Chapter 19
Nineteen
Not long after their arrival at Longbourn, Mr Bingley returned as well, reopening Netherfield with little fanfare.
This time, he came alone, and with no one to interfere, the truth of his affections quickly became apparent.
He and Jane understood one another almost at once, and their engagement was soon announced.
The wedding followed promptly after the reading of the banns—modest, joyful, and everything Jane had ever wished for.
In the midst of these happy events, Lydia created her usual stir.
Elizabeth spoke only briefly with her father about the proposed journey to Brighton, grateful that Mr Wickham’s sudden disappearance spared her the pain of revealing his true character, or Mr Darcy’s involvement.
Mr Bennet, however, had no thought of permitting his youngest to go, and with his decree the matter was settled.
Lydia sulked for a week but soon forgot her disappointment in anticipation of the ball at Netherfield that was promised for the autumn.
Of Mr Darcy, however, Elizabeth heard almost nothing. He wrote to Mr Bingley in early summer, explaining that pressing business had called him back to Pemberley, and though Elizabeth held onto the hope that he might return for the wedding, he did not.
Later, when the Gardiners invited her to accompany them on a tour of the Lakes, Elizabeth surprised even herself by declining.
Their route would take them through Derbyshire, within miles of the place Mr Darcy called home, and though her heart ached at the thought, she could not bear to encounter him unbidden.
He had made his choice; she would not disgrace herself by appearing where she was not wanted.
The days crept by, and the seasons shifted with them.
Spring melted into the golden warmth of summer before giving way to the russet tones of autumn.
Elizabeth filled her hours with easy routines: domestic tasks, long walks, and solitary afternoons with a book in her lap and her thoughts far away.
Yet no matter how she tried to occupy her mind, it too often drifted back to Kent, to Rosings, and to a shaded garden where she could still recall the warmth of a gentle kiss.
She had read Mr Darcy’s letter so often she nearly knew it by heart; at last, she was forced to tuck it away in a drawer, lest it fall to pieces in her hands.
There were moments when she could almost believe he remained with her, as though an echo of his presence were always at her side. She wondered whether he ever thought of her. Whether he remembered any of what they had once shared. Whether he would ever return.
And so it was, on a crisp October morning, that Elizabeth woke to find her thoughts, once again, full of him.
The Meryton assembly was to be held that evening, exactly one year to the day since they had first met, and something in her heart stirred at the symmetry of it.
As if, despite everything, the story between them had not yet reached its end.
However, by the time evening approached, Elizabeth had lost her nerve, vowing not to attend.
What was the point? She was in no humour for dancing, and the thought of sitting mutely along the edge of the assembly room, smiling through insipid conversations, felt like more than her spirits could bear.
She had missed her chance. Whatever future might have existed between her and Mr Darcy was gone, and there was no other gentleman who stirred her heart or imagination.
The sun had already dipped below the horizon, and the chill of the October evening crept through the windowpanes as Elizabeth sat alone in her bedroom, her hands resting idly in her lap.
A fire burned low in the grate, and the looking glass cast back the pale reflection of a face that no longer felt like her own.
From the corridor came girlish shrieks and laughter—Kitty’s sharp exclamations, Lydia’s familiar throaty giggle—interspersed with slamming wardrobe doors and the rustle of petticoats.
Their anticipation reverberated through the house like a celebration from which Elizabeth had quietly excused herself.
She had just turned her gaze back to the window when a faint creak on the stairs broke the stillness, followed by a gentle tap at her chamber door.
“Lizzy?” came a familiar voice.
Elizabeth straightened. “Jane?”
The door opened to reveal her sister, already dressed for the evening’s festivities in a gown of pale green, trimmed with golden threads. Her countenance was brightened by the cold, her hair arranged with care, and in her hand, she carried a small cluster of purple blossoms.
Without waiting for an invitation, Jane crossed the room, setting the flowers on the washstand before coming to sit on the edge of the bed.
Elizabeth’s eyebrows rose. “What are you doing here? Should you not be on your way to the assembly rooms with Mr Bingley?”
