Chapter 11
Elizabeth’s breath caught. For a long, stunned moment, she could not speak—could not move.
Jane bowed her head into her hands once more, and the room filled with the quiet, wrenching sound of her weeping.
Fortunately, this allowed Elizabeth time to gather her composure and remember that she was supposedly not hearing this for the first time. She moved up to sit near Jane on the bed and began to rub her back soothingly.
“It is alright,” she said hoarsely. “You are not alone.”
Jane shook her head miserably. “You do not understand. You cannot understand.”
“Tell me, then.”
“It began at Netherfield,” Jane whispered at last, her voice thick with shame.
“After I fell ill and remained to recover. He was so attentive… so kind. Not just in company, but in private. And after a few days, he… he began to speak of marriage. Not formally, you see, but in the gentlest ways… of gardens and furniture and London seasons.”
Elizabeth’s heart ached. So much like the man she had seen with her own eyes—charming, soft-spoken, sincere in all appearances. A man who once needed Darcy to steady him toward honor.
“I believed him,” Jane went on, her voice breaking. “I wanted to believe him. And one evening… he came to my room. To check on me, he said.”
Elizabeth looked down, trying to maintain the calm of someone who already knew this—but it was harder than she expected. Her hands clenched in her skirts.
“It was foolish. I know it now. I should not have let him in. But at the time—it felt like a promise. A future. I did not even realize what was happening until it was over.”
Blushing slightly, Elizabeth did her best to remember that in this world, she was a married woman and not an innocent maiden.
“I had no reason to think—” Jane’s breath hitched.
“Two weeks later, I began to feel ill again. My courses did not come. I thought it might be stress, or lingering effects of my cold. But then the ball came, and I could feel it—something was changing. I told him that night. I pulled him aside and said the words as quietly as I could.”
Elizabeth’s eyes stung.
“He looked… surprised. Frightened. Almost angry. He said we would speak more the next day. But there was no next day. He was gone. The whole house was gone. No word. No letter. Nothing.”
Clenching her fists, Elizabeth seethed with anger. How dare he! How could he trifle with my sister and disappear without so much as a word?
“And then,” Jane whispered, “I heard that Lizzy had rejected Mr. Collins. And I thought, if I married him, it would protect us. My shame could be hidden under the guise of a marriage. But then—” She gave a shaky breath. “Lizzy convinced me otherwise.”
“Why?” Elizabeth asked, even though she already knew.
“Because she thought Mr. Bingley would return.” Jane’s voice cracked.
“She… she thought if I got engaged to Mr. Collins, I would be trapped—and if Mr. Bingley returned, it would be too late. The worst thing, she said, would be for Mr. Bingley to come back to Netherfield and me be unable to accept him.”
“So she sacrificed herself.”
Jane gave a miserable nod. “She was so certain, and I believed her. I wanted to believe her. So, I let her marry him, let her sacrifice herself. She told Mr. Collins she had changed her mind.”
“And you agreed to this.”
Jane looked up at Elizabeth with eyes full of shame. “I did not have the heart to stop her. I did not truly believe Mr. Bingley would return, but I desperately wanted it to be true. He promised to be back by Christmas, but the day after the wedding, I received a letter from Caroline Bingley.”
“Oh? What did she have to say?”
“She said that they were quite happy in London, and she listed all of the different parties and events they had planned for the holidays.”
“So, he is not returning.” Elizabeth bit her lip to keep from venting her spleen about faithless lovers and their pernicious sisters. “What is the plan now?”
“Lizzy said for me to go to the Gardiners in a few months. She said she could convince Mr. Collins to do the lying in at their home instead of Hunsford, and she would claim my child as her own. But now she is gone. Her life is ruined, and all because of my selfishness, my weakness.”
Elizabeth drew in a long breath and placed her hand gently over her sister’s. “You were not weak,” she said. “You were frightened. And you were trying to do what you thought was best.”
“I feel so… so dirty,” Jane whispered. “And Lizzy—she walks through the house with Mr. Collins on her arm, and Mama praises her for being dutiful, and all the while she is covering for me. She will never have a chance to find happiness or love.”
“She loves you,” Elizabeth said, her voice thick.
“I do not deserve it,” Jane whispered. “I have ruined her life.”
Elizabeth swallowed against the knot in her throat. “None of this is about what we deserve. It is about what we do next.”
