Chapter 18
The following morning, Elizabeth had just fastened the final button on Jane’s dress when her sister rose from the chair by the fire and tested her balance, pacing the length of the room with a thoughtful air.
“I feel quite myself again,” Jane said at last, smiling as though the admission surprised her. “I believe I ought to go down to breakfast.”
Elizabeth studied her closely. The flush of fever was gone; her eyes were clear, her posture steady. Reluctantly, she nodded. “Yes. And if you are well enough to face the breakfast table, then we ought also to face propriety.”
Jane turned, already knowing what was coming. “You mean we should return home.”
“I do,” Elizabeth replied, a little ruefully. “Lingering any longer would invite speculation, and Mary would never forgive us if the neighborhood decided we had made ourselves too comfortable.”
Jane sighed, not petulantly, but with genuine regret. “I suppose not.”
Elizabeth caught the tone and smiled at her. “Come now. That sounded very much like disappointment. Should I be alarmed?”
Jane colored at once. “Elizabeth.”
“Oh, I am only asking,” Elizabeth said lightly, seating herself on the edge of the bed. “How do you feel about Mr. Bingley this morning, now that you are restored to health and can reflect upon matters more calmly?”
Jane bent to straighten the already tidy folds of her shawl, but the pink creeping into her cheeks betrayed her. “I feel… grateful,” she said after a moment. “And happy. He was exceedingly attentive. Kind. Concerned in a way that was never intrusive.”
Elizabeth’s smile softened, then sharpened with thought. “He is kind,” she allowed. “Very kind. But do you not wish him to be a little firmer? A little more willing to assert himself, particularly where his sister is concerned? Dinner last night was quite uncomfortable.”
Jane looked up at once, her expression unusually animated. “No,” she said, with gentle firmness. “I wish him to be exactly as he is.”
Elizabeth blinked.
“I like him because he is kind,” Jane continued, her voice steady though her color remained high.
“Because he does not seek to wound in order to amuse himself. Because he would rather yield than humiliate. His sister may be unkind, but he is not. And I will not condemn a man for refusing to become hard merely to manage another’s temper. ”
Elizabeth opened her mouth, then closed it.
Jane went on, more quietly now. “You compare him to what we have known. Papa finds comfort in mockery, and Mama in agitation. I love them both, but I have lived my life trying not to become either. Mr. Bingley errs on the side of kindness, and if that is a fault, it is one I can live with.”
The words settled heavily in the room.
Elizabeth sank back against the bedpost, stunned by the clarity of it. She had always known Jane was gentle, but she had never quite understood how deliberate that gentleness was. It was not ignorance of the world, but a conscious refusal to mirror its worst habits.
“You are right,” Elizabeth said at last, quietly. “Entirely right.”
Jane smiled at her then, soft and knowing.
“There is something else you must consider. Mr. Bingley has only just gained his majority. Until very recently, his affairs were managed for him—by an uncle, or trustees, or some similar arrangement. He was away at school for years, quite apart from his sisters. This is the first time they have truly lived together since their parents died.”
Elizabeth’s expression shifted, her teasing gone.
“He is learning,” Jane continued, gently but with conviction. “Learning how to be the head of a family, how to manage a household, how to balance affection with authority. That is no small thing, Lizzy. I think he is doing admirably well, considering how suddenly he has been thrust into the role.”
Elizabeth was silent for a long moment. At last, she exhaled slowly. “When you put it that way… I fear I have been unjust.”
Jane smiled, her eyes warm. Elizabeth laughed softly, though there was no mirth in it. “And here I thought myself the great observer of character.”
Jane reached for her hand. “You are. You simply look outward first, quickly. I look inward, patiently.”
Elizabeth squeezed her fingers. “I beg your pardon, then, for doubting you.”
“There is nothing to pardon,” Jane said warmly. “You only wish to protect me.”
“I always will,” Elizabeth replied.
They exchanged a smile, and the moment passed as naturally as it had come. Jane reached for her slippers, and Elizabeth straightened her shawl.
“Come,” Elizabeth said briskly. “Let us go down to breakfast before we are missed—and before I have time to form yet another opinion I must later retract.”
Jane laughed, and together they left the room, arm in arm.
As they descended the stairs, Elizabeth found her thoughts lingering on Jane’s words.
