Darcy stood as well, setting his letter aside unfinished. “I believe I shall retire as well.”
He did not wait for the others to reply. Mounting the stairs to his room, he felt no sense of victory or ease. Only foreboding.
God help us all when Miss Bingley is returned to our society.
∞∞∞
The door to the blue room closed softly behind them, the latchclicking into place like a final word Elizabeth was not ready to hear. She helped Jane settle into bed, fluffed the pillows, and tucked the blankets in with habitual care—but her hands were tighter, her motions sharper.
The moment Jane sighed contentedly against the pillows, Elizabeth turned on her heel and crossed her arms. “Well, Jane? Explain yourself.”
Jane blinked, startled. “Explain what?”
“How you could possibly suggest that Miss Bingley deserves another chance. After everything she did to you!”
“Oh, Lizzy.”
“Jane—she left you to dine in wet clothes. She nearlykilledyou, and she would have if Mrs. Nicholls had not procured you a room..”
Jane’s eyes widened, and she looked genuinely distressed, but not, Elizabeth noted, contrite. “Lizzy, please. Do not be so dramatic. She misjudged, that is all.”
“Do not defend her!” Elizabeth’s voice rose, then she checked herself, glancing to the door. Lowering it, she continued, “Jane, you had a fever. You could barely sit upright this morning. That woman—” she broke off, pacing once across the rug, “—she was cruel. Deliberately cruel.”
“I simply wish to move forward,” Jane said quietly. “I do not like discord. What good would it do to keep hatred alive?”
Elizabeth turned to her sister, incredulous. “Hatred? No one is asking you to hate her, Jane. But to welcome her back into your confidence? To pretend as if nothing happened?”
“I never said that,” Jane said, her tone growing cool. “Only that I could forgive her. That is my choice.”
Elizabeth stared. Jane’s hands were folded over the coverlet, her expression calm—but there was a stubborn set to her mouth that Elizabeth recognized all too well. For all her gentleness, Jane had a will of iron when she chose to wield it.
“I just… I do not understand,” Elizabeth said after a moment, her voice softening. “You are the one who was hurt.”
“Yes,” Jane replied simply. “And I would like to rest now.”
Elizabeth hesitated. “Jane—”
“I am tired, Lizzy. Please.”
It was not rude, exactly. But it was firm. Final.
Elizabeth stepped back, her mind still churning. She had seen Jane ruffled before, but never this—never this restrained irritation. It sat poorly with her. Everything about the evening did.
She kissed her sister’s brow and left the room quietly.
In her own chamber, Elizabeth paced for several minutes before giving up and undressing. Her thoughts would not settle. She had been so sure, in the drawing room, that Jane would gently object to Bingley’s absurd plan. But instead, her sister had defended it. Defendedher.
Elizabeth climbed into bed and stared up at the ceiling, shadows dancing faintly in the flickering light of the dying hearth. A feeling settled into her chest—unwelcome and unfamiliar.
Apprehension.
If Jane could forgive so easily… who else might Miss Bingley persuade?
And what might follow if she did?
Elizabeth turned onto her side and stared into the soft shadows dancing along the wall. The weight of worry settled heavier upon her chest with each breath.
She tried—truly tried—to envision Jane’s future with Mr. Bingley. A quiet household, perhaps. Pleasant. Affectionate. A gentle husband, an adoring wife. That was what Jane deserved, was it not?
