Could Darcy have enlisted this fictional Lady Sophia Mottistone to test her? To see if herdisgustfor his character had a price?
A soft knock interrupted her spiraling thoughts. “Lizzy? May I come in?”
Her sister Jane was always welcome, but only if she were alone.
“One moment.” Elizabeth dropped to her knees and peered under the bedframe. Nettle bounced off the bed and thrust her nose under the space, sniffing it thoroughly. Elizabeth checked behind the curtains while Nettle trotted to the wardrobe, squeezing underneath for any eavesdropping sisters.
“We are clear.” She opened the door, and Jane slipped inside.
“Lydia is in Mamma’s room, showering her with smelling salts, lavender water, and draughts while extracting promises of new dresses, ribbons, parasols, slippers… and Kitty asked for a new carriage. Mamma has revised her account of your genius in refusing Mr. Darcy to suggest she always privately supported you, as you are now free to attract a duke.”
“If only she hadn’t heard me tell you about Darcy’s insulting proposal,” Elizabeth lamented. “Through Lydia, no doubt.”
“I didn’t believe Lydia could curl up underneath the bed.”
“Her long legs might have stuck out, but we didn’t notice. It’s a wonder she didn’t giggle, and then she wasted no time telling Mamma everything.” Elizabeth felt a cold spike of gratitude that she had never mentioned the letter to Jane—only the insult of the offer itself. If Lydia knew of Wickham and Georgiana, the scandal would have circulated from Hertfordshire to Derbyshire, and Darcy would never forgive her for destroying his sister’s reputation. As it stood, he most likely regretted sharing that excruciating detail.
“Oh, Lizzy. I’m so sorry.” Jane said, her fingers twisting a stray thread on her sleeve, “What do you make of this… this gift. Darcy did not seem pleased to deliver it. He did not look at me even once. Do you suppose Bingley told him why he abandonedNetherfield? Was I the cause? His brow seemed to indicate that he knew precisely why I was unhappy.”
She knew the reason—that he and Caroline Bingley had conspired to prune my angelic sister from their social garden as if she were a common weed. But telling Jane would only reopen wounds.
Instead, she forced a small, hollow smile. “No one truly knows what moves behind Mr. Darcy’s brow. His countenance is a permanent fog bank portending rain.”
A flicker of hope warmed her sweet sister’s face. “Do you think this is real? Are we truly to go to London under Lady Sophia’s wing? It feels like a fairy tale.”
“I suppose we shall find out soon enough.” Elizabeth kept her voice more neutral than her thudding heart.
Jane hesitated. “And if we are to go… how will you manage if you have to speak to Mr. Darcy? If he were to stand before you tomorrow—if he offered his hand a second time—would you accept him?”
The question struck like a bell, and Elizabeth felt the vibration in her teeth.
“No,” she said, too quickly. “He is still proud. He is still… Did you see how he scowled at Nettle?”
Jane looked thoughtful. “But Lizzy, perhaps his pride is not as immovable as you think. He did come here, after all, to deliver news that must have been difficult for him. And Nettle did bite him.”
“One of the smaller satisfactions of this strange day.” She suppressed a chuckle. “I do not regret refusing him. I will not be loved as a punishment, despite his better judgment. Whether he is Lady Sophia’s trusted envoy or not, he has not given me the slightest indication that his character has altered.”
“He rode twenty-four miles to bring you a fortune,” Jane said, always eager to see the good in every person.
“Because Lady Sophia asked him to. It was an errand, not a declaration.”
“And when Nettle bit him,” Jane said, with absolute seriousness, “he did not kick her.”
Elizabeth tried not to look at her with exasperation. “The bar for acceptable masculine conduct cannot possibly be as low as ‘did not kick the dog,’ Jane.”
“No. But it is worth noting that he did not.” Jane managed a smile so knowing that Elizabeth squirmed, unable to admit what she was willing to reconsider.
A firm knock interrupted whatever Elizabeth was about to say to that, which was perhaps fortunate.
“Miss Elizabeth? An express from London.”
Elizabeth exchanged a meaningful glance with Jane, her heart beginning to race as she opened the door and accepted the letter. This was no ordinary correspondence, as evidenced by the expensive stationery and the seal with a fanciful ‘M’ over a round stone, for Mottistone.
Jane crowded close to read, while Nettle circled her ankles in the unfounded hope that an express letter might contain something edible.
My dear Miss Bennet,
You will think it strange to receive so warm a letter from a woman you have never met, and you will be right, for it is strange, and I see no reason to pretend otherwise. I am sixty-three; I have outlived my patience for pretense, and false formality between strangers strikes me as a considerable waste of everyone’s time.
