Chapter 14 #2
Elizabeth knew from the first time meeting Miss Bingley that the woman was vain, proud, and superior—but she had never expected that a woman with a fortune as large as hers could be capable of such vulgarity.
To accuse her to her face of scheming, to call her a hussy—Elizabeth’s fingers clenched into fists once again, leaving little half-moon marks on her palm.
The utter gall of that woman. The nerve.
Although the expression of shock on the gentlemen’s faces was somewhat humorous, she thought with a wry smile.
Just when she thought she would have had to defend herself, Bingley had come to life.
She would never have thought it of him—gentle, pleasant Mr. Bingley, whose eyes sparkled only when looking at Jane and who always seemed ready to be talked over or led astray by his sister. Elizabeth had imagined him as a puppy, incapable of sustained conviction.
But today… today he had been a wolf.
He had spoken with passion and anger, not just on Jane’s behalf but on hers as well. And not even when Miss Bingley had appealed to Darcy—especially not then—had either man wavered.
It had meant something, that kind of defense. More than she could say.
She reached the guest wing and paused outside Jane’s door. The fire was low but steady within, and a young maid was tucking the extra pillows into place on a nearby chair.
“Is she awake?” Elizabeth asked quietly.
The girl curtsied. “Only just, miss. She asked for water a few minutes ago.”
Elizabeth nodded her thanks and stepped inside. Jane lay pale and drowsy, her golden hair spread over the pillow, her cheeks flushed with fever. She smiled faintly when she saw her sister.
“You are still here.”
“Of course I am still here,” Elizabeth said, crossing quickly to her side. She brushed a damp curl from Jane’s forehead and pressed her lips together. Still far too warm. She forced a bright smile. “Where else would I be when my dearest sister lies ill?”
“Are we to go home now, then?”
Elizabeth scowled. “No, we are to remain. Mrs. Nicholls is preparing the blue room for you, which I understand is more convenient and comfortable. There is to be good broth and better linens, and I daresay you will be positively smothered in pillows before the hour is out.”
Jane blinked, a small crease forming between her brows. “But... I wasn’t invited to stay. Miss Bingley said—”
Elizabeth took her hand and squeezed gently. “Miss Bingley’s opinion has been thoroughly dismissed by Mister Bingley.”
Jane blinked again, and Elizabeth smiled. “Truly, Jane. We have both been invited to stay, for as long as needed. Mr. Bingley has been made fully aware and is in control of the situation.”
Lips curving up slightly at the mention of Bingley’s name, Jane said, “I hope I have not caused too much of an inconvenience for anyone.”
Elizabeth gave a soft laugh. “You have no idea.”
At Jane’s worried expression, Elizabeth began to recount what had occurred downstairs. She did not wish to upset her sister or injure her tender feelings, especially when she was feeling so poorly, but she knew that it would be worse hearing it from a servant’s gossip.
A quiet knock came at the door just as Elizabeth had finished recounting the tale. One of the housemaids stepped into with a tea tray.
“Miss?” she said softly. “Mr. Bingley asked me to tell you that the blue room will be ready within the hour, and he sends his compliments and hopes Miss Bennet will be more comfortable there.”
Elizabeth nodded. “Thank you.”
The girl curtsied and withdrew.
Elizabeth looked down at Jane, whose large blue eyes were misty at the idea of someone treating Elizabeth so cruelly.
Her chest tightened, and she shook her head at the mess Miss Bingley had created.
She was grateful Mr. Bingley was doing what he could to remedy the situation, but was it too little, too late?
As she began to spoon tea into her sister’s mouth, an image of Darcy’s face floated into her vision.
His expression, grave and intent, had not wavered once while his friend spoke, nor while she herself had answered Miss Bingley.
There had been no embarrassment in his countenance, no polite attempt to soften the truth—only a steady certainty that surprised her now as much as it had then.
She shook herself and stood straighter, drawing in a breath. There would be time enough to consider Mr. Darcy later. For now, Jane needed her.
∞∞∞
Dinner that evening was a strained and subdued affair.
