Page 3 of The Work of a Moment

We are here for their amusement, for them to collect hearts and tales to take back to divert the ton. Such horrible people, and it is to them I must smile.

Elizabeth passed the rest of the day in Jane’s company. When the time came to go downstairs, she changed her gown and pinched her cheeks, angry at the need to make any effort to be in company with a rake, a drunkard, two gossips, and a proud swell.

Why can I not be more like Jane? Her sister would never think so much about a subject certain to cause her unhappiness. If forced to do so, Jane would insist that neither party had intended to be wicked, that they were probably both determined to reform. Perhaps that was true. Perhaps in her weariness and worry, Elizabeth had overthought it.

No. She was not Jane. She had questions, and for every possible answer, there were more questions still. And the one person who could answer them was also the man whom she did not wish to ask.

Elizabeth timed her entrance into the drawing room to within moments of the procession to dinner and assured Jane’s deceptive suitor that her sister’s health was not responsible for her own delay. She ate quickly and quietly, anxious to avoid conversation, but her efforts were for naught. Miss Bingley, who had claimed a headache much of the day, came to her seat, her strength and ill humour undiminished by her suffering. Only her hair, more simply styled than was her custom, appeared to have suffered.

“Miss Elizabeth, will your mother again bless us with a visit before you and dear Jane depart? Truly, there is no need for her to call with Longbourn’s vehicle to bring you home. Our carriage is comfortable, the seats and squabs recently restuffed. Even for a short journey of but three miles, I daresay it will suffice.”

Elizabeth, feeling besieged by the scrutiny of all, managed a brief nod. She felt at least two pairs of eyes searching her for some more elaborate response, but she would not satisfy either gentleman.

The following day would be her last at Netherfield, she decided. It must be! When Jane awoke, feeling far less out of sorts, she attempted to persuade Elizabeth that she could join the others at dinner. Concerned for her sister’s welfare, Elizabeth would not relent to such prolonged exposure but agreed Jane could come afterwards, for coffee and company.

Elizabeth’s announcement at breakfast regarding their departure was met with no small amount of delight. She wagered the Bingley sisters were pleased to see an end to the Bennet sisters’ objectionable occupation of their home, while Mr Bingley sputtered his joy and immediately determined a special cake must be served in Jane’s honour. Elizabeth offered a polite smile and made her escape.

That afternoon, she was joined on her perambulation about the gardens by Mrs Hurst. The lady was friendlier and more talkative when her sister was not present—yet another troubling sign of the quick alterations in character exhibited by the Bingleys.

“Your brother’s time in town is often occupied by business?” asked Elizabeth.

“Charles is a social creature. He has his club or is invited to join his friends at theirs.”

“He stays with you and Mr Hurst?”

“On Sundays. He has rooms at the Albany, so I cannot speak to his comings and goings, but he fills his calendar quickly.” Mrs Hurst chuckled softly. “My brother cannot sit idle.”

This was indeed the truth. Even when seated, Mr Bingley was not still. His fingers or toes tapped, his hands waved about, and his mouth found reason to smile.

“It seems Mr Bingley is a man with many friends and great popularity amongst them?”

“Oh yes, his only true interests are in sport and dancing and parties, where the conversation is often about sport and dancing and parties.”

“Surely not,” Elizabeth said lightly. Though she wondered at the low opinion one sister could hold for her brother, she too had often spoken similar opinions about her younger sisters’ limited interests.

Before she could think further on the subject, she heard Miss Bingley’s shrill voice approaching through the shrubbery.

“…an attachment to the daughter of a minor squire with connexions in trade⁠—”

“Yes, although⁠—”

Miss Bingley and Mr Darcy emerged onto their path. They startled, staring at Elizabeth and Mrs Hurst.

“Caroline, you said nothing to me of a walk!”

Amid her outrage at her sister’s thoughtless abandonment, Mrs Hurst divested herself of her burdensome guest. After gaining Mr Darcy’s free arm, she tugged them both away.

To his credit, Mr Darcy made a feeble protest, but Elizabeth ran gaily off, rejoicing as she rambled about in her freedom and the hope of being at home again in another day. Spotting a pretty orange leaf, she was inspired to bring Jane a bit of autumn. She bent down to collect it before walking towards a large, brilliantly yellow oak on a small rise near the corner of the house. The sun was at her back as she stooped to gather a few large leaves, and it threw a gleaming light onto Netherfield’s mostly unused east wing. As she rose, a movement caught her eye, and looking at the house, she saw, framed in perfect silhouette in a large second-storey window, Mr Bingley and his flame-haired lover.

CHAPTER 3

A Fractured Image

Twice! Twice Elizabeth had seen Mr Bingley in close conference with… with her. His mistress, his lover, his paramour. The situation was beyond imagining, but any doubts had been erased. She had read of such arrangements, had heard her mother and aunt allude to old Mr Johnson’s roving hands with bar maids and servant girls, but this? Elizabeth felt sick. Her opinion of Mr Bingley was now permanently altered, and she feared allowing that change to be seen during their last full day at Netherfield.

She would suffer quietly through the anger she had towards Mr Bingley and the sadness she felt for Jane. The turbulence of her emotions manifested in a lack of spirits and a cool regard for any gentleman within Netherfield’s confines.

While Jane rested, Elizabeth spent the day avoiding company. First, she found a seat in a secluded part of the garden, then upon hearing voices, she moved to a chair in an unoccupied parlour. She had depleted her reading material and turned instead to a fashion magazine she had found tucked under a cushion. Its illustrations did not answer her questions as to the source of Miss Bingley’s guidance on fashion. The lady had no sense of how to dress like the mistress of a home in the country, but perhaps she thought she was enlightening the ignorant country-folk with her feathered accoutrements.