Chapter Eight #3
Mary’s expression softened. “Take care,” she said. “Your stick could easily get stuck in ground wet from the rain.”
“I shall.” The journey across the fields was nothing for someone with full use of their senses, but being partially blind made it more difficult for Elizabeth.
She turned then, making her way back through the hall and toward the door. The house remained as she had left it—steady, ordered, unchanged. But beyond it, the world waited. And Elizabeth, with her basket in hand and her purpose set, went out to meet it.
The walk to Netherfield was longer than she might have preferred on such a morning, but not beyond her ability.
Thankfully, the rain had ceased, though its effects remained.
The lane was soft beneath her feet, the earth yielding slightly with each step, and the air carried the damp chill that follows a night of steady weather.
Offering no clear sunlight, the sky hung low and gray, yet it didn't threaten more rain.
It was, in its way, a tolerable compromise.
Elizabeth kept her pace steady. Her walking stick touched the ground with regularity, guiding her where the path was less certain.
She proceeded with thoughtful consideration.
There was no need for haste. She had set out early enough, and though her head still held the faint echo of the morning’s discomfort, the motion itself seemed to ease it.
The basket rested against her arm, its weight familiar, its purpose clear. Jane would come home to her son. That was all that mattered.
As Netherfield came into view, its shape resolving slowly through the softened distance, Elizabeth drew a breath. The house stood as it had last time she had seen it, unchanged by the weather that had complicated so much else. Its windows reflected the muted light, its entrance sheltered and still.
She approached without hesitation.
The servant who answered her knock showed no surprise at her arrival, though his gaze lingered briefly upon the basket before he stepped aside. “Miss Bennet,” he said. “You are expected.”
Elizabeth inclined her head. Jane must have informed the staff that she would be leaving shortly. Her sister’s faith in her family was solid. “I have come for my sister.”
“Of course. If you will follow me.”
She stepped into the house, the warmth of it meeting her at once. The air within was still, carrying faint traces of breakfast—tea, bread, something richer beneath it. The peace of the morning lingered, though there was movement further within, the soft murmur of voices and the shifting of chairs.
She was led into a small parlor.
Miss Bingley rose as she entered.
“Miss Bennet,” she said, her tone polite, her expression arranged with precise civility. “What a surprise.”
Elizabeth inclined her head, pivoting so she could observe the lady better. “Miss Bingley.” Her walking stick remained in her hand as she stepped further into the room. She turned her face slightly, angling it so that her left eye might better take in the occupants.
Jane sat near the window, close enough to be seen clearly. Relief came at once. She looked well. Perhaps a touch pale, though that might be attributed to the morning light, or to the circumstances of her stay. Her posture remained composed, her expression calm.
Beside her sat a young lady Elizabeth did not immediately know. Tall for her age. Fair, with hair the color of honey caught in softened light. There was a gentleness in her manner, though her posture held a certain reserve, as though she were uncertain of her place within the room.
Miss Darcy, Elizabeth thought.
Mr. Bingley stood near the hearth, his expression brightening at once upon seeing her.
“Miss Bennet,” he said. “What a pleasant surprise.”
Elizabeth inclined her head once more. “I have come to escort my sister home.”
There was a pause. Mr. Bingley’s expression shifted—not entirely, but enough that Elizabeth caught it. Disappointment, faint but present. “I understood,” he said, “that the carriage was not available.”
Yes, that was what Mr. Collins had intended to convey. Elizabeth felt the faintest curve of her lips. “It is not.”
Mr. Bingley hesitated. “My own carriage,” he said, with a slight awkwardness that did not escape her notice, “is…undergoing maintenance.”
Elizabeth regarded him for a moment. Privately, she thought it a rather convenient circumstance. There was a sincerity in his manner that suggested no intent at deceit, and yet she could not help but suspect that some effort had been made to ensure Jane’s continued presence.
She said nothing of it. “I do not doubt that the roads are still difficult,” she said instead. “But they are not impassable.”
Jane rose. “Lizzy,” she said, her voice warm with relief. “You should not have come.”
Elizabeth smiled faintly. “And leave you to remain here another day?” she replied. “I think not. Thomas has asked after you.”
Jane’s expression softened. “I shall retrieve my things.”
Elizabeth stepped nearer, placing the basket into her hands. “Your boots,” she said.
Jane’s eyes brightened at once. “Lizzy—”
“Go,” Elizabeth murmured.
Jane did not hesitate. She turned and left the room, the basket held securely in her hands.
Elizabeth watched her go, then turned back.
Mr. Darcy had been standing slightly apart, his attention fixed upon her with a steadiness she had not expected. “Miss Bennet,” he said, stepping forward. “May I introduce my sister?”
Elizabeth inclined her head. “I should be pleased.”
He turned and beckoned. “Miss Georgiana Darcy.” The young lady rose at once, her movements careful, her expression composed though touched with a hint of shyness.
“Miss Bennet,” she said.
Elizabeth met her gaze as best she could, angling herself once more. “I am very pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Darcy.”
Georgiana smiled—small, but genuine. “I have heard much of you.”
Elizabeth felt a flicker of surprise. “I hope it has been favorable.”
