Chapter 6
SIX
Elizabeth
The door had scarcely closed behind the gentlemen when Mrs. Gardiner turned to Jane with barely restrained curiosity.
"Well, my dear? You look considerably happier than you did an hour ago."
Jane pressed her hands to her cheeks, as though trying to cool the warmth there. "I am. I—oh, Aunt, I scarcely know what to think."
Mr. Gardiner settled into his chair with a satisfied air. "That Mr. Bingley seems a decent fellow. A bit enthusiastic, perhaps, but there's no harm in that."
"No harm at all," Mrs. Gardiner agreed. "And Mr. Darcy—well, I confess I was pleasantly surprised. He was all I expected."
Elizabeth looked up sharply. "Expected?"
“Yes…” Mrs. Gardiner paused, choosing her words with care.
“From what I knew of his father, I cannot believe he would have raised so dreadful a son. When you told me all that had passed between you—both at your first acquaintance and during your visit to Kent—I confess I imagined quite a different sort of gentleman. It seems, my dear, that you were mistaken in your judgement… or perhaps he was simply not himself during those visits.”
Elizabeth opened her mouth to protest, then closed it again. To speak would be folly, for the Mr. Darcy she had seen yesterday and this evening was most assuredly not the man she had met in Hertfordshire or Kent.
"He was very civil," Mr. Gardiner said. "Quite knowledgeable about trade, too. Not many men of his station bother to understand such matters. We had a capital conversation about the East India Company's shipping practices."
"He asked intelligent questions," Mrs. Gardiner added. "And he listened to your answers, my dear, which is more than can be said for most gentlemen when speaking to tradesmen."
Elizabeth frowned. This was not helping her confusion in the slightest.
"But Jane," Mrs. Gardiner continued, turning back to her niece with an expectant smile. "You must tell us what Mr. Bingley said. I have never seen you look so…so altered."
Jane took a breath, then released it in a rush of words. "He never knew I was in London."
Silence.
"What?" Elizabeth said.
"He never knew." Jane's eyes were bright with a mixture of relief and anger. "Miss Bingley lied to me. She told me she would inform her brother of my visit, but she never did. Not once. She kept my presence in town a complete secret from him."
"Good God," Mr. Gardiner muttered.
"Mr. Bingley only learned of it months later—from Mr. Darcy, of all people. Mr. Darcy told him I had been in London all that time." Jane's voice trembled slightly. "Can you imagine how he felt? To discover I had been there for weeks and he had known nothing of it?"
Mrs. Gardiner's expression had turned from curiosity to indignation. "That wretched girl. To deliberately deceive her own brother—"
"But why would she do such a thing?" Elizabeth demanded, though she suspected she already knew the answer.
“Well, now that I know she has been pretending all along, I should say it was because she—or rather, they—did not wish him to marry me,” Jane said quietly.
“They think me beneath him, unsuitable… and rather than allow their brother to choose for himself, she took the decision out of his hands entirely.”
"Abominable," Mrs. Gardiner declared.
Jane nodded. "Mr. Bingley was devastated when he learned of it.
He said he wanted to come to Hertfordshire immediately, to see me, to explain—but he could not bring himself to do it.
He was terrified." She paused, her voice catching.
"He thought I must hate him for abandoning me so completely.
For leaving Netherfield without a word, for never calling on me in London even though I was there.
He convinced himself that by the time he learned the truth, it was already too late—that I must have ceased to care for him, or at the very least, that I would never forgive him for his silence. "
"Oh, Jane," Elizabeth said softly.
Jane's eyes glistened. "I am just happy that providence brought us together again." She turned to her aunt with a tremulous smile. "Thank you, Aunt, for insisting I come to Bath with you. If I had remained at Longbourn, brooding—"
"Nonsense," Mrs. Gardiner said briskly, though her eyes were warm. "I am only glad it has worked out so well."
Mr. Gardiner stood, stretching. "Well, I think this calls for a glass of port, don't you? A toast to young love and second chances."
