Page 65 of Miss Bingley’s Return

“Miss Bingley’s intervention,” suggested Elizabeth.

Miss Whitcombe smiled, though it was a pitiful gesture at best. “That was part of it, of course. When he left university, he had gained the perspective of an adult, and with that came the demands of his new maturity. Still, he had time for me, and I allowed myself to hope as I had never allowed before.”

The smile had a warmer quality, one forged in the fires of long uncertainty. “Then his attentions became warmer, and our union seemed inevitable. But Caroline . . .”

She shook her head, the pleasure draining into something more brittle. “Caroline visited my father’s house one day, and she informed me in no uncertain terms that Mr. Bingley would not choose me—he was meant for something better, and Caroline meant to ensure he chose it.”

“That was not her choice to make,” said Jane, ever compassionate, but now carrying a hint of indignation.

“No, it was not,” said Miss Whitcombe. “I tried to dismiss it as the action of a protective sister, but then he began to pay attention to other ladies of society, and I doubted. It was some time before I realized Caroline was directing him, hoping he would find one of them agreeable. It is difficult to watch the man you love divide his attention.”

“I think I can understand something of it,” said Jane.

When Miss Whitcombe looked up sharply, Jane smiled and shook her head. “No, I shall not claim that I was in love with Mr. Bingley. However, I did consider him the most amiable man of my acquaintance, and perhaps I might have fancied myself in love. Thus, I can comprehend a small part of your pain, even though I knew something was amiss when we came to London.”

Miss Whitcombe nodded. “When he left for Hertfordshire, I lived in fear that he would find someone, and Caroline would divert him. Then he returned unexpectedly, and my heart rose in hope.”

“And then Jane came to town,” said Elizabeth, understanding the cruel circumstances in which she had found herself.

“Yes,” said Miss Whitcombe. “It was fortunate that we came across each other at that party, as I took some measure of you. What I found told me that you were not here intent on capturing Mr. Bingley, that there was still some hope for my situation.”

“Miss Whitcombe,” said Jane, speaking with a timbre that suggested both sincerity and resolve, “I want you to know that I would never draw a man in under false pretenses. Even if you did not exist and Mr. Bingley was free to choose, I wish to be chosen, not a default he returns to because there is no one else. If Miss Bingley had succeeded and Mr. Bingley proposed to me, he might have regretted that choice in the years to come. I will not live like that.”

Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes, and she nodded. “Thank you for possessing that integrity, Miss Bennet.”

“Has Mr. Bingley declared himself?” asked Mrs. Gardiner.

“No, he has not,” said Miss Whitcombe. “But we have spoken, and I know his intentions.”

“Then we offer our warmest congratulations,” said Jane.

“Thank you,” said she again. “I hope we shall remain friends in the years to come.”

Jane laughed and fixed Elizabeth with a teasing grin. “Unless I am mistaken, I believe that is unavoidable. Mr. Darcy and Mr. Bingley are excellent friends.”

Miss Whitcombe’s eyes widened. “Mr. Darcy is courting you, Miss Elizabeth?”

“He is not,” replied Elizabeth. “Yet his intentions, like Mr. Bingley’s, are not hidden from me. I have no notion if he will offer for me or if we even suit, but the possibility is one that I would not have imagined only a few months ago.”

“Then I wish you luck,” said Miss Whitcombe. “I should be happy to count you a friend, and even more if you are married to my future husband’s dearest friend.”

“Perhaps, then, we should dispense with all this tedious formality,” said Elizabeth.

“Yes, I should like that.”

“We see much less of the Bingleys now,” said Miss Elizabeth to Darcy one night about a week after Bingley’s choice, as he was coming to think of it.

It was another ball, one given by someone unknown to the Bennet sisters—a highborn friend of Darcy’s, one of the few he could tolerate. The Bingleys were not in attendance that evening. Though Miss Bingley claimed membership in the highest echelons of society, some would not accept her, even on Darcy’s not inconsiderable recommendation. To those people, the Bennets were acceptable because of their gentle birth, but they were tolerated, not welcomed, though their pretty faces would ensure them a steady stream of men eager to dance.

“Does the lack of Miss Bingley’s society provoke particular pangs, Miss Elizabeth?” asked Darcy as he moved past her in the dance they were sharing.

“Not at all,” replied Miss Elizabeth. “Though Miss Bingley has been civil since we came to London, I always detected an undercurrent of . . .” She paused and gave a helpless smile. “It is not something I can define with an exact word, but perhaps necessity or resignation?”

“That would describe Miss Bingley exactly, Miss Elizabeth,” agreed Darcy. “While I would not call her conniving, she knows how to play the game as well as anyone in London, and she is adept at hiding her true feelings.”

Miss Elizabeth nodded, though appearing distracted. For several moments, they continued in the dance, Darcy watching her as she pondered something, enjoying the view of her pretty face rendered still more handsome when engaged in deep thought. At length, she shook it off, and she made no mention of what had captured her attention.

“To own the truth,” said she, “I suspect our invitations might have all but disappeared if not for you and Mr. Harrington.”