Georgiana’s smile deepened slightly. “Very much so.”
They exchanged a few further pleasantries—nothing of consequence, and yet not entirely without meaning. There was a gentleness in Miss Darcy that Elizabeth found immediately agreeable, a fervent warmth that stood in contrast to the sharper tones she had already encountered within the house.
She did not linger. Her purpose was clear. When Jane returned, her things gathered, Elizabeth turned at once. “We must not delay,” she said.
Jane inclined her head. “Thank you for your hospitality,” she added, addressing the room with composed courtesy.
Miss Bingley responded with appropriate civility. Mrs. Hurst, who had entered at some point, inclined her head. Mr. Bingley spoke with evident regret, though he did not attempt to detain them further.
Elizabeth moved toward the door. Jane followed. They had nearly reached it when Jane paused.
“Oh,” she said. “My shawl.”
Elizabeth turned. “I shall retrieve it,” she said.
Jane hesitated. “It is in the small parlor.”
“I know the way.”
Jane’s expression held a brief moment of concern, but she did not argue. “Thank you.”
Elizabeth inclined her head and turned back. The house was quieter now. The morning had settled into something more subdued, the earlier movement giving way to stillness. Elizabeth moved with caution, her steps measured, her walking stick guiding her where needed.
She approached the door to the small parlor. Voices carried through it.
Elizabeth paused, listening. Her intention was not to eavesdrop, however, the words reached her prior to her grasping the doorknob.
“…a most unfortunate situation,” Miss Bingley was saying.
Elizabeth stilled.
“There can be no denying it,” Mrs. Hurst replied.
“A cripple,” Miss Bingley continued, her tone lowering, though not enough to escape notice. “And a burden upon her family.”
Elizabeth’s breath caught. She remained motionless.
“She appears very independent,” Mr. Darcy said. His voice was steady. Measured, even. “I cannot imagine where you have formed the impression that she is a burden.”
Elizabeth felt something shift within her. An unexpected warmth filled her and she smiled.
Miss Darcy spoke then, her voice softer. “Miss Bennet must be a strong woman,” she said. “To have overcome such a difficulty.”
Miss Bingley gave a small, dismissive sound. “That may be so,” she said. “But strength alone does not create a future.”
Elizabeth’s hand tightened slightly around the handle.
“The best she can offer,” Miss Bingley continued, “is to become a dependent relation within her sister’s household.”
Mrs. Hurst murmured agreement.
“The evidence is plain enough,” Miss Bingley went on. “She has been sent to retrieve Mrs. Collins. Such tasks are properly the responsibility of a servant. A maid, perhaps, or a footman.” There was a pause. “The blind girl,” she added, her tone sharpening, “sent out alone.”
Elizabeth could not bear to hear another word.
She lifted her hand and knocked. The sound cut cleanly through the room beyond.
There was a brief silence. Then she opened the door.
She stepped inside, her posture composed, her expression calm.
She turned her face pointedly, fixing Miss Bingley within the range of her good eye.
“My sister left her shawl,” she said. The words were spoken without heat and without the slightest tremor.
Miss Bingley’s expression flickered but only briefly.
Miss Darcy rose at once, moving quickly to retrieve the shawl from where it had been set aside. “Here,” she said, her voice gentle.
Elizabeth inclined her head. “Thank you.” She took it, her fingers steady. “I wish you all a very good day.” She did not wait for a reply. She turned and left the room.
The door closed behind her. For a moment, she stood in the hall. The air felt different. Colder, perhaps. Or perhaps it was only the shift within herself. Her steps resumed, measured as before, though there was a tension now that had not been there earlier.
The words lingered. Cripple. Burden. Dependent. They settled where she could not immediately dismiss them.
Elizabeth drew a breath and then another. Her grip tightened briefly upon the shawl before she forced her fingers to relax. She would not carry them with her, not in the way they had been intended.
Still… Her vision blurred, not from strain but from something else. She lifted her hand and brushed the moisture from her cheek with a swift, almost impatient motion.
No. I will not allow it.
She had come too far and learned too much. She had endured more than Miss Bingley could ever comprehend. Elizabeth straightened. She would move forward.
Jane stood near the entrance, her expression shifting at once as Elizabeth approached. “Lizzy?” There was concern in her voice.
Elizabeth shook her head slightly. “Let us go,” she said.
Jane hesitated, then nodded.
They stepped out together. The air beyond the door was cool, the damp earth beneath their feet still softened from the rain. The sky remained overcast, though the worst of the weather had passed. Elizabeth adjusted her grip upon her walking stick.
Jane fell into step beside her. They did not speak at once. Elizabeth was aware of her sister’s presence, of the glance that lingered, of the question that had not yet been asked.
She offered no explanation. Not here. Not now.
Instead, she drew a steady breath and fixed her attention upon the path ahead.
Each step was certain, each movement calculated.
She had been called many things in the years since the accident, some spoken with kindness, some not.
But none of them altered what she knew to be true.
She was not a burden, nor was she dependent. She was not diminished. Elizabeth had learned to walk her own path, even when it was not easily seen, and she would continue to do so. She lifted her chin slightly. The road stretched before them. And she followed it forward.