Page 16 of The Vanished Bennet Sister

"I will do as you ask and bring a book," Elizabeth said, "which I intend to read attentively, and I shall be astonished if either of you addresses a word to me."

Mr Bingley came alone, which was a relief Elizabeth did not know she needed until the moment the door opened and it was confirmed. She had spent a brief and irritating interval imagining the alternative: Colonel Fitzwilliam, perhaps, with his good humour and his reliable mischief, or worse, Mr Darcy, with his stoic temperament and his frequent questions. She was glad to find that the arriving carriage had contained only Mr Bingley, who came in with his hat in his hand and a look of eagerness on his face.

He greeted Mrs Bennet with such warmth that even her most transparent delight appeared to increase further. He said hello to Elizabeth with an easy cheerfulness and he paid great attention to Jane, as though she were a piece of art he did not want to miss.

They settled in the drawing room. Elizabeth took the chair nearest the window with her volume of essays. Jane and Bingley arranged themselves at the sofa, seeming to manage the awareness of one another with varying degrees of success.

She turned a page.

Elizabeth had concluded across several weeks of observation that Mr Bingley was constitutionally incapable of making anyone feel unwelcome. This was the fluency of a person trained to reassure others without any inconvenience in doing so. His was a basic orientation toward the world that defaulted to interest before it weighed anything else. He listened as though the person speaking was the most absorbing factor in his immediate vicinity. He laughed easily and without edge.

He was the exact opposite of his friend.

Mr Darcy listened as though he were assembling a file of evidence. Mr Bingley paid attention because he found a subject truly interesting. Mr Darcy's questions arrived with the implication that he had already drawn his own implicit answers; Mr Bingley asked because he wanted to know and had no attachment to what the answer would turn out to be. Mr Darcy's regard felt like being assessed. Mr Bingley's felt like an invitation.

She was not making unfavourable comparisons. She was simply observing the clear distinction, which made Mr Bingley immensely better suited to Jane than his friend or anyone else they knew would ever be.

"I have had an argument with Colonel Fitzwilliam," Mr Bingley was saying, "that I cannot seem to resolve. He maintains that London in February has splendid weather that the subsequent months can't replicate. I maintain the current weather is designed specifically to make one grateful for March."

"February does have defenders," Jane said. "I count myself among them, in certain respects."

"You surprise me. On what grounds?"

"The light. It falls differently than in summer, lower, and at a different angle. It reaches places the summer light misses. There is a distinctiveness to it in the morning, especially when it comes through cold glass.”

He looked at her with an arrested expression. "I had not thought of it that way. You are completely right. I have seen exactly what you mean and had no language for it until now."

"You may revise your position to a conditional one. Dislike February in principle while acknowledging its merits. That seems fair."

"A conditional dislike. I have never attempted one. It feels more sophisticated than my usual method."

"Which is?"

"Wholesale enthusiasm or wholesale dismay, without much middle ground. I have always found that the middle ground requires more effort than the extremes."

"The middle ground," Jane said, "is where most of the accurate observations live."

He smiled at this and Jane returned it with quiet pleasure. She was glad, and trying not to show the extent of it, but she was not succeeding. Mr Bingley held her gaze without looking away, and Elizabeth, behind her volume of essays, turned a page she had not read with a subtle nod.

They were well-matched. She had suspected as much and she was now tolerably certain. This was not in the way of two people who repaired each other's deficiencies. It was a more durable style that resulted from engaging with the world from similar instincts.

Mr Bingley's readiness for delight needed Jane's capacity to articulate what she found worth delighting in. Jane's shy goodness was most fully expressed when it had someone who listened to it with the absorption Mr Bingley brought.

They would not be merely civil or just compatible, but actively, consistently kind to each other. They would make one another laugh, which she had come to regard as one of the more reliable indicators of a marriage worth having.

As Elizabeth observed the two, she noted that Jane was no longer anxious. The second-thoughts, the fragile vigilance…all of it was gone. In its place was Jane, simply, as she was. Interested and capable of jokes that were perfectly timed because she had not deliberated at an extended length before she offered it.

The conversation moved from seasonal lighting to the question of symphonies. Jane said the London symphonies represented a discordant culmination at certain times. Mr Bingley said he deferred totally to her judgement, Jane said she did not want deference and made him argue the point.

"The point is this," Jane said. "If you have no view of your own, then my view is uncontested, and an uncontested view is barely worth holding."

"That is a remarkably stringent position for a woman who was just defending the merits of February."

"February can be defended on its merits. Your deferral of the London symphonies has no merits whatsoever. It is a social manoeuvre dressed as an opinion."

Bingley laughed delightedly. "You are entirely right. I do have a view. I think the symphonies are magnificent, the string quartets especially."

Thus, they argued with evident pleasure, having discovered a topic they disagreed upon and were glad to have the opportunity to express their thoughts without hostility.