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“Yes,” Elizabeth said. “Of course I would. I would be mistress, Mamma, so I would naturally sit in your place at dinner. And I could not very well allow you to remain in the mistress’s chambers. You know the mistress’s and master’s chambers are separated only by a door. It would be entirely improper.”

Her stomach lurched, for the very thought of Mr. Collins being separated from her bed only by the width of a door was utterly revolting. The man might not have been so bad had he only been a fool, but the arrogance of his speech about why he wished to be married, his assurance that Lady Catherine would find her charming if only Elizabeth changed everything about herself, and the stubborn obtuseness with which he had declined to accept that she was truly refusing him—it had all offered a terrible glimpse into what she might face as his wife.

To accept would mean a lifetime of being lectured, disbelieved, brushed aside. No, she would never marry such a man, not even for Longbourn.

“You would!” her mother cried, breaking into Elizabeth’s ruminations. “You would! Your own mother! Heartless girl, to replace me in my time of mourning!”

Never mind that her father was hale, hearty, and only forty-five. Her mother would always see herself as the injured party.

Mamma’s wailing meant that she missed Jane’s entrance. Elizabeth turned to greet her sister, hoping they might suffer through this display together. It was exasperating to be forced to endure her mother’s lamentations over what was, to everyone else in the house, a perfectly predictable outcome.

But Jane was pale and drawn. She hardly seemed to notice Mamma’s complaints at all, which was entirely unlike her.

“Jane?” Elizabeth asked, keeping her voice low. “Are you well?”

Jane placed a folded piece of hot-pressed paper into Elizabeth’s hand. “Miss Bingley has written to say that they are closing Netherfield and shall not return for the rest of the winter.”

“What?” Elizabeth exclaimed.

She had asked her question too loudly, for Mamma’s lamentations stopped short in the middle of the word “entail.”

“What is this, Jane?”

Elizabeth read quickly, knowing that her mother would soon demand the letter for herself. There was not much to it, other than a few honeyed words that were insufficient to sweeten the poison beneath them. Miss Bingley was writing to tell Jane, in polite, insincere words, that they were all going to London, that Mr. Bingley would no doubt wish to remain there with Miss Darcy who had a prior claim on his attentions, and how happy they would all be when they could finally make an announcement.

“Please tell me,” she said quietly to Jane, “that you do not believe a word of this.”

“Why would she deceive me, Lizzy? She has no need to throw me off—every invitation to intimacy began on her side, not on mine.”

“She invited you in order to interrogate you,” Elizabeth whispered back. “And now she means to keep Mr. Bingley in town and persuade him that you do not care for him.” She had heard Miss Bingley inquire, at Netherfield, how tall Miss Darcy was now. Obviously, the girl was not even finished growing yet.

“What are you whispering about?” Mamma asked.

“Miss Darcy is too young to marry, Jane,” Elizabeth murmured. “And I cannot believe that Mr. Bingley would be so dishonourable as to pay his attentions to you were he promised elsewhere. Do you?”

Jane’s brows pinched together. “I cannot believe he would wilfully deceive me. Perhaps this is simply his friend and family’s wish for him. But in that case, ought I interfere?”

“Yes” was Elizabeth’s firm reply.

“What are you two saying?” Mamma insisted.

Jane explained as gently as she could, but it required two applications of their mother’s smelling salts to bring her back to herself. Unfortunately, that only meant more lamentations. Elizabeth would rather Mamma return her attentions to Mr. Collins, for Jane was being wounded anew by each demonstration of her mother’s unhappiness.

Against her better judgement, she nodded at Lydia. Perhaps her nonsense might divert their mother. Lydia blinked and then jumped back into the previous conversation.

“If Mr. Bingley is in London, Mamma,” Lydia proclaimed, “Jane ought to go too. She could stay with the Gardiners and perhaps call on Miss Bingley?”

“To what end?” Jane inquired.

“Really,” Lydia said, and waved one arm up and down, indicating Jane’s figure. “He should be reminded why he showed you such attentions before.”

“Lydia,” Jane said, flushing pink. “I am quite sure people may remember one another even if they reside in different counties.”

“But being present is different than being a memory. Am I not correct, Mamma?” Lydia asked. “He cannot forget her if she is right there in London.” She met Elizabeth’s gaze and held it. “And Lizzy should go with her to help.”

What was this?

“To help?” her mother cried. “What help would Lizzy be, ungrateful girl?”