He moved toward the sideboard, then paused. "And a small toast, perhaps, to Mr. Darcy for telling Bingley about Jane's visit to London. That was decent of him."
Elizabeth felt something twist in her chest. Darcy had told Bingley. She hadn’t thought of that detail when Jane mentioned it, but now she did. Darcy, who had separated them in the first place, had been the one to bring them back together. Why?
"It was decent," Mrs. Gardiner agreed. "In fact, I found Mr. Darcy to be quite decent throughout this evening. The way he spoke of his father, of old Mr. Wickham—there was real feeling there. Real warmth."
"And the way he spoke of his sister," Jane added quietly. "You could hear the affection in his voice."
"He clearly loves her very much," Mrs. Gardiner said.
Elizabeth said nothing. She was too busy trying to reconcile the Mr. Darcy of this evening—kind, respectful, even warm—with the Mr. Darcy who had proposed to her with such insulting arrogance in Kent.
Had she misjudged him so completely? Or was this simply another facet of a man far more complicated than she had given him credit for?
Mr. Gardiner poured the port and raised his glass. "To Jane and Mr. Bingley. May their courtship be swift and their happiness lasting."
They drank, and the conversation turned to lighter matters—Mr. Bingley's promise to call tomorrow and whether the weather would hold for walks. But Elizabeth's mind remained elsewhere, circling endlessly around the same confounding question: Who was Mr. Darcy, really?
***
Later that night, when the house had quieted and the candles had been snuffed in the lower rooms, Elizabeth sat at the small dressing table in the bedchamber she shared with Jane, brushing her hair with slow, distracted strokes.
Jane was already in bed, propped against the pillows, watching Elizabeth with a soft smile.
"You are very quiet tonight, Lizzy."
Elizabeth met her sister's eyes in the mirror. "I am thinking."
"About Mr. Darcy?"
Elizabeth's hand stilled. "How did you know?"
"Because you have been looking at him all evening as though you could not quite figure him out." Jane's voice was gentle, without judgment. "And because I know you, Lizzy. Something is troubling you."
Elizabeth set down the brush and turned to face her sister. "Did you think him much changed from Hertfordshire?"
"Very much so," Jane said at once. "In Hertfordshire, he barely spoke to anyone. He seemed to regard everyone from a distance. But tonight—tonight he was almost amiable."
"He laughed," Elizabeth said, as though this were evidence of something extraordinary. "When Aunt Gardiner spoke of his resemblance to Georgiana, he laughed. A real laugh, Jane. Not a polite chuckle, but genuine amusement."
"I noticed that as well." Jane tilted her head thoughtfully. "And the way he spoke to Uncle Gardiner—there was no condescension in it. He treated him as an equal."
"Which makes no sense," Elizabeth burst out, rising and beginning to pace. "This is the same man who told me my family's connections were beneath him. And yet tonight he sat at our table and conversed pleasantly with the very uncle he once scorned."
Jane's eyebrows rose. "That happened in Kent?"
Elizabeth realized she had said too much. She stopped mid-pace, heat rising to her cheeks.
Jane raised her hands gently, a small understanding smile on her lips. "You need not say anything further, Lizzy. I will not press you.”
Elizabeth sank back onto the edge of the bed, grateful for her sister's discretion.
Jane was quiet for a moment. Then, she said, "Perhaps he has changed."
"People do not change that much in a matter of a few months, Jane."
"Do they not?" Jane's voice was soft but pointed. "Mr. Bingley thought I did not care for him. I thought he had abandoned me. We were both wrong, Lizzy. We saw only what we expected to see, not what was truly there."
"What are you saying?"
"I am saying that perhaps Mr. Darcy is not the man you believed him to be. Or perhaps you did not see him clearly in Hertfordshire." Jane paused, then added carefully, "You have always been so quick to form opinions, Lizzy. So certain of your judgments. But what if this time you were mistaken?"
The words stung, though Elizabeth knew they were not meant to wound.
"He insulted me," she said quietly. "Twice! How am I meant to forget that?"
