Chapter 13 Contemplations
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CONTEMPLATIONS
Darcy and Elizabeth were unable to meet over the next several days, for not long after the Netherfield party departed that afternoon, a steady rain set in, turning the lanes to deep ruts of mud and casting a damp gloom over the house.
The skies seemed determined to keep her in place, she thought wryly. Walking was quite inadvisable.
Much to the younger girls’ dismay, the weather not only prevented them from venturing into Meryton to purchase new shoe roses for the ball but, far more grievously, deprived them of the latest morsels of village gossip—an affliction they declared almost worse than the damp itself.
“I daresay my slippers will look entirely plain without new roses,” Lydia cried one morning, pressing her nose to the rain-streaked window after being told yet again that she might not take the carriage into Meryton to shop.
“What is a ball without new ribbons for our dresses?” Kitty added dejectedly. She pretended not to notice the basket of ribbons and lace at her feet, fussing instead with the gown she meant to wear, wishing aloud for something “more fashionable.”
Elizabeth could not help but be amused at their outrage over such trifles. That her sisters should lament the loss of new trimmings while her own thoughts were wholly absorbed by far weightier matters struck her as particularly absurd.
She bent over her sewing, her needle suspended mid-air as her sisters’ chatter swirled around her. A faint smile touched her lips. If only the rain would cease, she mused, and he were to call again.
The memory of his lips brushing her hand during one of their morning walks sent a shiver through her, delicate yet undeniable.
She could still recall the warmth in his eyes, the softened tone of his voice, the quiet intensity that seemed to linger long after he had gone.
It stirred something within her she could neither name nor deny.
How strange that she—who had once thought him proud and insufferable—should now await his company with such impatience.
The thought amused her, and before she could stop herself, a small laugh escaped.
She caught it at once, disguising the sound with a light cough, just as Lydia began lamenting her want of new ribbons.
Still, the weather did not prevent small bits of gossip from finding their way to Longbourn.
A shopkeeper had told one of the Longbourn servants that the militia was no longer permitted credit at the village shops after a general warning from their colonel.
There was even a rumour that one of the newer officers had been confined to quarters for reasons no one would fully explain to the youngest Bennets—who were, of course, the most eager to know.
“What could the man have possibly done to deserve such a punishment?” Lydia demanded, eyes wide with delight at the mystery.
“Something scandalous, I am sure,” Kitty said, her tone half thrill, half horror. “Do you suppose that whoever he is, he will still be permitted to attend the ball?”
“I should hope so,” Lydia declared. “I mean to dance with all the officers at the ball and discover the truth myself. Surely it cannot be so very bad.”
Elizabeth exchanged an amused glance with Jane. “I believe, my dear sisters,” she said lightly, “that the truth of his offence will not be half so entertaining as you imagine. Nor is it likely that this officer, whoever he is, will attend the ball if he is confined to quarters.”
The remark drew a laugh and a protest, and while Jane did not seem to react, when Elizabeth looked again, she thought her sister’s smile a little forced. Perhaps the rain was dampening more spirits than hers.
Mr Collins, meanwhile, professed himself most disturbed by such talk and repeatedly urged his youngest cousins to refrain from speculation and gossip. His admonitions fell upon deaf ears and served only to display his own solemn absurdity.
Elizabeth had grown almost tolerant of his self-importance, in the way one might pity a peacock for believing its strut impressive.
At least he appeared to have accepted—if somewhat belatedly—that none of his cousins harboured the slightest wish to become his wife.
Still, he continued to divide his awkward attentions between Jane, Elizabeth, and Mary by turns, to the discomfort of them all.
As the rain persisted, the days settled into a dull routine of reading, needlework, and half-hearted attempts at conversation.
Elizabeth noticed that Jane was quieter than usual.
Her sister’s gentle composure was unchanged, but her eyes often strayed towards the window, her sewing idle in her lap.
Once or twice, Elizabeth caught her watching her with an expression she could not easily interpret—thoughtful, almost anxious.
At last, after several days of confinement indoors, Jane spoke.
“I have never seen you so content to remain indoors, Lizzy,” she said, her tone mild but edged with something Elizabeth could not quite place.
“You are happier these days than I have ever seen you, dearest sister. Have you some secret to share? I could not help but notice how very near you have been to Mr Darcy since our stay at Netherfield Park. I know you no longer hate him, but I cannot imagine that either of you would wish for a greater connexion between you.”
Elizabeth’s hand stilled above her embroidery frame, the thread slipping through her fingers.
“I attempted to tell you of his apology and my changing opinion when we were there,” she said quietly.
While she kept her tone even, a trace of hurt coloured her words as she recalled that morning in the passage at Netherfield.
“You warned me against ‘toying’ with Mr Bingley’s friend, and I supposed you would not wish to hear anything I might share after that. ”
Jane’s colour rose, and she turned away, smoothing the folds of her gown with unnecessary care. “Then I daresay you were right, Lizzy. Perhaps it was not my place to caution you. Still, I would have you be careful. What do we truly know of any of these newcomers to Meryton?”
Her words were mild enough, yet her tone lacked its usual warmth.
Elizabeth frowned slightly, puzzled. “We know only what they have shown us through their behaviour,” she replied.
“If you are still thinking of what Mr Wickham said to you at Aunt Philips’s home, I can assure you it was false.