Her sister offered a rueful smile. “I would be, if Mary had not sent a note to Netherfield, informing me that you would not be attending. I thought I ought to come and talk some sense into you.”
Elizabeth sighed and looked away. “I know you mean well, but I find I have no heart for society. You go and enjoy yourself for both of us.”
Jane reached for her hand, capturing Elizabeth’s attention. “Lizzy, will you not talk to me? I know something is amiss. You have not been yourself since returning from Kent. I cannot help but wonder… Does this have anything to do with Mr Darcy?”
Elizabeth startled at her sister’s words. “Mr Darcy? Of course not. Why would you think so?”
Jane responded with a small shrug. “Mr Darcy was at Rosings for some weeks in the spring, and Charles told me that you were often in company together. But you have hardly mentioned him, except to repeat his warning about Mr Wickham. And even then, you said very little.”
Elizabeth did not reply. Her gaze dropped, and she gently pulled her hand free before crossing to the window. The garden was already lost in shadows, the glass reflecting only the faint, uncertain outline of her own face.
“Do you ever feel,” she began slowly, “as though our lives are not truly our own? As if we are simply characters in someone else’s story, our choices and futures shaped by the whim of an unseen hand?”
Behind her, Jane chuckled softly. “All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players…”
Elizabeth faced her with a smile, though a trace of melancholy lingered in it. “Yes, something like that. Only…sometimes I feel as if I have lived the same story a thousand times. Some little alteration appears in each retelling, yet the conclusion is always the same.”
Before her sister could reply, Elizabeth gave a low laugh, shaking her head as if to clear it. “You see? I am talking nonsense. Further proof that I am not fit to be in company.”
But Jane only said gently, “I do not think it is nonsense. Perhaps it is simply another way of saying that things always turn out as they should.”
The two sisters were quiet for a moment before Jane, in her sweet, unassuming way, said, “Please, Lizzy, will you not come to the assembly? Just for a little while? I would feel so much happier knowing you were there.”
“I cannot see the point as I have no wish to dance. You are newly married. This is your moment, not mine.”
Jane tilted her head, her voice low but firm. “And what if your moment is waiting, but you are not there to meet it?”
Elizabeth gave her a look—half sceptical, half amused—but said nothing.
Jane, wisely, did not press the matter further. Instead, she stood, crossing to the wardrobe and pulling open the doors before rifling through Elizabeth’s gowns with a practised hand.
“This one,” she said at last, drawing out a pale-yellow muslin. “Do you remember it?”
Elizabeth rose, stepping in her sister’s direction. The fabric caught the candlelight, soft and luminous. “Yes…I wore it to the Netherfield ball.”
“It suits you beautifully,” Jane said, holding it up with a meaningful look.
Elizabeth was quiet for a moment. Then, with a sigh of resignation and the faintest curve of a smile, she answered, “Very well. But if I am miserable, I shall blame you entirely.”
Jane laughed and set to work helping her dress.
Once the gown was fastened, Jane turned to her expectantly. “Shall I do your hair?”
Elizabeth nodded and crossed to a lacquered box, lifting the lid with care.
Inside lay a scattering of keepsakes: pressed flowers, pins, and other small treasures tucked away over the years.
Her fingers hesitated before drawing out a ribbon of lilac silk.
“I wore this that night as well,” she murmured, passing it to her sister.
“It is perfect,” Jane said, taking it with a smile.
Then she turned, glancing at the washstand.
“Oh! I nearly forgot.” She crossed to retrieve the cluster of sweet alyssum she had brought with her.
“I took these from the garden. They are the last of the summer blooms; they will look lovely with the ribbon.”
A quarter of an hour later, Elizabeth sat before the looking glass, her hair arranged with care, the ribbon and blossoms nestled amongst the soft curls.
She studied her reflection, surprised to find her colour heightened, her eyes brighter than they had been in weeks.
A ghost of her old self peered back at her.
Smoothing a hand down the front of her gown, she rose slowly to her feet. Whatever the evening held, she would meet it with her head high and her heart open.