Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
Elizabeth had only just finished unpinning the last of her hair when she heard the soft tap at her chamber door.
The house had settled into its familiar hush—boards creaking as the fires were banked, the sound of doors closing in the family wing, the faintest sigh of wind along the panes.
After the crush and heat of Lucas Lodge, Longbourn felt almost too quiet, though Elizabeth was grateful for the peace after the commotion of the evening.
“Come in,” Elizabeth called, turning toward the mirror as she reached for the tie of her dressing gown.
The door opened, and Jane slipped inside, candle in hand. The warm glow softened her features, making her look even more serene than usual. Still, there was something in her expression—an uncertainty, a restraint—that did not belong to mere fatigue.
“I thought you might still be awake,” Jane said gently.
“I am always awake after an evening at Lucas Lodge,” Elizabeth replied, managing a small smile. “It takes time for my ears to forgive me.”
Jane’s lips curved, but the smile did not fully settle. She set the candle on the dressing table and moved closer, folding her hands in a manner that said she required the familiar act of composure to steady herself.
“May I sit with you a moment?”
“Always.” Elizabeth crossed to the small sofa near the hearth, then paused and added with feigned solemnity, “Unless you have come to scold me for my excessive wit.”
Jane’s eyes warmed. “You were not excessive.”
“That is the kindest insult anyone has ever paid me,” Elizabeth said, and Jane gave a quiet laugh as she sat.
For a moment they were silent, the sort of congenial quiet sisters could share without strain. Elizabeth watched Jane closely. There was a carefulness to her movements tonight, as if she had been weighing something and had not yet decided where it ought to land.
At last Elizabeth spoke, deliberately light. “You were escorted to refreshments by Colonel Fitzwilliam. I confess myself curious.” She lifted her brows. “What is your opinion of Mr. Darcy’s cousin?”
Jane’s blush came quickly, as it always did when she was asked to speak plainly of a gentleman. She looked down at her hands, then back up, choosing her words with care.
“He is…very agreeable,” Jane said. “There is an ease to him that puts one at rest. He speaks as though he truly wishes to know others, rather than merely to impress them. He is attentive without being—without being too much.” She paused, then added softly, “And he has a kind smile.”
Elizabeth’s expression gentled. “High praise from you, who praises everyone.”
Jane laughed under her breath. “That is not fair.”
“It is entirely fair,” Elizabeth said, leaning back. “Continue.”
Jane’s gaze grew thoughtful. “He asked me about Hertfordshire in a way that felt like it mattered. He listened when I spoke. And he was so…unaffected. Most men who have been in company of consequence are either proud of it or anxious to prove they belong to it. Colonel Fitzwilliam seemed neither.”
Elizabeth nodded, pleased despite herself. Colonel Fitzwilliam had certainly charmed half the room within a quarter hour; it was reassuring to hear Jane confirm that the charm was not hollow.
“And yet,” Elizabeth prompted when Jane fell quiet again, “you are hesitating.”
Jane’s fingers tightened slightly in her lap. “Yes.”
Elizabeth waited, resisting the urge to press too quickly. Jane did not speak of discomfort unless it was necessary; her hesitations were never idle.
At last Jane said, very softly, “Mr. Bingley said something to Colonel Fitzwilliam that I did not like.”
Elizabeth’s posture stilled. “What did he say?”
Jane drew in a careful breath. “We were at the refreshment table. The colonel was speaking of the Peninsula—only in the most modest way, I assure you. Mr. Bingley joined us, very cheerful at first. He teased Colonel Fitzwilliam for resigning his commission and said he could not imagine surrendering such a life.”
“That seems harmless enough,” Elizabeth said, though she was already wary.
Jane nodded. “It was, at the beginning. But then Colonel Fitzwilliam remarked—lightly, as he does—that he had endured quite enough of cannon and camps and was now prepared to endure something far more terrifying: drawing rooms.”
Elizabeth could picture it perfectly: the cousin’s easy humor, the gentle self-mockery meant to put everyone at ease. She could also picture Bingley, bright and impulsive, taking the remark in a direction it was never meant to go.
Jane continued, her voice still calm but with a faint tension beneath it.
“Mr. Bingley laughed, but he said…he said that if Colonel Fitzwilliam wished for a battle, he ought to try winning a lady’s attention in Hertfordshire, where every gentleman was already stationed and every mother already armed. ”
Elizabeth’s lips parted slightly. “Oh.”
