Chapter 16 #2
Miss Elizabeth’s expression softened, the corners of her mouth quirking upward. “Every young woman deserves a sister—or someone—who will ride across muddy fields and burst into strangers’ homes on their behalf!”
“I would say so.” His tone was dry, but the sentiment sincere.
She laughed, low and warm. “My father always said he wished for a son to end the entail, but had to make do with his most incorrigible daughter instead.”
“Incorrigible?” he echoed, intrigued. “That is not the word I would have chosen.”
“No?” Her head tilted slightly, mock-inquisitive. “And what would you call a girl who reads what she ought not, questions what she should not, and tramps through the countryside without regard for shoes or company?”
He paused, considering. “Independent. And admirable.”
For a moment, her smile faltered—then deepened into something more genuine.
Before she could reply, a particularly emphatic chord from the pianoforte drew their attention, and Elizabeth shook her head slightly with a grin. “Perhaps we have tired out Mrs. Hurst.”
Darcy returned the smile, but said nothing. He did not trust himself to speak just then. Not when the room felt so unusually peaceful… and Miss Elizabeth Bennet was at its very heart.
He smiled to himself and turned back to his letter, when a sudden hush fell over the room. His attention was drawn to the fireplace, where Bingley had risen from Jane Bennet’s side and now stood awkwardly, clearing his throat.
“Louisa,” Bingley began, “forgive me for interrupting your playing, but—” he hesitated, eyes sweeping the room, “I have come to a decision regarding Caroline.”
Mrs. Hurst’s fingers stilled on the keys. She looked up, startled. “Charles, is it appropriate to speak of such things—” her gaze flitted to the Bennet sisters and then to Darcy, “—so publicly?”
Darcy straightened in his chair, ready to intervene should his friend falter. But Bingley glanced down at Miss Bennet, who gave him an encouraging smile and the smallest of nods.
He drew a breath and squared his shoulders. “Those here were directly affected by Caroline’s actions,” he said. “And I have already spoken with Miss Bennet on the subject. There is little point in keeping it private.”
Darcy’s brows rose in surprise. “You have… discussed it with Miss Bennet?” he asked slowly. “What conclusion have you come to?”
Bingley nodded. “Yes. At Miss Bennet’s suggestion, we are going to give Caroline… another chance.”
Darcy blinked. Another chance?
His eyes flew to Elizabeth, who was already looking at her sister with an expression of profound exasperation. Then she looked at Darcy, and he read the thought as clearly as if she had spoken aloud: This is a bad idea.
He gave the faintest nod in return. I know.
Still seated, Jane turned her gaze kindly to the others. “I believe… if I can forgive Miss Bingley, as the wronged party, then others can do the same. Perhaps these days of isolation have helped her reflect and repent.”
Darcy nearly laughed aloud—repentance seemed the unlikeliest of states for Miss Bingley—but he caught himself, observing instead the rigid set of Elizabeth’s jaw as her sister made the declaration.
Elizabeth’s tone was even but unmistakably cool when she spoke. “This is not my home. I will defer to its master in all such decisions.”
Then, with a glance at her sister, she rose. “Jane, you look fatigued. Come, I will help you upstairs.”
Miss Bennet stood slowly, still pale but composed, and gave Bingley one final smile.
Elizabeth’s expression remained carefully neutral, but as she turned to follow Jane, her eyes once again met Darcy’s—flat and weary now—and he once again felt all the shame of what had happened to Miss Bennet the night she arrived for dinner.
When the Bennet sisters were gone, Bingley clapped his hands together once, with a cheerfulness that rang false. “Well then, I suppose I ought to inform Caroline of the… good news.”
Darcy stood as well, setting his letter aside unfinished. “I believe I shall retire as well.”
He did not wait for the others to reply. Mounting the stairs to his room, he felt no sense of victory or ease. Only foreboding.
God help us all when Miss Bingley is returned to our society.
∞∞∞
The door to the blue room closed softly behind them, the latch clicking into place like a final word Elizabeth was not ready to hear. She helped Jane settle into bed, fluffed the pillows, and tucked the blankets in with habitual care—but her hands were tighter, her motions sharper.
