Chapter 9
Before the Music Begins or
Private Expectations
The afternoon light on Monday lay pale and steady across Jane’s bedchamber, catching on pins and silk and the faint shimmer of gauze spread carefully across the coverlet.
Elizabeth stood before the looking glass while Jane, seated near the window, examined the length of embroidered ribbon their mother had pressed into her hands with almost ceremonial importance.
“Is it not handsome?” Jane asked, running her fingers lightly over the silk. “I faintly remember Mama working on this some time ago. I am quite certain she had been waiting for an occasion worthy of it.”
Elizabeth smiled, bending slightly as she adjusted the fall of her sleeve. “Then we must do it justice. I believe Mama intends that no one in Hertfordshire shall doubt her daughters’ prospects tomorrow evening.”
Jane’s laughter was soft, never unkind. “She means well.”
“I know.”
Elizabeth turned then, holding up the length of delicate lace that had been newly added to her own gown. It was fine work – not ostentatious, but intricate, the sort that rewarded a closer look. On a whim, she had threaded a light green satin ribbon beneath it.
“She was very particular that this be placed along the high waist,” Elizabeth said. “As though a man might fail to propose without sufficient edging. But I confess I like it.”
Jane rose and came nearer, adjusting the lace with careful fingers. “It is beautiful. She said it came from Italy.”
“What do you think of using this ribbon beneath?”
“I like it,” Jane admitted gently. “It is uncommon. Quite like you.”
Elizabeth looked at her sister through the glass. Jane nodded to her. There was a small silence. The quiet rustle of fabric filled it.
Jane resumed her seat and began threading the ribbon through the bodice of her gown, drawing it evenly through the loops.
“You were long in conversation with Mr. Darcy yesterday,” she said, almost casually.
Elizabeth did not immediately answer. “We spoke,” she said at last. “I wished to clarify matters.”
“About Mr. Wickham?”
“Yes.”
Jane paused but did not look up. “And are you satisfied?”
Elizabeth considered. “I am… less certain of what I once believed. It is true – he had received money. Mr. Darcy implied it was no trifling sum. Mr. Wickham deceived me. I do not feel flattered by it now; rather, I feel foolish.”
Jane lifted her eyes at that. “I never thought Mr. Darcy capable of deliberate injustice. He came here to support his friend. Such a man would hardly behave honourably in one instance and dishonourably in another.”
“No.” Elizabeth smiled faintly. “It is most inconvenient. I had so neatly arranged both gentlemen in my understanding. I begin to suspect I am not so discerning as I imagined.”
Jane’s fingers stilled briefly. “I am glad he spoke plainly with you.”
“So am I. He surprised me.” Elizabeth moved to sit opposite her. “Though he does not always succeed in being plain without also being… instructive.”
Jane’s eyes lifted, amused. “He is accustomed to being listened to.”
“He is accustomed to being right.”
“And is he?”
Elizabeth hesitated. “Possibly. He said I was young and possessed of little experience in the world.”
Jane’s smile deepened. “In that, at least, he cannot be entirely mistaken. Very little extraordinary occurs here.”
Another pause.
“And Mr. Bingley?” Elizabeth asked lightly. “You were not much neglected yesterday.”
Jane coloured slightly, though her composure did not falter. “He is very attentive.”
“That he is.”
“I think,” Jane continued, carefully smoothing the ribbon, “that he feels everything very sincerely. There is no calculation in him.”
“No,” Elizabeth agreed. “There is not.”
Jane looked thoughtful. “It is a comfort.”
Elizabeth studied her sister’s face – the serenity, the quiet happiness that did not blaze but glowed.
“And you?” Jane asked gently. “Do you find Mr. Darcy more comfortable company now?”
Elizabeth looked down at the lace in her hands.
“I think he is less inclined to despise us,” she said lightly.
Jane tilted her head. “Lizzy.”
Elizabeth exhaled. “He was very gracious about our family after dining with us,” she said at last. “That is something.”
“And you?”
Elizabeth’s fingers stilled upon the fabric.
“I begin,” she admitted, “to see that I may not have seen everything either. But it is of no consequence.”
Jane did not press further. She rarely did.
Outside, the faint sound of carriage wheels passed along the lane. The world continued in its ordinary rhythm.
Jane tied off the ribbon neatly and rose. “Mama will be insufferable if we are not ready.”
“There is still tomorrow before the ball… She will be insufferable in any case,” Elizabeth replied, though affection warmed her tone.
Jane laughed.
Elizabeth stood again before the glass. The lace caught the light differently now. Softer. “How strange,” she said, almost to herself, “that a few conversations may alter one’s opinion so entirely.”