“And then,” Jane added, and her cheeks flushed—this time not with pleasure but with something closer to embarrassment, “he said that Colonel Fitzwilliam must take care, because in the country, a lady might be led to believe herself admired simply because a gentleman spoke to her twice.”
Elizabeth felt heat flare in her chest. “He said that to Colonel Fitzwilliam? In your hearing?”
Jane’s eyes lowered. “Yes.”
Elizabeth’s mind raced ahead, assembling the scene in swift, sharp strokes: Fitzwilliam’s polite smile tightening, Jane’s unease, Bingley’s eagerness turned defensive. It was not merely unkind; it was possessive in a way Bingley had not earned the right to be.
“He was displeased that the colonel was paying you attention,” Elizabeth said, the conclusion falling into place at once. “He was jealous.”
Jane’s gaze lifted, steady and sincere. “That is what I thought, too.”
“Then it is a sign in your favor,” Elizabeth said, attempting to lighten what she could not wholly soften. “Jealousy is often the first proof of attachment.”
Jane’s expression did not change. “It may be proof of feeling,” she said quietly, “but it does not make his words appropriate.”
Elizabeth held her sister’s gaze and felt her own irritation ease into respect. Jane’s goodness was not weakness; it was principle, and when she chose to stand firm, she did so with a calm that could not be shaken.
“You are right,” Elizabeth admitted. “It was not appropriate.”
Jane’s shoulders relaxed a fraction, as if she had feared Elizabeth might excuse it. “Colonel Fitzwilliam answered very kindly,” she said. “He laughed it away and said he had no wish to take what belonged to another.”
“That was generous of him,” Elizabeth said, though the phrase what belonged to another made her stomach twist. Jane did not belong to anyone.
“Yes,” Jane agreed, then hesitated. “But I did not like that either, Lizzy. Not truly. Mr. Bingley is…very sweet. He is. And I believe he does not mean harm. Yet sweetness cannot excuse everything.”
Elizabeth leaned forward, her voice lowering. “Tell me plainly, Jane. What will you do?”
Jane looked toward the candle flame as if it might offer guidance. “I will do nothing that I ought not,” she said at last. “Mr. Bingley has been attentive, but he has not asked Papa for permission to court me. He has not spoken to me of intentions. He has no claim.”
Elizabeth nodded slowly. “No claim,” she echoed, approving.
Jane’s hands unclasped and then re-clasped, a small sign of the emotion she rarely displayed. “If he wishes to be thought honorable, he must behave honorably. I cannot—Lizzy, I cannot encourage a gentleman to feel entitled to me when he has not done what is proper.”
Elizabeth’s throat tightened with a mingling of pride and concern. “You are wise,” she said. “Wiser than most. But wisdom is not always convenient.”
Jane’s smile was faint. “No.”
Elizabeth reached across the space between them and covered Jane’s hand with her own. “Then let us agree upon something,” she said gently. “Guard your heart until you understand his.”
Jane’s eyes softened, and for a moment, Elizabeth saw the vulnerability Jane so carefully hid—hope, longing, and the fear of being foolish for possessing either.
“I will,” Jane promised.
“And if he is truly good,” Elizabeth added, unable to resist offering what comfort she could, “he will make amends without being asked. He will not need to be taught kindness, because he will already know it.”
Jane squeezed her hand lightly. “I hope so.”
Elizabeth managed a small, wry smile. “If not, I shall be forced to glare at him until he improves.”
That earned a quiet laugh at last, the tension easing from Jane’s face. She rose, smoothing her gown.
“Thank you, Lizzy,” she said softly.
“For what?”
“For saying what I knew you would say,” Jane replied, affection shining in her eyes. “And for reminding me that propriety is not cruelty.”
Elizabeth stood and kissed her sister’s cheek. “It is protection,” she murmured. “For you, most of all.”
Jane nodded, then took up her candle. At the door she paused, looking back with a faint smile that held both sweetness and resolve.
“Good night,” she said.
“Good night,” Elizabeth returned, watching until the door closed.
Only then did Elizabeth let her own thoughts spill free—thoughts of Bingley’s careless jealousy, of Fitzwilliam’s easy courtesy, and of Jane, who deserved devotion without possessiveness.
And, because her mind refused to be governed, thoughts of Mr. Darcy as well—of the way his gaze had found her in the crowd as though by instinct, and how, when he looked at her, the world seemed to steady for one quiet moment.
If only steadiness were enough, she thought, and extinguished the candle.