Chapter Two The Art of Righteous Indignation
It had been nearly a month since the "Netherfield Desertion," as she had mentally christened the event. A month of silence, confusion, and the slow, agonizing breaking of her sister's heart.
The twenty-sixth of November had been the turning point.
The Netherfield ball had been a triumph of awkwardness, certainly, but it had ended with the distinct impression that Mr Bingley was on the verge of a proposal.
He had looked at Jane as if she were the only woman in the universe, a fact Elizabeth had noted with immense satisfaction.
And then, the very next day, he was gone.
Vanished. Whisked away to London with the speed of a man fleeing a plague, leaving behind only a brief, confusing note from his sister.
Caroline Bingley's letter had been a masterpiece of passive-aggressive cruelty.
It had spoken of their eagerness to see Miss Darcy, of the close intimacy between the two families, and of the inevitability of a match between Mr Bingley and Mr Darcy's sister.
It was venom wrapped in expensive stationery, designed to crush Jane's hopes with surgical precision.
And it had worked.
Jane, being an angel clad in muslin, had borne the blow with a quiet, devastating dignity. She refused to speak ill of Bingley. She refused to suspect his sisters of malice. She simply faded, her smile growing strained, her eyes losing their sparkle.
Mrs Bennet, conversely, had not faded. Mrs Bennet had exploded.
For two weeks, Longbourn had been a theatre of war, with Mrs Bennet playing the role of the tragic victim.
She had wailed about the cruelty of men, the impending destitution of her daughters, and the specific malice of the universe in denying her a wedding.
She had lamented the loss of Netherfield until the very wallpaper seemed to peel in protest.
It is a mercy we are here, Elizabeth thought, watching her sister stare out of the window of her uncle's house in Gracechurch Street. If I had heard Mama exclaim 'But he danced with her twice!' one more time, I might have committed matricide.
The invitation from the Gardiners had been a lifeline.
Her aunt Madeline—sensible, elegant, and possessed of the kind of emotional intelligence that seemed to have avoided Mrs Bennet entirely—had seen the lay of the land immediately.
A letter had arrived, inviting the two eldest Bennet sisters to spend Christmas in Cheapside, away from the scene of the crime.
They had arrived on the fifteenth of December.
Cheapside was bustling, loud, and supposedly "unfashionable" by the standards of the West End ton, but to Elizabeth, it was paradise.
Here, in the warm, well-appointed home of Edward and Madeline Gardiner, there were no entailed estates, no hysterical mothers, and no memories of Mr Darcy's haughty disdain or Mr Bingley's spineless departure.
Or so she had hoped.
"Lizzy?"
Elizabeth turned from her brooding to see her aunt standing in the doorway of the parlour. Madeline Gardiner was a handsome woman, dressed in a morning gown of practical dark wool that did not hide her natural elegance.
"You are scowling at the embroidery hoop again," Mrs Gardiner noted with a wry smile. "I fear for the safety of the fabric."
"I was merely thinking, Aunt."
"A dangerous pastime. Jane is ready. Are you sure you wish to venture out? The weather is grey, and the wind is sharp."
"I would walk through a hurricane if it meant distracting Jane for an hour," Elizabeth declared, setting down her hoop. "Besides, I need fresh air. I find my levels of cynicism are reaching critical mass, and I require a change of scenery to disperse them."
"Very well. The carriage is ready to take us to Bond Street, but I thought we might walk a little if the rain holds off. Henry and Alice wanted to come, but I have left them with the nurse. Ruth is currently trying to eat a wooden doll, so she is occupied."
Elizabeth smiled, the first genuine expression she had worn all morning.
Her uncle, Edward Gardiner, was a man of trade—a warehouse owner who worked hard and loved his family fiercely.
His children—Henry eight, Alice six, and little Ruth five—were boisterous, happy creatures who had no idea that society deemed them lesser because their father worked for a living.
"Let us go," Elizabeth said, fastening her cloak with determination. "Let us show London that the Bennet sisters are not defeated. We are merely regrouping."
Not much later, they descended the carriage, and Elizabeth looked around.
The West End of London was a different world from Cheapside.
If Cheapside was the engine room of the city, the West End was the showroom—polished, expensive, and filled with people who looked as though they had never lifted anything heavier than a teaspoon.
Elizabeth walked arm-in-arm with Jane, Mrs Gardiner flanking them on the other side.
They made a striking trio, despite their lack of a carriage crest or a retinue of footmen.