"I do not say you should forget it," Jane replied. “But perhaps you might allow that there is more to his character than remarks made in haste.”
The sisters sat in silence for some time, the soft rhythm of their breathing mingling with the chirping of crickets beyond the window.
“When our aunt spoke of Mr. Wickham, did you observe his countenance?” Elizabeth asked at last, breaking the quiet.
"I did."
"He looked…pained. Angry. As though the very name caused him distress."
"Yes."
"But Wickham told me Mr. Darcy treated him abominably. Denied him the living that was promised. Left him in poverty out of pure spite."
Jane was silent.
"And yet tonight," Elizabeth continued slowly, "Mr. Darcy spoke of old Mr. Wickham with such warmth. Such respect. Would a man who treated the son so cruelly speak of the father that way?"
"I do not know, Lizzy."
Elizabeth pressed her hands to her face. "Neither do I. And that is what troubles me. I was so certain I knew exactly who he was. So certain of my judgment. But tonight—tonight I am not certain of anything."
Jane reached out and took Elizabeth's hand. "Then perhaps you need to learn who he truly is. Not who you thought he was in Hertfordshire, or who he appeared to be in Kent, but who he is now, here, in Bath."
"And how am I meant to do that?"
"By watching him. Speaking to him. Giving him the chance to show you.
" Jane squeezed her hand. "You were wrong about him once, Lizzy.
Perhaps you are wrong again. Or perhaps you are right, and he is simply better at concealing his true nature than we gave him credit for.
But you will never know unless you allow yourself to see him clearly. "
Elizabeth looked down at their joined hands. "I do not know if I can."
"You can," Jane said with quiet certainty. "You are the bravest person I know, Lizzy. You have never been afraid of the truth, even when it is uncomfortable. Do not start being afraid of it now."
They sat in silence for a long moment.
Then Elizabeth said, very quietly, "He saved my life yesterday."
"I know."
"He did not hesitate. He pushed me out of the way without a thought for his own safety."
"I know."
"Does that mean something, do you think? Or would he have done the same for anyone?"
Jane smiled sadly. "I cannot answer that, dearest. Only he can."
Elizabeth lay back against the pillows, staring up at the ceiling. "I wish I had read the letter."
"What letter?"
Elizabeth’s lips parted, then stilled, as she met her sister’s gaze. Jane’s eyes were gentle, yet full of quiet inquiry—an unspoken question Elizabeth could not mistake. She had spoken too freely once more, and an explanation was now inevitable.
“The one he wrote to me after I refused…after I accused him,” she said at length, her voice low.
“He offered it as some sort of explanation. I imagine it contained particulars of his connexion with Mr. Wickham, of you, and Mr. Bingley, and of all that I laid to his charge.” She drew a trembling breath and closed her eyes.
“But I would not take it. I told him I wished to hear nothing further. And when I looked later, upon the bench where he had promised to leave it, it was gone.”
"I know. My better judgement at that point wanted nothing to do with him. It was foolish, stubborn pride. I was so angry, so hurt by what he had said, that I could not bear to hear his excuses." She opened her eyes. "But what if they were not excuses? What if they were truths I needed to hear?"
"You cannot change what is past," Jane said gently. "But perhaps, now that you are reconnected, he will find another way to tell you what was in that letter."
"And if he does not?"
"Then you will have your answer, and you can put this all behind you."
Elizabeth turned her head to look at her sister. "When did you become so wise?"
"When I learned that assuming the worst of people only leads to heartbreak." Jane's smile was small but genuine. "I spent months believing Mr. Bingley did not care for me. I was wrong. Perhaps you are wrong about Mr. Darcy as well."
"Perhaps," Elizabeth whispered.
But she did not sound convinced.
They blew out the candles shortly after, and Jane's breathing soon evened into sleep. But Elizabeth lay awake in the darkness for a long time, her mind full of questions that had no answers, and a confusion that only seemed to deepen with every passing hour.
Tomorrow, Mr. Bingley and Mr. Darcy would call.
And perhaps—just perhaps—she would begin to understand who he truly was.