Chapter Eleven
Elizabeth did not sleep as soundly as she might have wished.
The events at Lucas Lodge returned to her thoughts with an insistence she could neither fully welcome nor entirely dismiss.
She had long practiced the art of directing her mind where she wished it to go, of setting aside what could not be altered in favor of what must be endured.
It had served her well in the months following the accident, when grief and uncertainty had threatened to overwhelm every other consideration.
It had served her still in the days that followed, when her world had reshaped itself into something both familiar and altered beyond recall.
It did not serve her so well now.
Her conversation with Mr. Darcy lingered.
Not merely the words spoken, though those remained clear enough, but the manner in which they had been exchanged.
There had been no condescension in him, no conscientious avoidance of subjects that might cause discomfort.
He had asked what he wished to know, and he had listened with a steadiness that did not seek to soften or correct her conclusions, even when he disagreed with them.
That alone might have been enough to occupy her thoughts. But it was not the whole of it.
Elizabeth turned in her bed, drawing the coverlet more closely about her as though such a motion might quiet what could not easily be stilled. She had spoken too plainly. The word she had used lingered still, sharper for having been spoken aloud.
Cripple. It had not been offered as a plea for sympathy, nor as an attempt to provoke a response, but as a statement of fact as she understood it. It had been the language of others, absorbed and returned without embellishment.
And he had not accepted it.
The memory pressed upon her with a persistence that was difficult to ignore.
His expression had not altered in the way she had expected.
There had been no retreat, no polite discomfort, no effort to redirect the conversation to safer ground.
Instead, there had been something steadier, something that refused the conclusion even as she presented it.
Elizabeth closed her eyes briefly. Such thoughts were unproductive.
More than that, they were dangerous. She had long ago dismissed any expectation of a life beyond what lay before her now.
It had not been done in despair, but in acceptance.
The shape of her future had become clear through necessity, not choice, and she had adapted herself to it as best she could.
There was purpose in it. There was even contentment, in moments.
To disturb that understanding now, to allow the possibility of something different to take hold, would be to invite disappointment of a far greater kind than she was willing to endure.
Elizabeth turned again, pressing her face briefly into the pillow before drawing a steady breath. She would not think of it further. She would not allow herself to imagine what could not be.
Elizabeth rose at last, though not because rest had fully returned her to herself.
The day would not wait upon private disquiet, and neither, she thought, ought she.
There was comfort in occupation, in the familiar duties of a household that required attention whether one’s heart was tranquil or in rebellion.
She dressed with care, choosing a gown that needed no further adjustment and fastening it with hands more steady than she felt.
Her hair, once arranged, gave her no cause for dissatisfaction, and she counted that a mercy.
The house below had already begun to stir by the time she came downstairs.
Breakfast had been laid, though not all the family were yet assembled, and the morning light, softened by a thin veil of lingering cloud, fell gently through the windows of the breakfast room.
Elizabeth was grateful for it. A harsher brightness might have brought on a headache, and she had no wish to contend with physical discomfort in addition to the unrest that had not entirely left her.
She seated herself in her usual place and accepted the cup Lydia moved nearer without asking. Such gestures had become so natural among them that they no longer felt like acts of accommodation. They were simply part of the rhythm of their life.
Jane entered a few moments later with Thomas upon her hip, the child still flushed with sleep and clinging in that soft, unquestioning way of children to the person they trusted most. Elizabeth looked up at once, and though Jane’s face was as lovely as ever, there was a trace of fatigue in her expression that did not escape notice.
Thomas, however, was cheerful enough, his mood recovering quickly once he had been given a piece of toast to hold and the promise that he might later inspect the kitchen.
“You did not sleep enough,” Elizabeth said softly once her sister had settled.
Jane glanced toward her and smiled in that way she had of acknowledging a truth without wishing to make much of it. “I slept sufficiently.”
“That means no.”
Jane’s smile deepened slightly. “It means I am equal to the day.”
Elizabeth accepted that answer, though she did not entirely believe it.
