Chapter 11 #8
“And neither will you, Miss Lydia, or you will not be going to the assembly at all!” She stood abruptly. “Come, come, let us leave your sister to rest.”
“But I have not chosen a gown!”
“Oh, hang your gown, girl! Your sister is with child! What do I care for your gowns?”
“Ugh! I shall ask to borrow one of Lizzy’s then,” she retorted. “Hers are bound to be finer than Jane’s anyway.”
Mrs Bennet forcibly hustled her from the room.
Jane stared after them. Her mother’s misapprehension would resolve itself soon enough when she did not begin to increase.
The matter of Bingley’s itinerant affections seemed destined never to resolve itself, recurring with nightmarish persistence to torment her.
Feeling her heart harden a little further, she stood and rang the bell for her maid—to whom she gave the gown that supposedly made her so vastly unappealing, along with every other dress in her possession with similarly outmoded sleeves.
Friday 2 October 1812, Hertfordshire
Darcy grimaced at the contents of his glass. “What in God’s name is this, Bingley?”
“Cognac.”
Darcy raised one sceptical eyebrow. “This is from France?”
“No, it is from Sir William.”
He set his glass aside. “Netherfield looks in fine order despite your absence. It is good of you to put us up so soon after your own travels.”
“Not at all. I know Lizzy must be eager to see her family again.”
Darcy regarded his friend with a carefully neutral expression. He questioned whether Bingley was even aware that his wife was not presently on good terms with her sister. Did they not talk to one another of such matters?
“Speaking of family,” Bingley continued, “I trust you know your sister was included in the invitation?”
“Yes, I thank you, but she preferred not to accompany us to Kent.”
“Ah,” Bingley replied with a knowing grimace.
“I had expected the Hursts to be here,” Darcy added.
“Hurst has taken Louisa back to London. He did not trust the midwives hereabouts to be of use when she enters her confinement.”
“That bodes ill for you, then. I hope you have better luck finding a decent one locally.”
“What? Why would I…what do you…what?”
“It is probable you will have need of one for Jane at some point.”
“Oh! Yes, of course!” Bingley gulped down the remainder of his drink and twisted around to dispense with his empty glass on the desk behind him—atop a pile of papers whose ink instantly began to run where drips of the unspecified liquor had pooled around the bottom.
“Bingley, your papers!”
“Blast!” Bingley sprang to his feet and snatched up the glass, but too late.
The top three or four sheets of paper beneath it were now attached to its base, and when he hefted it clear of the desk, a whole sheaf of documents was dragged up into the air with it, all of which promptly cascaded to the floor.
Darcy shook his head, chuckling quietly, if incredulously, at his maladroit friend.
He abstained from teasing and crouched to help gather up the scattered correspondence, though when he came upon a sheet bearing naught but an exceedingly ill-drawn blue and orange face, he could not refrain from comment.
Collecting a few last papers, he pushed himself to his feet.
“Were you half cut when you created this masterpiece, Bingley?”
“What’s that?” his friend replied from the floor.
Darcy showed him; Bingley’s face flushed beetroot red.
“Dare we enquire what is going on here?”
Elizabeth’s interruption came from the doorway, where she stood with her sister, her arms folded, and one exquisite eyebrow arched high in amusement. Darcy bowed a formal greeting. At his side, Bingley scrambled to his feet and gave some kind of absurd wave.
“Bingley is…” he glanced at the disordered bundle of papers his friend clutched to his chest. “Filing.”
“Thank heavens. I thought for a moment he was asking for your hand.”
“I should have said no if he had. I could never marry a person who draws even more poorly than I do.” Ignoring Bingley’s embarrassed groan, he held up the pitiable scribble for the ladies to see.
“Oh! That is Anna’s sketch of me!” Elizabeth exclaimed.
“Yes,” Bingley said. “You dropped it here at my picnic in the summer. I meant to return it to you. But forgot. Obviously.”
“You are very good, sir, but I have a hundred others like it. You need not have troubled yourself.”
She then informed them—because Jane did not—that tea was to be served in the morning room and suggested, if the gentlemen had completed their business, they all remove there.
Before anyone could agree or disagree, Bingley proceeded to drop most of the papers in his arms again whilst attempting to shuffle them into a neat pile.
Darcy watched Elizabeth press her lips together.
Her eyes, when they met his, shone with laughter.
