Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
The morning had scarcely settled into its usual rhythm when the note arrived.
Elizabeth was seated near the window in the smaller morning room, her book open but only half attended, when she heard the distinct cadence of footsteps in the hall—measured, purposeful, accompanied by the soft rustle of paper. A moment later, Mrs. Hill appeared at the doorway.
“For Mrs. Collins,” she said, holding out a folded note upon a small tray.
Jane, who had been seated at the writing desk reviewing a list of household accounts, looked up at once. She set her pen aside, rose, and crossed the room with composed ease.
“Thank you, Mrs. Hill.”
The housekeeper inclined her head and withdrew.
Elizabeth turned slightly in her chair, angling her gaze so that she might better observe. Jane broke the seal with careful fingers, unfolding the paper with a small, thoughtful pause.
Her expression shifted—only slightly, but enough that Elizabeth noticed.
“Well?” Lydia asked, leaning forward with immediate interest from her place at the breakfast table.
Jane read the note once more before lowering it. “It is from Miss Bingley,” she said.
Mrs. Bennet’s attention sharpened at once. “From Miss Bingley? And what does she say?”
Jane hesitated, then answered with her usual composure. “She invites me to dine at Netherfield this evening.”
Lydia clapped her hands softly. “Only you?”
Jane inclined her head. “It would appear so.”
There was a brief pause. Elizabeth watched her sister thoughtfully.
“And does she say why?” Kitty asked.
Jane shook her head. “She does not. I am sure she merely wishes to be friendly.”
Mrs. Bennet gave a small, satisfied sigh, settling more comfortably in her chair. “My dear Jane, it is perfectly obvious,” she said. “Miss Bingley wishes to become better acquainted with the lady who has captured her brother’s heart.”
Jane’s lips curved faintly, though there was no true agreement in her expression. “I think that is rather a great deal to suppose,” she said.
“My dear, it is no such thing,” Mrs. Bennet insisted. “He danced with you twice. Twice! There can be no doubt of his preference.”
Jane did not argue. Instead, she folded the note and set it aside upon the table. “I shall consider my answer,” she said.
At the other end of the table, Mr. Collins cleared his throat. “It is not a matter requiring extended consideration,” he said. “You will, of course, accept.”
Jane turned toward him. “Will I?” she asked, her tone calm but not without firmness.
Mr. Collins nodded. “It is both proper and advantageous. Such an invitation ought not to be declined.”
Jane rested her hand lightly upon the back of her chair. “I have other matters that require my attention,” she said. “The household—Thomas—”
“These may be managed,” Mr. Collins interrupted, with mild impatience. “The other ladies of the house are perfectly capable of overseeing such concerns in your absence.”
Elizabeth felt a flicker of unease.
Jane did not immediately reply. For a moment, she stood very still, as though weighing something more than the simple matter of an invitation. Then she inclined her head. “Very well,” she said. “I shall accept.”
Mrs. Bennet beamed. “Of course you shall.”
Jane reached for the note once more. “I will have the carriage ordered for the afternoon,” she added.
Mr. Collins set down his fork. “I think not,” he said.
Jane blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“I think it would be preferable,” he continued, “for you to ride.”
There was a moment of complete silence. “Ride?” Jane repeated.
“Yes.”
Lydia leaned forward, her brows lifting. “It looks as though it might rain.”
Mr. Collins inclined his head. “Precisely.”
Elizabeth’s hand tightened slightly around the arm of her chair.
Jane did not move. “Mr. Collins,” she said slowly, “I do not understand your meaning.”
“My meaning is quite straightforward,” he replied. “A carriage is unnecessary. The distance is not great, and a ride would be entirely sufficient.”
“In the rain?” Kitty asked.
“If it rains,” Mr. Collins said, returning his attention to his plate. “Which, as Miss Lydia has observed, is likely.” He resumed his meal as though the matter were concluded.
Elizabeth felt the tension in the room shift—subtle, but unmistakable.
Jane stood very still for another moment. Then she inclined her head once more. “As you wish,” she said. She averted her gaze from him thereafter. Instead, she rose and left the room.
Elizabeth watched her go. A faint line had formed between her brows. She rose at once, reaching for her walking stick.
“Lizzy?” Lydia said.
Elizabeth paused only long enough to answer. “I shall see what she intends.” Then she followed.
Jane had not gone far. Elizabeth heard her voice before she reached the small back hall, low and steady as she spoke with Mrs. Hill. The housekeeper’s tone answered in agreement, the exchange brief but purposeful.