Still, she admired the steadiness with which Jane met every demand upon her time and patience.
She had done so in widowhood. She had done so in motherhood.
She had done so in becoming mistress of a house she had never expected to govern.
If anyone deserved an easier happiness than the one she had known thus far, it was Jane.
That thought alone ought to have been enough to occupy Elizabeth fully. It was not.
She found herself too aware of the prospect of the afternoon.
Of the arrival of Netherfield’s party. Of one gentleman in particular, whose presence had become distressingly difficult to regard with indifference.
She tried, as she had resolved to do, to bury the matter beneath practical concerns.
Mrs. Bennet wished to know what cake ought to be served.
Kitty had mislaid a ribbon and considered it of great importance.
Mary asked whether the small room near the pianoforte might be used if Miss Darcy should wish for music.
Lydia asserted that Miss Darcy would undoubtedly desire music, and her absence would occasion considerable surprise.
These ordinary concerns provided relief. They grounded her. By the time the carriage was heard upon the drive, she had gathered herself entirely.
The arrival was marked by the usual stir of movement, the opening of doors, and the exchange of greetings. Elizabeth stood beside Jane as the guests were received, her posture composed, her expression welcoming.
Miss Bingley entered first, her manner polished, her gaze sweeping the room with thoughtful assessment. Mrs. Hurst followed, her expression more reserved. Mr. Bingley came next, his countenance brightening at once as he approached Jane, his pleasure evident in every aspect of his demeanor.
Behind them, Mr. Darcy and his sister entered.
Elizabeth felt his presence before she turned toward him. There was a steadiness to his movement that distinguished him even in a room of familiar faces.
She inclined her head. “Mr. Darcy.”
“Miss Bennet.”
His voice was composed, offering no hint of the previous day’s intensity. She was grateful for it.
Miss Darcy detached herself from her brother soon after, her expression touched with anticipation that she made little effort to conceal.
Georgiana’s reserve lasted scarcely a minute after Lydia and Kitty claimed her.
Whatever apprehension she had brought into the room did not withstand Lydia’s confidence or Kitty’s gentler encouragement.
Mary’s invitation to the pianoforte completed the matter, and within moments they had withdrawn to the smaller room.
The first notes of music drifted back soon after, tentative at first, then more confident. Laughter followed, and Lydia’s voice urging perseverance. Elizabeth smiled. Georgiana Darcy would not lack for encouragement in this house.
Mrs. Bennet looked pleased with herself. “There now. I knew the young lady would be happy among us.” No one contradicted her.
Mr. Bingley had taken a seat beside Jane, his attention fixed upon her with easy warmth. Jane listened, her expression softening as she replied.
Mr. Darcy seated himself near Elizabeth. “I have never seen Bingley so entirely engaged,” he said after a moment.
Elizabeth followed his gaze. “He appears very much so.” As did her sister.
In the past, Jane had masked her true feelings behind a serene mask.
Her marriage and elevation to mistress of the house had given her more confidence.
Now, it was plain to any who looked that her sister admired and esteemed Mr. Bingley.
“He has often formed strong preferences,” Darcy said, “but this is of a different nature.”
Elizabeth smiled faintly. “You speak as one accustomed to observing him.”
“I have been required to exercise that observation for years.”
“And does he recover quickly when his preferences fail to endure?” She dearly hoped he was not a capricious sort of man. That did not bode well for Jane’s future happiness.
“Usually,” Darcy said. “He is sincere in each attachment, but not always constant.”
Elizabeth considered this. “This one seems less likely to fade.” It was more of a question than an observation. She dearly hoped Mr. Darcy would agree. Otherwise, she would have to warn Jane to guard her heart.
“It does.”
There was something in his tone that drew her attention again. “My sister deserves happiness,” she said. Not a man who is fickle.
“And has she found it?”
Elizabeth looked toward Jane. “I hope so.”
Darcy studied her. “You are not surprised.”
“She has had little in life that was wholly her own.” Jane had sacrificed more than most during her short two-and-twenty years.
“How did she come to marry as she did?”