The hush in the room was unnatural, broken only by the clinking of silver and the occasional polite murmur from Bingley attempting, with diminishing returns, to maintain civility.
The empty chair at the other end of the table—a conspicuous absence where Miss Bingley usually presided—cast a long shadow over the gathering.
Mrs. Hurst sat in her place now, stiff-backed and tight-lipped, clearly uncomfortable with the position she had not asked to fill.
Bingley stabbed at his food a bit more forcefully than usual, then abruptly laid down his fork with a clatter.
“I should like to know something, Louisa,” he said, glancing from Darcy to Mr. Hurst, then settling on Mrs. Hurst. “Why did you not inform me that Miss Bennet had remained at Netherfield? Or at the very least try to challenge Caroline’s orders? ”
Mrs. Hurst blinked and set her wineglass down carefully. “I… I did not know she had stayed, Charles. Caroline told me she had offered Miss Bennet a change of clothing and a place to rest, but that she had refused both. I assumed she had returned home.”
Bingley’s brow darkened. “And you never thought to inquire further? To check on her?”
Mrs. Hurst flushed and fidgeted with her napkin. “There was no indication that Miss Bennet was unwell… I believed my sister.”
“Then I sincerely hope you are telling the truth,” Bingley said, his voice low and steely. “Because if I discover you had any part in this… if I learn you knew my guest was being mistreated in my own house and said nothing… you will no longer be welcome in any of my homes.”
The silence that followed was brittle and sharp.
From the other side of the table, Mr. Hurst finally looked up from his plate with something approaching attentiveness. “That will not be necessary,” he said firmly. “I shall ensure my wife behaves appropriately from now on.”
Mrs. Hurst’s lips parted in faint offense, but she said nothing. Her gaze flicked once—briefly—to Darcy. Then she looked away, lowered her eyes, and resumed her meal.
Darcy had said nothing throughout the exchange, content to observe.
He had grown accustomed to Miss Bingley’s sly jabs and veiled maneuverings, but today’s confrontation had laid bare something far uglier beneath her varnished poise.
He was not entirely surprised that Mrs. Hurst had gone along with it—there was weakness in her nature, more than malice—but he was nonetheless disappointed.
His own appetite was gone.
Instead, his mind wandered, drawn back to an unexpected moment from that morning. Elizabeth Bennet’s voice rang clearly in his memory—her calm statement about her family’s land, her knowledge of its origins, her composed defiance in the face of Miss Bingley’s cruelty.
The Bennets of Longbourn.
Land granted, she had said, to an ancestor who aided in quelling the Duke of Norfolk’s conspiracy against Queen Elizabeth.
Darcy’s fork paused midair.
He found himself oddly captivated by the idea.
What role, precisely, had this ancient Bennet played in such treason?
Had it been a gesture of conviction? Opportunism?
Desperation? The Duke of Norfolk’s plot had been a dangerous one—Catholic in aim, traitorous by law.
And Darcy could not help but wonder, with a strange sense of unease, whether a Darcy of that same era might have stood on the opposite side as Miss Bennet’s.
How ironic, then, that he—Fitzwilliam Darcy—now found himself intrigued by a descendant of that rebel house.
Attracted, even, though he dared not examine that too closely.
His family’s Catholic heritage had always placed them slightly apart, even now, when religious freedoms were at last beginning to expand.
That year’s announcement—allowing Catholic soldiers to openly practice their faith—had been a small, long-overdue step in the right direction.
He was grateful for it. Grateful not to live in a time when belief alone could condemn a man—or a woman.
Still, he could not help but wonder what their ancestors would think, staring down at them through the long corridor of time. Star-crossed, perhaps, like the Montagues and Capulets. Would those long-dead Bennets and Darcys rejoice… or recoil?
He glanced up at the subdued room, the dull glint of candlelight on glass and porcelain, and found himself wishing he were elsewhere.
Perhaps in a drawing room where the conversation was quick and the eyes were green, and the fire crackled with more warmth than heat.