I have heard the truth of it from Mr Darcy himself—”
“Of course, Lizzy,” Jane returned, cutting her sister off with a slash of her hand. Her voice was tight as she bit out, “You always know best.”
Startled, Elizabeth looked at her in dismay. “Jane, I never meant—”
“You need not explain,” Jane interrupted gently, avoiding her sister’s eyes. “I am glad you are happy.”
With that, she turned and left the room, her skirts whispering sharply against the floorboards.
Elizabeth remained seated in thoughtful silence, her gaze falling to the abandoned needlework in her lap.
Jane’s sudden coolness unsettled her; she could not think what she had said to deserve it.
After several moments she sighed, set her work aside, and reached for a book.
The words on the page blurred almost at once.
Her thoughts drifted—first towards her sister, and then, unbidden, to Mr Darcy.
The sound of the rain against the window seemed softer now, almost rhythmic, and though she smiled faintly at the thought of seeing him again at the ball, a quiet unease lingered at the edge of her mind.
Upstairs, Jane closed the door of her chamber and leant against it, pressing a hand to her breast as if to still the ache there.
The muffled sound of rain against the window seemed to echo the quick rhythm of her heart.
I ought to rejoice for her, she told herself miserably.
If Mr Darcy is true in his regard, and her new joy means what I think it does, then I should be happy—she is my dearest sister.
I know she would never begrudge me happiness of my own.
Why must it come so easily to her while my own hopes falter?
Everything has always come easily to Lizzy.
Everyone in the neighbourhood admires her for her wit and liveliness.
“Even I do,” she muttered aloud, with a pang of guilt in her heart.
But perhaps that same liveliness gives her an advantage I cannot match.
Lizzy never hesitates to speak her mind; she can tease and challenge without fear while I must always guard my words for fear of seeming forward. How can I compete with such ease?
She crossed to the window and drew aside the curtain. The garden below was slick with rain, the bare branches trembling beneath the wind’s touch. Mr Bingley admires me—I cannot doubt that. But his admiration had not included a promise of anything more, nor had he spoken any words of love.
Her reflection in the glass looked pale and uncertain.
He has given no hint of desiring a courtship, no hint of anything deeper.
What if I have misread his kindness? What if he withdraws altogether and leaves me behind?
He has been all smiles and pleasant words, but perhaps that is simply his nature.
Perhaps he behaves with equal warmth to everyone.
What if Miss Bingley is right—and I have mistaken his good manners for affection?
Her throat tightened, and she pressed her forehead against the cold pane.
Mama had always called her the most beautiful—the one most likely to secure a good match—and yet it was Lizzy, lively, impertinent Lizzy, who now seemed to hold the regard of Mr Darcy, a man of sense and consequence.
He had disdained her when he had first entered their local society, and now he could scarcely look at anyone else.
Lizzy’s certainty in his regard, her quiet confidence—it was so unlike Jane’s own anxious fretting.
How unfair that her sister, who once despised the man, should now be so sure while she herself was left in doubt, clinging to glances and half-spoken phrases.
At their first meeting, he had declared Lizzy tolerable and not even handsome enough to dance with. How could such a change be real? Could something truly be developing between them, or had Lizzy mistaken courtesy for tenderness as Jane feared she herself might have done with Mr Bingley?
Jane turned from the window and sat upon the edge of her bed, the argument still fresh in her mind.
She could hear her own voice, sharper than she had meant it to be: “You are happier these days than I have ever seen you, dearest sister. Have you some secret to share?” She had not intended the question as a reproach, yet Lizzy’s answer had stung nonetheless.
“You warned me against ‘toying’ with Mr Bingley’s friend, and I supposed you would not wish to hear anything I might share after that. ”
The words replayed in her memory, soft but wounding. Elizabeth’s tone had not been unkind, only tinged with disappointment—and that, somehow, had made it worse. I did warn her, Jane thought, but only because I fear for her, not because I begrudged her happiness.
Still, she could not deny the faint jealousy that had prickled when she saw the light in her sister’s eyes at the mention of Darcy’s name.
It was obvious something had happened between them and that Lizzy no longer hated him, but her sister’s reluctance to say anything more worried her.
Perhaps Lizzy withheld the truth out of protectiveness—or perhaps she feared Jane would not understand.
The thought pained her. How strange, that distance should grow between them now when she needed Lizzy’s counsel most.
Ashamed, Jane buried her face in her hands.
It is wrong to feel this way, she told herself.
I love her too dearly to resent her joy.
Try as she might, she could not banish the thought that Lizzy’s confidence in Mr Darcy was misplaced.
She will not hear reason about Mr Wickham.
I know what he told me at my aunt and uncle Philips’ home; there was truth in his voice.
Mr Darcy cannot be the man she believes him to be.
She is bewitched—blind to the danger—and I must protect her, even if she resents me for it.
Rising, Jane began to pace the room, her hands twisting together.
The Netherfield ball will show me more about all the gentlemen, she resolved.
If I watch closely, I will see whether Mr Darcy is truly the honourable gentleman she thinks him to be—or if Mr Wickham’s account reveals the man more truly.
Perhaps then I shall learn whether Mr Bingley’s heart is indeed engaged—or whether my own hopes have been built upon nothing more than a smile.
Jane felt the sharp pang of envy towards her sister—but it was joined now by something deeper, more painful: fear for Lizzy’s heart, and a desperate wish that her own might not be broken first. The discovery wounded her almost as much as the envy itself.