Page 73 of The Matchmaker’s Mistake

It was a risk. But she thought she knew enough of the woman who had sent it to believe she would not have written merely to tell them they were no longer welcome.

“You must forgive me,” she said and met Miss Bingley’s gaze. “It is from Lady Anne.”

The smallest glimmer of hope appeared in Miss Bingley’s eyes. “I see. By all means, you must read it.”

“Lady Anne writes to hope we are all well, and to say she quite counts upon us all for Tuesday evening.” Elizabeth smiled when Miss Bingley’s cup froze on its way to the saucer. She let her eye travel down the page. “She has added a postscript.”

There was a small movement from Miss Bingley who was attempting to see the letter for herself.

“Oh, it is for Jane.” Elizabeth read, “‘Please assure Miss Bennet that I greatly anticipate her company.’”

There was a silence of the very best sort.

“How . . . attentive,” said Miss Bingley.

“Very,” said Jane. Elizabeth could hear no triumph in the word, but she did detect some relief.

The call did not last much longer than Lady Anne’s postscript. Miss Bingley conveniently recalled another engagement, and Mrs. Hurst nodded her assent.

“It was very kind of you to come,” Jane said, rising. “Pray do not let us keep you a moment longer. After such a generous proof of concern, I could not bear to trespass upon any more of your time.”

It was the prettiest dismissal Elizabeth had ever heard.

Miss Bingley curtseyed and made her farewell through thinned lips.

From the window, Elizabeth watched Mr. Bingley’s sisters being handed into their carriage and relished knowing that their version of what had happened here would not outlast Tuesday at Darcy House.

“That was quite wicked of you,” Jane said. “The letter.”

“Reading it out?”

“Reading it out then.”

“The post timed it. I am nothing more than an innocent instrument of the Royal Mail.”

Jane looked at her.

“Very well. The timing was not mine, but the decision to use it to advantage was. I have never seen Miss Bingley so pale, and I do not regret a bit of it.”

Elizabeth came back from the window and took up Lady Anne’s letter again. The triumph of the moment faded a little as she looked at the firm, familiar hand.

“Though I confess I do not understand it. I had thought—” She stopped, because what she had thought felt a little ungrateful to say aloud—that she had thought the same as Mrs. Hurst. That with Mr. Bingley gone, the connexion would be cut and the invitations would stop. “Lady Anne’s interest in us came through Mr. Bingley,” she said instead. “Why would she wish us to continue coming?”

“Perhaps she likes us,” Jane said.

Elizabeth looked up. There had been nothing remarkable in the words, but there was something in Jane’s tone—an innocence she did not think was innocent at all.

Elizabeth stared at her sister, who was now taking entirely too much care over a single stitch. “Jane Bennet,” she said slowly. “What are you implying?”

“Nothing at all.”

Elizabeth let it pass without comment, chiefly because the alternative was to say that she could not tell, anymore, whether she went to Lady Anne’s evenings because her aunt required it, or because missing them had somehow become the last thing she wished to do.

CHAPTER 19

By eight o’clock it was clear that his mother’s promise of a small party had undergone a significant revision.

The house had been filling since seven. Two footmen borrowed from Matlock House stood in the entrance hall while Hewitt announced the guests in his sonorous voice at the long drawing room’s door. The music room had been opened into the the longer room, the card tables banished to the small saloon.