Jane adjusted the final pin in her own sleeve. “Not entirely,” she corrected gently. “Only honestly.”
Elizabeth met her sister’s eyes in the mirror. “Yes,” she said. “Perhaps honestly.”
“Come,” Jane said at last. “Let us see whether the others need anything – or whether we must rescue them. I can hear Mama.”
***
Caroline’s dressing table was in mild disorder – which, in her case, meant that three gowns lay across the chaise instead of one. Louisa stood before the tall mirror, raising a gown in front of her.
“I do not like that shade,” Louisa said at last. “It washes you out in the candlelight.”
Caroline did not look up. “It did not do so in town.”
“We are not in town.”
Caroline’s hand stilled over a cluster of jet beads. “No,” she said coolly. “We are not.”
A silence followed. The faint rustle of silk. The murmur of servants somewhere below.
Louisa set aside the sleeve and crossed to the window. “You were long engaged in conversation Saturday evening,” she observed. “But not, I think, as you had intended.”
Caroline’s reflection sharpened. “If you mean that Mr. Darcy did not seek my company,” she replied evenly, “you may speak plainly.”
Louisa did not soften. “He scarcely looked at you.”
Caroline’s chin lifted a fraction. “He was distracted.”
“Yes.”
That single word lingered.
Caroline turned then, abandoning the pretence of indifference.
“I cannot conceive what possesses him,” she said. “He has always valued refinement. Discrimination. A certain… elevation.”
“And now?” Louisa prompted.
“And now he rides lanes, dines without invitation, and listens with visible patience to Mrs. Bennet’s recollections of provincial triumphs.”
Louisa’s mouth curved faintly. “You object less to the dinners than to the listening.”
Caroline did not answer immediately. “He has always enjoyed clever conversation,” she said instead. “It is not my fault if he chooses to find novelty elsewhere.”
“Novelty,” Louisa repeated. “Is that what we are calling Miss Elizabeth?”
Caroline’s eyes cooled. “Miss Elizabeth possesses liveliness. I grant her that. It appears to amuse him.”
“And you do not?”
Caroline gave a short, controlled laugh. “I do not perform for amusement.”
“No,” Louisa said calmly. “You perform for position.”
Caroline met her sister’s eyes in the mirror. “And you think I miscalculated?”
“I think,” Louisa said, returning to the chaise and lifting the darker gown, “that Hertfordshire has afforded Mr. Darcy more leisure than is beneficial. He observes too much.”
Caroline’s fingers resumed their work, though more briskly now.
“There is something about Eliza that irritates me – the way she smiles, the way she must have an opinion on everything.”
Louisa considered her sister. Mr. Darcy showed no signs of having any plans regarding her sister. It was a difficult topic to discuss with Caroline. As if to confirm her fears, Caroline continued.
“He will tire of her.”
“Will he?”
“He must.”
Louisa considered her sister, though she did not immediately reply. It was not a subject she chose to press. “Charles, at least, shows no sign of fatigue.”
Caroline’s expression hardened. “Charles is in danger of something far more permanent.”
“You believe him attached?”
“I believe him infatuated,” Caroline replied crisply. “Which, in his case, may amount to the same thing.”
Louisa began folding one of the discarded gowns with methodical care. “Jane Bennet is harmless,” she said. “But she is precisely the sort of girl who will never encourage him to think beyond his first inclination.”
Caroline’s voice dropped. “And he has never had much practice in resisting inclination.” There was no bitterness in the remark. Only assessment.
Louisa glanced toward the door before speaking again. “The ball tomorrow will be decisive.”
Caroline’s eyes flickered. “In what sense?”
“If matters continue as they are, Charles will consider himself obliged to remain here indefinitely.”
“That will not answer.”
“No.”
A longer silence.
“You propose London,” Louisa said finally.
Caroline did not hesitate. “Naturally. Business, engagements, society. Reminders of who we are. Charles will leave for London…”
“And Mr. Darcy?”
Caroline paused. “He will return to town with us.” Though even as she said it, she was conscious that certainty had begun to require effort.
“And if he does not?”
Caroline turned sharply. “He will.”
Louisa did not argue, but her look suggested she did not share the certainty.
Caroline’s composure settled again, layer by layer. “Miss Elizabeth may engage him in wit for an afternoon,” she said lightly. “But she cannot alter what he is.”
Louisa resumed adjusting the gown. “Let us hope not.”
Caroline reached for the darker silk at last. “No,” she said, smoothing the fabric with renewed resolve. “Let us ensure not.”
***
The house at Longbourn grew gradually still. Candles were extinguished one by one. Doors closed softly. Yet in several chambers, sleep did not arrive at once.