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He enclosed her in his embrace, pulling her against his body. Jane was shocked to discover his tongue in her mouth. Was this customary when kissing? She quickly decided it was far from an unwelcome surprise. The sensations were unbelievable…beyond anything she had experienced.
Goodness! If married couples enjoyed such intimacies nightly, no wonder so many people were eager for the married state.
Time lost all meaning. Jane did not know how long they stood, intertwined in a passionate embrace as they explored each other’s mouths—until she heard a disapproving sniff, right in her ear.
She and Mr. Bingley leapt apart guiltily, searching about for a sign of the offended sniffer. Nobody lingered nearby. The sound had emanated from a hatchet-faced woman in her forties on the far side of the gallery. Sneering with disapproval, she turned to her equally disapproving husband. “Really! This is a house of God!”
Jane glanced up at Mr. Bingley, afraid that he might be ashamed to have been caught in a compromising position, but his hand covered his mouth as he stifled a laugh.
It was rather amusing. Jane found herself giggling as well, and soon they were laughing heartily together. The disapproving man and woman appeared quite offended.
When they had sobered, Mr. Bingley offered Jane his arm. “Well, Miss Bennet, are you prepared to climb to the top?”
Mostly Jane was disappointed that she was no longer enjoying his kisses, but she supposed they might find solitude—as well as a magnificent view—at the top of the dome. She took his arm. “I am quite ready.”
Chapter Seven
My Dearest Jane,
Rosings Park is indeed livelier now that Mr. Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam are in residence. Miss de Bourgh says little and her companion nothing at all. Lady Catherine speaks with great authority about any subject, no matter her degree of knowledge—or ignorance—of it. But at least I now have the solace of conversation with the two gentlemen. The colonel is all amiability, with pleasing manners and easy conversation. Mr. Darcy remains much the same, saying little and glaring at me from across the room. He is as proud and difficult as ever, and I am forever reminded of how he has caused Mr. Wickham’s suffering.
But when he bestirs himself to join the conversation, I often find it worth the listening. Imagine my surprise in discovering we have similar tastes in poetry and novels. He frequently exhorts me to play on the pianoforte. Surely he is only being polite—or perhaps alleviating his own ennui—but he does an admirable imitation of genuine interest. Were it not for Mr. Wickham’s sake, I might think Mr. Darcy tolerable company. But I can barely stand to occupy the same room or share my conversation with the man. Everything about him disgusts me…
Jane laid the letter in her lap, staring at the weeping willow bending over the corner of her aunt and uncle’s small garden. A cool breeze blew strands of hair into her face, and she pushed them away impatiently. Lizzy’s letter demonstrated a profound ambivalence about Mr. Darcy, probably more than the writer herself recognized.
If only Lizzy would be more amenable to Mr. Darcy’s friendship! He was Mr. Bingley’s closest friend. Were Jane fortunate enough to marry Mr. Bingley, it would be awkward if her sister remained at odds with the man.
Jane did not know the truth of Mr. Wickham’s tale but suspected that Lizzy’s judgment of the master of Pemberley was unduly harsh. Lizzy’s letter lent support to something Jane had long suspected: Mr. Darcy did not dislike Lizzy at all; in fact, he sought and rather enjoyed her company. But Lizzy could be stubborn, and Jane could think of no gentle way to persuade her sister of her mistaken impression.
Well, it hardly mattered. Lizzy would treat Mr. Darcy as she saw fit, and soon they would part ways. If Jane were favored with Mr. Bingley’s hand, she might hope to bring about a more amicable relationship. Jane folded the letter once more; she had read it three times already, and it no longer provided much of a distraction.
The past fortnight had been dull, passing with the speed of a heavily laden barge. After the wonderful visit to St. Paul’s, Jane had been full of hope that Mr. Bingley might soon make her an offer. However, the following day—when she had eagerly anticipated his arrival—a letter had arrived for her uncle explaining that Mr. Bingley had been called away to the north of the country to attend an ailing aunt.
The missive had expressed the expectation that Mr. Bingley would be from town no more than a week, but it had already been two. Every day his absence more and more resembled his abrupt departure from Hertfordshire. For weeks after that departure, Jane had clung to hope—only to have her heart broken. Despite her best efforts, she felt herself losing faith now.
When he had declared his love for her, she would not have exchanged places with the Queen herself, but now she feared their history repeated itself. Perhaps he had experienced a change of heart. Or perhaps his sister had reminded him of the evils of a match with a “country chit.” Or perhaps, despite his earnest declarations, he was inconstant at heart. Jane did not want to believe it, but she had to admit the possibility.
Not for the first time Jane wondered if she should simply return to Longbourn. Her visit to her aunt and uncle had lasted more than three months. If they had not wearied of her company by now, surely they would soon. Jane had little in town to occupy her time. She did needlework and walked in the park every day with Maggie, but otherwise her days were long and empty. At least if I am at home I can be useful to my mother and father.
Trying to ignore the way her eyes burned, she slid the letter into her pocket. Her mind was decided; at dinner that night she would raise the subject of returning home.
***
The carriage lurched over a rut in the road, and Caroline, sitting opposite Bingley, grabbed the door handle to avoid sliding sideways on her seat. “Charles, this carriage simply is not adequately sprung. You must buy a new one!”
Bingley gritted his teeth. “This is the new one, if you will recall—the one you insisted I buy five months ago.”
“Surely there is something better—”
He rolled his eyes. “Perhaps the next time we travel you should pick a route with superior roads. The roads to Bath are quite good; we might restrict all our travel to Bath.”
Caroline sniffed at his joke and did not respond, which suited Bingley. A fortnight with Caroline and their aunt Millington had been torturous. When she summoned them, their aunt had suggested that she was at death’s door, but over the course of his stay it became clear that such was not the case. She apparently had sent for them primarily for the purpose of blessing them with advice about their lives.
The constant admonitions had been well nigh unbearable, but far worse were the occasions when Caroline had criticized Jane—and Aunt Millington had joined in the chorus, without the benefit of having met Miss Bennet. For days Bingley had defended his right to choose his own wife, but as the futility of the effort became clear, he began to respond less and less until he finally ceased engaging on the subject altogether. His aunt may have taken his silence as a sign that she had persuaded him, but Caroline was not so easily fooled. She scrutinized his every move as if he might slip away and propose to Jane at any moment.
He distracted himself from his irritation with his sister by again rehearsing the plan for their arrival in London. He would deliver his sister at the Hursts’ townhouse and then drive directly to the Gardiners’, wasting not one more minute before asking Jane to marry him. The thought made him smile for the first time that day.
Caroline narrowed her eyes; apparently even a smile was grounds for suspicion. “When we return to town,” she said, “you are not to offer marriage to the Bennet girl.”