Elizabeth slowed her steps, allowing the sound to guide her.
“Yes, ma’am,” Mrs. Hill said. “At once.” There was a pause. Then Mrs. Hill turned, passing Elizabeth in the hall with a small nod.
Elizabeth inclined her head in return before continuing forward. “Jane?”
Jane turned at the sound of her voice. “Lizzy.” There was something in her expression—composure, certainly, but also a trace of something lighter. Amusement, perhaps.
Elizabeth smiled faintly. “I suspect,” she said, “that you have found a way around the carriage.”
Jane’s lips curved. “You know me too well.”
Elizabeth stepped nearer, angling herself so that she might better see her sister’s face. “And what have you devised?”
Jane lowered her voice slightly, though there was no one near to overhear. “I have asked Mrs. Hill to have Nellie harnessed to the gig.”
Elizabeth blinked. “The gig?”
Jane nodded. “It is still serviceable, though it has not been used in some time.”
Elizabeth felt her smile deepen. “Nellie,” she repeated. “Our most reliable and least admired horse.”
“Precisely.”
“And the gig—”
“Is quite sufficient for my purposes,” Jane said.
Elizabeth let out a soft breath of laughter. “It is an excellent solution.”
Jane’s expression warmed. “I thought so.”
“It satisfies Mr. Collins’s denial of the carriage,” Elizabeth continued, “while avoiding the indignity of a long journey on horseback in uncertain weather.”
“And preserves the appearance of obedience,” Jane added.
Elizabeth reached out, her hand finding Jane’s sleeve in a brief, affectionate touch. “I congratulate you.”
Jane smiled. “I had no wish to argue further,” she said. “This seemed…simpler.”
Elizabeth tilted her head. “And wiser.”
Jane’s gaze softened. “You are very good to me,” she said.
Elizabeth shook her head. “I am only observant.”
There was a brief pause. Jane’s expression shifted—just slightly. “You do not approve,” she said softly.
It was not Jane’s actions of which she objected. Elizabeth considered her sister’s words. “I approve of your judgment,” she said at last. “I only wish you were not placed in the position of needing to exercise it.”
Jane did not answer at once. Then she said, “It is not so great a hardship.”
Elizabeth did not contradict her. Instead, she said lightly, “You will have company enough at Netherfield.”
Jane’s lips curved. “I expect I shall.”
Elizabeth hesitated, then added, “And Mr. Bingley?”
Jane glanced away. “I expect he will be present. The note did not indicate one way or another.”
Elizabeth smiled faintly. “I am glad.”
Jane’s expression softened once more. “I shall return before it grows too late,” she said.
“You must not hurry on our account.” Her tease made Jane smile.
“I shall not.”
Elizabeth inclined her head.
Jane reached out then, her hand resting briefly over Elizabeth’s. “Rest this afternoon,” she said. “You were unwell last evening.”
Elizabeth smiled. “I shall consider it.”
Jane’s gaze lingered for a moment longer before she turned away.
Elizabeth remained where she was. The house moved around her—footsteps, voices, the quiet industry of the day—but she stood still, her thoughts settling.
At last, she turned and made her way slowly back toward her chamber.
The light had shifted by the time Elizabeth reached her room.
It fell differently now—softer, less direct—and she paused just within the doorway to allow her eye to adjust. The faint ache that had begun at the assembly the night before had not entirely left her.
It lingered still, a dull pressure behind her eye that sharpened when she attempted to focus too closely.
She set her walking stick aside and crossed to the bed. There was no reluctance in her decision. She had learned, over time, that such moments were best met with acceptance rather than resistance. To push through would only prolong the discomfort.
She sat first, then lay back, drawing the coverlet lightly over her. The room was subdued. She closed her eye. For a time, she did not think of anything in particular. The events of the morning drifted through her mind without insistence—the note, the conversation, Jane’s peaceful resolution.
And beneath it, a different thought. The terrace. A voice beside her. A manner at once reserved and attentive.
Elizabeth let out a slow breath. It was foolish to dwell upon it.
It was one conversation. Nothing more. Nonetheless, her dismissal of it was not complete.
Instead, she allowed it to remain, soft and indistinct, like the fading light at the edges of her vision.
And with that, she turned her face slightly into the pillow and rested.
By supper, the rain came down in earnest. It had begun as a fine mist not long after noon, scarcely enough to mark the windows beyond a soft dimming of the light.
By evening, it had thickened into a steady fall that drummed upon the glass, darkened the lane, and blurred the world beyond Longbourn into little more than shifting gray.