Jane, even in her heartbreak, was breathtaking.
Her pale complexion was set off by a bonnet of deep blue velvet, and her height gave her a natural grace that turned heads as they walked.
But Elizabeth felt the tension in her sister's arm. Jane was performing happiness. She was smiling at the shop windows, admiring the ribbons in a milliner's display, and making polite conversation about the Christmas decorations, but her eyes were hollow.
"Look at that silk, Lizzy," Jane said, pointing to a bolt of fabric in a window on Bond Street. "Would that not make a lovely sash for Lydia?"
"Lydia does not need more sashes," Elizabeth replied, a little too sharply. "She needs a book on decorum and a muzzle."
"Lizzy," Jane chided gently.
"I am sorry. The cold makes me uncharitable."
"The cold or the company?" Mrs Gardiner asked shrewdly.
"The general state of the male species," Elizabeth corrected. "I have decided that men are, as a collective, a disappointment. They are either pompous, arrogant statues like Mr Darcy, or easily led weather-vanes like Mr Bingley."
"You are hard on them," Mrs Gardiner observed, steering them around a puddle. "Mr Darcy was difficult, I admit. From your letters, he sounds quite dreadful. But are you certain Mr Bingley is not merely detained by business?"
"For a month? With no word? While his sister writes poison?
" Elizabeth shook her head. "No, Aunt. He has been persuaded away.
He has allowed his sisters and his friend to think for him.
It is the only explanation that does not involve him being kidnapped by pirates, and I suspect pirates would have returned him by now for being too agreeable. "
They turned onto Piccadilly. The crowds here were thicker, a mix of frantic Christmas shoppers, street vendors selling roasted chestnuts, and carriages vying for space on the cobblestones. The noise was overwhelming, a cacophony of wheels, hooves, and shouting voices.
Elizabeth felt a headache beginning to bloom behind her eyes.
She wanted to scream. She wanted to march into the exclusive clubs of St. James's, find Charles Bingley, and shake him until his teeth rattled.
She wanted to find Fitzwilliam Darcy and.
.. well, she wasn't sure what she wanted to do to him, but it involved a great deal of shouting and stepping on his immaculately polished boots.
"Jane looks pale," she whispered to her aunt.
"She is tired," Mrs Gardiner agreed. "We should find somewhere to rest soon. Or somewhere quieter."
"Hatchards," Elizabeth said suddenly, spotting the green frontage of the famous bookstore ahead. "Let us go there. It will be warm, it will smell of paper, and there are no ribbons to remind us of who we are not dancing with."
Jane smiled, a small, grateful thing. "A bookstore sounds lovely, Lizzy. You always find peace among books."
"I find peace in worlds where people make sense," Elizabeth muttered. "Reality is proving to be poorly written."
They navigated towards the shop. The pavement was crowded, forcing them to break their line. Mrs Gardiner stepped ahead, Jane fell back slightly, and Elizabeth took the rear guard, glaring at a gentleman who looked like he was about to shove past them.
"Just a little further," Elizabeth called to Jane. "Then we can hide behind a stack of encyclopaedias and pretend the rest of London does not exist."
It was a solid plan. It was a sensible plan.
Naturally, the universe—which had clearly taken a personal vendetta against the Bennet family this winter—decided to intervene.
The pavement outside Hatchards was a chaotic ecosystem of its own. Gentlemen stood in clusters smoking cigars, ladies adjusted their parcels, and street urchins darted between legs like minnows.
Just as the Bennet party approached the entrance, the door of the shop swung open, and a group of young men spilled out.
They were clearly of the "more money than sense" variety—young lords in high collars and loud waistcoats, laughing uproariously at some private joke.
They occupied the pavement with the arrogance of those who have never had to step aside for anyone in their lives.
"Mind your backs!" one of them shouted, shoving another playfully.
Jane, who was closest to the door, reacted with instinctive politeness. She stepped back to give them room, moving backward without looking.
"Jane, watch out!" Elizabeth called, but her warning was swallowed by the noise of a passing carriage.
Jane took another step back, her heel catching on an uneven cobblestone. She stumbled, her arms flailing for purchase on air. She was falling, spinning slightly, heading straight for a group of people who had just exited the shop and were standing by the window.
Elizabeth lunged forward, but she was too far away. She watched in slow motion as her sister, the most graceful woman in Hertfordshire, plummeted backward.
But she did not hit the ground.