“Blast!” Bingley grumbled again. “Go ahead. I shall join you all directly.”
Darcy crossed the room and gave Elizabeth his arm.
It was only as he held out the other for Jane that he spared any thought for the fact she had not spoken a word since coming into the study.
She observed Bingley in silence with an inscrutable expression, though the spots of colour pinking her cheeks might be indicative of some pique.
It was a few heartbeats before she removed her gaze from her husband and, without a word, accepted Darcy’s arm.
It was not his business. On that point, he was painfully clear. With a determined effort to draw no conclusion whatsoever about his new sister’s demeanour, Darcy led the two women from the room.
Saturday 3 October 1812, Hertfordshire
The gentlemen left early for a ride the next morning with the agreement that they would all convene in the dining room to breakfast together at ten.
Thus, Elizabeth descended the stairs alone.
Her feelings were so different from the last time she trod the same path that she could not help but smile.
It had been the last morning of her stay to nurse Jane to health, almost a year ago, and she had never been so eager to leave behind a place or a certain person.
Presently, she begrudged every moment apart from him.
That her relationship with Jane had soured to a similar point of acrimony as hers and Darcy’s at its worst pained her deeply.
They had not explicitly argued at Pemberley, but neither had they properly recovered from their quarrel in London, and the new coldness in Jane’s manner continued to dissuade Elizabeth from sharing her happy news.
She had come here without expectation of a revival of intimacy, only the desire for matters to deteriorate no further, which was the sum of what she had thus far achieved.
A footman opened the door as she approached the breakfast room, revealing her husband already seated at the table.
He stood immediately upon seeing her, giving an almost imperceptible shake of his head.
She slowed to a halt and waited while he disappeared from view around the table, then appeared again in the door, striding towards her.
“Whatever is the matter?”
“Eggs,” he replied in a low voice.
“Oh! Yes, that might have proved embarrassing. Though everybody will just as soon think you are unwell now. What reason did you give for leaving so abruptly?”
Much to her amusement, he looked somewhat confused by her enquiry.
“I am not in the habit of explaining myself to people.”
She bit back a smile. That was precisely the sort of behaviour she had previously considered proud and uncivil, but in light of his generous motivations, she had not the heart to point it out to him.
“Well, I am very grateful to you, Fitzwilliam, but your forethought does not solve the problem of my being hungry.”
“Which is why I brought you these.” He presented her with a napkin containing two buttered muffins. “Would you care for an impromptu picnic?”
She nodded eagerly, and they continued on, arm in arm, towards the front of the house but got no farther than the study before their progress was interrupted.
The door was torn open and through it swept Jane in a terrible agitation of spirits.
She almost ran directly into them, let out an enfeebled cry and staggered backwards.
She would have fallen had Darcy not caught her and helped her into a nearby chair.
“Jane!” Elizabeth cried, kneeling before her.
“Shall I fetch Bingley?” Darcy enquired.
“Yes, quickly!”
“No!” Jane’s protest was firmer than Elizabeth’s plea. Darcy hesitated.
Elizabeth tried again. “Jane, you are ill. Pray, let us summon him.”
“No! There is nothing the matter with me, Lizzy.” Her assertion was greatly discredited by her pallid complexion and trembling hands. Elizabeth reached for one, only for Jane to snatch it away, insisting, “You surprised me, nothing more.”
Elizabeth acquiesced with a sigh and stood up. Jane did likewise, brushing non-existent creases from her skirts before excusing herself and disappearing up the stairs.
“What was that about?” Elizabeth whispered.
“I am the last person likely to know.” Darcy turned back to the front door, placing his hand upon her back and gently directing her thither. “Mayhap, she is also with child.”
Elizabeth whipped her gaze to his. “That might be it! She was very pale. And faint.” For a moment, she was wounded that Jane would not confide such a thing to her, but feeling the hypocrisy of her grievance, she soon set it aside.
“I should like it to be true,” she said once they were in the garden.
“It might bring us closer again to have children so near in age.”
Darcy said nothing but gave her a sympathetic look and squeezed her arm. Nothing more was said until they came upon the avenue dissecting Netherfield’s gardens, and Elizabeth’s spirits rose once more. “We walked here last autumn. Do you recall?”
“Vividly,” he replied. “You ran away.”
“Such appalling manners.”
“Better you than either of Bingley’s sisters.”