Tonight, it felt like another door closing.
Elizabeth turned onto her side and stared toward the dark outline of the window.
Darcy’s face rose before her, unwanted and inescapable. Darcy in the library, amused and thoughtful. Darcy across the dinner table, eyes warm with shared laughter. Darcy at the desk, cold and unreachable, his pen moving while she waited like a fool for one glance he would not give.
He was the best man she had ever known.
That was the cruelest part. Not perfect. Not easy. Not even always kind. But honorable in ways few people understood, burdened by duty, capable of tenderness beneath restraint, and so much better than the proud, distant figure she had first believed him. Knowing him more had not cured her of admiration. It had deepened it, made him less a romantic fancy and more a man—a flawed, weary, noble man she could too easily love.
And he had turned from her.
Perhaps prudence was all that remained.
If affection could be withdrawn so quickly, if warmth could vanish at the first sight of her family’s follies, then perhaps marriage ought not depend upon such fragile things. Mr. Collins, should he prove tolerable, would secure Longbourn. He would keep her mother and sisters from uncertainty. He would leave Elizabeth where she could protect the tenants, manage the estate, and preserve the only home her family had ever known.
It was not happiness.
But perhaps happiness was a luxury for women who could afford to be chosen without consequence.
Elizabeth closed her eyes against the sting that rose there and drew a slow breath.
No.
She would not decide tonight. She was tired, hurt, and much too inclined to mistake despair for wisdom. Mr. Collins was not yet arrived. Darcy was not yet entirely forgotten. Jane was stillweak. The accounts still waited. Morning would come with more duties, and duties, at least, could be trusted.
She would decide nothing now.
With that poor comfort, Elizabeth turned her face into the pillow and, after a long while, fell into a restless sleep.
∞∞∞
The following morning was Sunday, and Elizabeth went to church with the rest of her family in a state of composure that was largely external.
Jane looked better, though still pale enough that Mrs. Bennet fussed over her gloves, her shawl, the carriage rug, and the wickedness of autumn air with nearly equal fervor. Lydia complained that church would be duller than ever now that the officers had not yet learned to attend in proper numbers, Kitty coughed once in sympathy with the weather, and Mary carried her prayer book with an air of solemn anticipation.
Elizabeth said very little.
It was a clear, cold morning, the kind that made every sound sharper: the wheels over the road, the creak of leather, the rustle of gowns as families filed into the churchyard. Meryton seemed to have turned out in full, for Jane’s illness, the Netherfield party, and the expected arrival of Mr. Collins had each furnished the neighborhood with something to wonder at. Elizabeth felt the curiosity around them and endured it as best she could.
The Netherfield party was already there.
Elizabeth saw Mr. Bingley first because he saw Jane first. His whole countenance changed. Whatever Miss Bingley had been saying to him was forgotten, and the moment propriety allowed after the service, he crossed the churchyard with such eagernessthat even Mrs. Bennet could not have desired a more gratifying display.
“My dear Miss Bennet,” he said, bowing with warmth that made Jane blush at once, “you are looking better. I have been very anxious to hear how you did after the journey.”
“I am much improved, thank you,” Jane replied softly. “The ride did me no harm.”
“I am very glad of it. Very glad indeed. I feared—well, I feared everything foolish, I daresay, but I am glad to be proved foolish.”
Jane smiled, and for a moment Elizabeth’s own unhappiness eased. If any good had come from Netherfield, let it at least be this. Let Jane be loved by a man whose heart appeared as open as the day.
Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst offered their greetings next. Mrs. Hurst was civil; Miss Bingley was polished enough to pass for kind, especially when speaking to Jane. Elizabeth answered when addressed, smiled when required, and then turned deliberately toward Charlotte Lucas, who stood a little apart with Maria.
Charlotte’s eyes sharpened the moment Elizabeth approached. “You look tired.”
“I have earned it.”
“Jane looks better.”