The moment Jane sighed contentedly against the pillows, Elizabeth turned on her heel and crossed her arms. “Well, Jane? Explain yourself.”
Jane blinked, startled. “Explain what?”
“How you could possibly suggest that Miss Bingley deserves another chance. After everything she did to you!”
“Oh, Lizzy.”
“Jane—she left you to dine in wet clothes. She nearly killed you, and she would have if Mrs. Nicholls had not procured you a room..”
Jane’s eyes widened, and she looked genuinely distressed, but not, Elizabeth noted, contrite. “Lizzy, please. Do not be so dramatic. She misjudged, that is all.”
“Do not defend her!” Elizabeth’s voice rose, then she checked herself, glancing to the door. Lowering it, she continued, “Jane, you had a fever. You could barely sit upright this morning. That woman—” she broke off, pacing once across the rug, “—she was cruel. Deliberately cruel.”
“I simply wish to move forward,” Jane said quietly. “I do not like discord. What good would it do to keep hatred alive?”
Elizabeth turned to her sister, incredulous. “Hatred? No one is asking you to hate her, Jane. But to welcome her back into your confidence? To pretend as if nothing happened?”
“I never said that,” Jane said, her tone growing cool. “Only that I could forgive her. That is my choice.”
Elizabeth stared. Jane’s hands were folded over the coverlet, her expression calm—but there was a stubborn set to her mouth that Elizabeth recognized all too well. For all her gentleness, Jane had a will of iron when she chose to wield it.
“I just… I do not understand,” Elizabeth said after a moment, her voice softening. “You are the one who was hurt.”
“Yes,” Jane replied simply. “And I would like to rest now.”
Elizabeth hesitated. “Jane—”
“I am tired, Lizzy. Please.”
It was not rude, exactly. But it was firm. Final.
Elizabeth stepped back, her mind still churning. She had seen Jane ruffled before, but never this—never this restrained irritation. It sat poorly with her. Everything about the evening did.
She kissed her sister’s brow and left the room quietly.
In her own chamber, Elizabeth paced for several minutes before giving up and undressing. Her thoughts would not settle. She had been so sure, in the drawing room, that Jane would gently object to Bingley’s absurd plan. But instead, her sister had defended it. Defended her.
Elizabeth climbed into bed and stared up at the ceiling, shadows dancing faintly in the flickering light of the dying hearth. A feeling settled into her chest—unwelcome and unfamiliar.
Apprehension.
If Jane could forgive so easily… who else might Miss Bingley persuade?
And what might follow if she did?
Elizabeth turned onto her side and stared into the soft shadows dancing along the wall. The weight of worry settled heavier upon her chest with each breath.
She tried—truly tried—to envision Jane’s future with Mr. Bingley. A quiet household, perhaps. Pleasant. Affectionate. A gentle husband, an adoring wife. That was what Jane deserved, was it not?
But alongside that image came another—one less ideal.
Mr. Bingley was too agreeable by half. He deferred to others, avoided conflict, and sought peace above principle.
And Jane—dear Jane, with her tender heart and endless capacity to forgive—could so easily be steamrolled by the strong wills around her.
What might their life look like, if Caroline Bingley were given leave to remain?
Elizabeth could see it clearly. Miss Bingley insinuating herself into every decision, dropping scathing remarks masked as compliments, treating Jane with condescension laced in honey—and Jane, smiling sweetly, pretending not to notice, making excuses for it all.
And Bingley?
Bingley would wring his hands, perhaps. He might look concerned. But would he act? Would he do more than gently suggest Miss Bingley behave with more kindness?
Would he ever truly protect Jane?
Elizabeth doubted it.
And that was the crux of her unease. Not just that Miss Bingley had done something cruel—but that Jane might forgive and forget so completely that she would never insist on better.
She pressed her hand to her brow, willing the thoughts to stop. But the worry lingered.
What use is goodness, she wondered bitterly, if no one defends it when it is harmed?
The fire dimmed to embers. Elizabeth turned over once more and pulled the blankets tighter.
She had never wished for power or wealth. But in that moment, she wished, fiercely, that she had influence—enough to guard her sister’s gentle heart from being bruised again.