She had always known her sister to be kind, patient, and unfailingly generous in her judgments—but this quiet clarity, this measured understanding of circumstance and character, struck Elizabeth anew.
Jane did not argue loudly, nor insist upon her own cleverness. She simply saw—and waited.
Still waters, indeed, Elizabeth thought, and felt a flicker of humility warm her chest.
Her attention shifted, as it must, to more immediate concerns.
The carriage would need to be requested, propriety observed, farewells made.
She was, she admitted, faintly relieved at the prospect of departure.
Miss Bingley was no longer confined to her room, and the thought of enduring another day beneath Caroline’s sharp gaze and sharper tongue was not an inviting one.
And yet—
A small pang caught her unawares.
She would miss Mr. Darcy.
The realization unsettled her. Their conversations—quiet, searching, edged with wit and unexpected warmth—had become something she looked forward to more than she cared to admit, even to herself.
He listened. He challenged. He revealed just enough to suggest depths she had not yet sounded.
It was not the sort of acquaintance one easily relinquished.
By the time they reached the breakfast room, Elizabeth had schooled her expression into calm attentiveness, but she remained quieter than usual. Jane, composed and serene, made the necessary request for the carriage with gentle gratitude and perfect propriety.
Elizabeth said little as the meal progressed, her thoughts divided between the comfort of home awaiting them—and the curious, unanticipated regret of leaving this one particular house, and one particular gentleman, behind.
∞∞∞
Darcy noticed Elizabeth’s quiet the moment she entered the breakfast room.
It was not sullenness, nor displeasure—only a thoughtful stillness that sat oddly upon her, like a borrowed shawl.
She listened more than she spoke, her gaze drifting now and again, her hands folded in her lap rather than occupied with her usual activity.
He found himself watching her far more closely than propriety demanded, a faint unease settling in his chest.
Jane spoke at last, her voice gentle as ever, requesting the use of the carriage to return to Longbourn that morning.
Darcy scarcely registered the words before Bingley reacted.
“Nonsense,” Bingley said at once, pushing back his chair slightly.
“It would not be safe. You were ill only yesterday, Miss Bennet. You must stay another day at least. The roads are uneven, the air chill. Pray, remain until after church tomorrow. We can attend together, and afterwards you may return home with your family.”
Darcy felt a sharp, irrational jolt of alarm.
Elizabeth leaving? Today?
The thought unsettled him more than he realized.
He had known her only weeks, and really come to know her for only a few days, and yet the idea of Netherfield without her presence—without her voice, her quick expressions, her thoughtful questions—felt suddenly diminished.
He realized, with no small astonishment, how swiftly she had become woven into the fabric of his days.
Before he could consider the impropriety of it, he added his voice to Bingley’s.
“I agree,” Darcy said firmly. “Another day of rest would be prudent. You have both been through a great deal, and it would be a comfort to us to know Miss Bennet is fully recovered before you depart.”
Jane hesitated, clearly torn between gratitude and propriety. Elizabeth glanced up then, her eyes meeting Darcy’s. Something unreadable flickered across her face—surprise, perhaps, followed by consideration.
At last, Jane nodded. “Very well. One more day.”
Darcy exhaled, only then aware he had been holding his breath.
Elizabeth offered him a small smile across the table—not playful, not teasing, but warm and quietly appreciative. It settled something inside him, even as it stirred something else.
He resolved, then and there, not to squander the reprieve.
When breakfast concluded, he approached her with what he hoped was calm assurance. “Would you care to walk in the gardens after breakfast, Miss Elizabeth? The morning is clear, and I should like to make better use of the time we have been granted.”
Her expression brightened at once, the thoughtful reserve lifting as though it had never been there. “I should like that very much.”
They walked together beneath the bare-limbed trees, the gravel path crunching softly beneath their steps. The gardens were quiet at that hour, dew still clinging to the edges of leaves, the world hushed and expectant.
After a few moments, Elizabeth spoke. “You have mentioned your cousin often. Are you close to any other family, besides Colonel Fitzwilliam?”
Darcy considered his answer carefully. “There are others, though not all are… easy relationships. My stepmother’s sister, Lady Catherine, lives in Kent. She is a…. formidable presence,” he added dryly.
Elizabeth smiled faintly. “I believe I can imagine.”