Mr Bingley's name arose frequently enough in conversation. Darcy (for he was now in her mind and heart, simply Darcy) mentioned him occasionally in his letters, always affectionately but never at any great length. Bingley had attended a dinner. Bingley had become interested in this, that and the other. Bingley had somehow acquired strong opinions regarding tenant cottages. None of it amounted to very much and certainly none of it explained Jane's unwavering confidence.
The mystery occupied Elizabeth for several weeks before she finally resolved to satisfy her curiosity. The explanation proved almost laughably simple.
She found Jane one afternoon in the drawing room whilst the rest of the household was otherwise engaged. The room was quiet. A fire burned low in the grate and Jane sat beside the window with her work in her lap, looking so entirely at peace with herself and the world that Elizabeth felt the sight almost an affront.
It was not merely that Jane appeared cheerful. Cheerfulness would have been understandable. It was the complete absence of uncertainty which puzzled her.
Darcy's letters lifted her spirits, yet Elizabeth could not pretend they had brought her any real certainty. Indeed, they had perhaps accomplished the opposite. She knew him better now than she had in Lyme. She thought of him more often than she intended. There were days when she could scarcely pass an hour without some recollection of him presenting itself uninvited to her thoughts.
Yet what did she know? That he cared for her and wished to write. Beyond that, everything remained clouded by distance and circumstance. There were moments when she felt almost convinced of their future and others when she was seized by the absurd fear that she might never see him again.
Jane, meanwhile, appeared entirely free of such anxieties.
"How do you do it?" Elizabeth asked at last.
Jane looked up.
"Do what, dearest?"
"This."
Jane smiled. "I am afraid you must be more specific."
"This impossible tranquillity."
The smile only widened. "I did not know I possessed any. Indeed, I feel as much myself as ever."
"You do. It is deeply irritating."
Jane laughed softly and laid aside her sewing.
"Then explain it to me. Explain how you can sit there looking so content when you have not seen him for weeks."
Jane was quiet for a moment, considering the question with greater seriousness than Elizabeth had expected.
"I think," she said at last, "that perhaps I simply do not spend very much time wondering what might go wrong. I miss him very much. There are days when I should like nothing better than to see him walk through that door. I think of him often. More often than is probably sensible."
Elizabeth smiled despite herself. "There is the Jane Bennet I recognise."
"But I do not see what purpose would be served by allowing those feelings to make me miserable. If I believed he had forgotten me or changed his mind, that would be one thing. Yet I do not believe it."
"How can you be so sure?"
Jane lowered her eyes briefly to her work before looking up again.
"I am not sure of everything, Lizzy. I am only sure of him. When we left Lyme, I believed that Mr Bingley cared for me. Nothing has happened since then to make me think otherwise. He is the same man now that he was then. If circumstances have delayed him, they have delayed him. If difficulties exist, I must trust him to overcome them if he can."
Elizabeth sighed.
"You make it sound so very simple."
"Perhaps it is simpler than we imagine."
"I do not think Mr Darcy would agree."
At this Jane laughed outright. "No, perhaps not. You have your letters, Lizzy. You know better than most how much can be said without saying everything."
Elizabeth thought immediately of the stack of folded pages in her dressing table drawer and felt herself blush further.