Jane let out a sob, and Elizabeth wrapped her arms around her and held her close. They stayed like that for several moments, silent except for the soft crackle of the fire and the sound of Jane’s quiet, broken breathing.
When Elizabeth finally spoke, her voice was steady again. “Whatever happens next, you will not face it alone.”
Jane only nodded, pressing her face into Elizabeth’s shoulder.
Outside, footsteps passed faintly in the corridor. The house carried on as if nothing had changed.
But Elizabeth knew, without doubt, everything had.
∞∞∞
A few minutes after Elizabeth disappeared with Jane, the housekeeper came to the parlor where Darcy waited.
He gratefully accepted the servant’s garments—a modest but clean pair of trousers and a soft linen shirt, clearly belonging to one of Longbourn’s taller footmen.
His own clothes were handed off to a scullery maid, who promised they would be dried by the kitchen fire.
As he changed in a small side room off the back hall, he was thankful for the relief from damp fabric clinging coldly to his skin.
The fit was not perfect—he lacked a cravat, and the waistcoat hung awkwardly from his shoulders—but it was warm and dry, and he reminded himself that vanity had no place in his current position.
He was not Mr. Darcy of Pemberley, heir to generations of wealth and pride.
He was William Smith, traveler, friend to a country parson’s wife.
When he returned to the front parlor, he found the fire now blazing high and a fresh pot of tea laid out on a tray. A moment later, Mrs. Bennet herself bustled in, cheeks pink with effort and satisfaction.
“There now! Much better, sir, you must feel more like yourself.” She plumped a cushion beside him and poured him a cup of tea without waiting to be asked. “It is a pity we hadn’t a waistcoat that fit you better, but you wear it well, if I may say so.”
Darcy inclined his head. “You are very kind, madam. I am indebted to you for your generosity.”
“Nonsense. I would do no less for any friend of Lizzy’s.
” Her voice warmed on her daughter’s name, and Darcy felt a pang—of gratitude, of shame.
He had once dismissed this woman as foolish, loud, and grasping.
She was still all of those things—but she had also offered him her fire, her food, her finest guest chair, and even the use of her household’s wardrobe, without hesitation.
The front door creaked open. Voices rang out.
“Oh, Mama, it poured! Aunt Philips gave us each a handkerchief to wear like a cap!”
“And Lydia danced in the puddles—Mama, you should have seen it.”
The door burst open and three young women—drenched and full of noise—tumbled into the hall. Mary, Kitty, and Lydia. Darcy had seen them before, of course, in another life. But never quite like this.
“Oh!” Lydia exclaimed, skidding to a halt as she caught sight of him. “Who is that?”
“Lydia!” Mary hissed, but it was too late.
Mrs. Bennet smiled proudly. “This is Mr. William Smith, a friend of Lizzy’s. He and his wife have come all the way from Kent.”
Upon hearing that the handsome stranger was married, the younger two girls lost all interest in him entirely and turned their attention back to their mother.
“Oh, Mama, you simply must come to Meryton tomorrow,” Lydia said, shaking out her damp shawl. “Captain Carter has grown a most dashing mustache, and everyone says it makes him look positively foreign.”
“Lieutenant Denny has a new pair of boots,” Kitty added. “They were a Christmas present from his mother. And there is a new officer—Lieutenant Saunderson. He is very tall. Taller even than—” She glanced back at Darcy, then lost her train of thought.
Lydia giggled. “Denny bowed to me first, even though Mary King was clearly angling for it.”
Darcy said nothing, but he listened closely, brow faintly furrowed. There was no mention of Wickham, and yet the girls’ breathless delight in the society of officers—young men they scarcely knew—was enough to concern him.
Their enthusiasm was not malicious, but it was naive.
Reckless. They tossed around names and flirtations as if they were lace ribbons or sweets.
He wondered how many of those men—Captain Carter, Lieutenant Denny, and this new Saunderson—had ambitions no greater than cards, drink, and dalliances with foolish country girls.
Then, quite suddenly, Lydia spun toward him and asked abruptly, “Are you an officer?”
Darcy blinked, caught off guard. “No, I am not.”
“Shame,” Kitty muttered, flopping back into her chair. “You would look quite fetching in a red coat.”
He felt the tips of his ears begin to burn. “I confess,” Darcy replied, inspiration sparking, “that I am rather glad I never joined the army.”
That got their attention. Kitty leaned forward. “Why?”