh snatched the shawls from the bench, threw them over her shoulders, and hunched her spine, reclaiming her afflictions with speed. By the time Charlotte and the companion rounded the corner, she was leaning against a tree trunk, executing a wet, rattling cough that sounded genuine enough.
“Miss de Bourgh!” Mrs Jenkinson cried, rushing forward. “Oh, the damp has settled in your lungs! We must return to the house immediately! Lady Catherine will have my head!”
“Yes, Mrs Jenkinson,” Miss de Bourgh wheezed, allowing herself to be supported by the woman. She turned her head slightly as she was led away, her eyes meeting Elizabeth’s one last time. She offered a minuscule, wicked smirk, and then she departed with Mrs Jenkinson.
Elizabeth stood frozen. Her mind was a battlefield of shattered assumptions and awkward realisations. The man she had championed was not a tragic hero; he was a weak-willed coward who had abandoned her sister at the first sign of resistance.
Charlotte rejoined her, brushing a stray leaf from her sensible pelisse. She took one look at Elizabeth’s face, which had drained of all colour, and paused. “Lizzy? You look as though you have seen a ghost. Did Miss de Bourgh say something to upset you? Are you quite well?”
Elizabeth stared at the spot where Miss de Bourgh had just stood, then turned slowly to her friend. She did not offer a witty retort, nor did she offer a philosophical observation.
“I scarcely know.”
Chapter Nine: The Parsonage Offensive
IF THERE WAS A RECOGNISEDcurriculum for the emotional rehabilitation of repressed masters of Pemberley, Fitzwilliam Darcy was fairly certain he was failing the introductory course.
The library at Rosings Park had been transformed into a classroom of horrors. Darcy stood by the fireplace, his hands clasped behind his back, sweating as though he were facing a parliamentary inquiry.
Pacing in front of him, wielding a silver paper-knife as a fencing-master’s foil, was Viscount Keathley.
“Let us review Scenario Four.” Robert’s voice echoed in the cavernous room. “You are walking down a path. The sun is shining. The birds are singing a cheerful melody. Miss Elizabeth Bennet turns to you and says,‘Mr Darcy, the weather is fine today, is it not?’What is your response?”
