Chapter 16 #2
“Jane, Mr Darcy spoke to Papa several days ago about courting me,” Elizabeth said quietly. “I have not told anyone, for I did not wish Mama to boast of our connexion before anything was settled.”
Jane’s eyes widened, her voice rising despite herself. “You agreed—and are now courting Mr Darcy?”
“You are courting Mr Darcy?” Mrs Bennet shrieked from the doorway. Neither girl was aware that she had returned to the room, and both were shocked at her outburst.
“Oh, heavens above—we are saved! But why only a courtship, Lizzy? Why did you not press him to propose at the ball? A courtship is not enough; he may still change his mind.” She wrung her hands, already planning aloud.
“You must have new gowns before he returns! Then he will be compelled to offer for you. I shall have two daughters married before the year is out! For if Mr Darcy marries Lizzy, then surely Mr Bingley will follow his friend into matrimony. Oh, Jane, I knew you could not be so beautiful for nothing!”
Elizabeth coloured at her mother’s exclamations but could not bring herself to reply—not just yet. She had been nearly ready to confide the truth, but not in this way, and certainly not overheard by accident. Her only comfort was that Mr Darcy was not present to hear such unguarded outbursts.
The thought of how he must one day endure her mother’s raptures made her cheeks burn all the more.
She lowered her gaze to her work, hoping to disguise her embarrassment.
Glancing towards Jane, she saw her sister sitting very still, her hands folded too tightly in her lap.
Jane smiled faintly for their mother’s sake, but there was a strained, distant air about her—as though her thoughts were elsewhere entirely.
Elizabeth’s brow furrowed. Surely she is only unsettled by Mama’s excitement and the leap from my courtship to her marrying Mr Bingley, she reasoned, or perhaps by the awkwardness of the moment.
Yet something in Jane’s expression—a flicker of uncertainty, quickly smoothed away—made her uneasy. Elizabeth’s heart sank a little.
She had imagined sharing her happiness with her sister, not meeting hesitation in her eyes.
Perhaps it was nothing more than wistfulness—after all, Mr Bingley had yet to speak with Jane in any decided manner, and Miss Bingley’s letter had left her spirits low.
That must be it. Once Mr Bingley returned as he promised, coming early the next week along with Mr Darcy, Jane would smile as she always did, open and serene.
“Mama, there is little point in my having new gowns now,” Elizabeth said, striving to redirect her mother’s enthusiasm. “He has seen me in my present gowns and still wishes to court me. Besides, there is not time enough to have one made before his return on Monday.”
This checked Mrs Bennet only for a moment before she bustled from the room without another word to either of her daughters, muttering to herself about trimmings and lace—doubtless to petition Mr Bennet for funds.
Elizabeth sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose, already dreading the inevitable quarrel when her mother insisted upon finery she neither wanted nor required.
When she looked back at Jane, her sister’s composure had not quite returned.
“Jane, are you well?” Elizabeth asked softly.
“This is why I wished to keep my understanding with Mr Darcy quiet—particularly from Mama. I did not want anyone to feel obliged to lie on my behalf. You will forgive me for the secrecy, will you not? It was not meanly done, and I did try to speak to you.” She felt a little defensive, not understanding why her sister was not happy for her and knowing that had the shoe been on the other foot, she would have been delighted for Jane.
Jane hesitated, her fingers tightening in her lap. For a heartbeat, she looked as if she meant to say nothing at all. Then her composure slipped, and her words escaped with a force Elizabeth had never heard from her before.
“Why? When you arrived at Netherfield you despised Mr Darcy. How has your opinion altered so quickly—and how have you persuaded him to court you, while Mr Bingley has yet to declare his intentions to me? Are you certain that he is not merely toying with you? How can you be so certain that he will return like he said?”
The sharpness of the question struck Elizabeth like a slap. It was unlike her sister’s normal behaviour and words, and the contrast—gentle, reasonable Jane speaking with such unaccustomed sharpness—startled her. There was pain in her voice, and Elizabeth felt it pierce her own heart.
“I cannot say what makes the two gentlemen differ,” she returned, her voice a shade sharper than she intended, “but Mr Darcy is several years older, with the management of his estate and the care of a much younger sister entrusted to him since he was scarcely past his majority. Mr Bingley, by contrast, is but three or four and twenty—used to flitting from one house party to another and only just beginning to think of purchasing an estate or settling down. Perhaps he needs more time to consider the matter before taking such a step.”
Elizabeth felt the colour rise again in her cheeks.
Why could Jane not be happy for her? Why did she persist in believing that Elizabeth had been deceived?
That Mr Darcy was above her in society she could not deny, but he had assured her of his sincerity—confessing, even, the struggle he had faced in setting aside his family’s expectations and his own fears for how their possible connexion could affect his sister.
She needed no reminder of their disparity—least of all from Jane. No, from Jane she had expected support, had expected that she would help her set aside those differences, that she would bolster Elizabeth’s confidence.
The silence that followed was thick and close, broken only by the faint ticking of the mantel clock.
At last, Jane’s hands unclenched, and she reached for Elizabeth’s.
Her voice was soft again, hesitant. “Forgive me, Lizzy. I spoke more sharply than I ought. It is only that I… I fear for you. If I sound doubtful, it is not because I wish you unhappy, but because I long to see you safe. I have heard such contradictory reports that I scarcely know what to believe.”
Elizabeth’s heart softened at her sister’s gentle apology, yet the sting of doubt would not fade. Safe. The word clung to her. Had she not always been the one to look after Jane? To see her now assuming the role of protector felt strangely disquieting.
Whatever notions her relations might harbour, Elizabeth knew her own mind.
She was satisfied with her choice, certain of her suitor, and she would not permit her mother’s exclamations—or even Jane’s uncharacteristic doubts—to tarnish what she had found.
Her happiness was her own, and she meant to hold it fast.
Just then, Mrs Bennet bustled back into the room, Mr Bennet trailing behind her with the air of a man already regretting his compliance.
“Tell her, Mr Bennet—tell her that she must have new gowns!” Mrs Bennet cried.
“If she prefers to think of them as her trousseau, so be it—but she must make a better show when Mr Darcy returns. She must secure him as soon as possible, before Lizzy shows him what a wild, disagreeable, disobedient girl she can be.”
She paused, turned towards her daughter, and added with great insistence, “Lizzy, when he returns, you must take care to emulate Jane if you wish to keep his attention. Once the wedding contracts are signed, he cannot back out, but for now, this is still merely a courtship and you must show yourself at your best.”
Elizabeth’s cheeks flamed at the cruelty of her mother’s words.
She was used to her mother’s sharp tongue, but this was too much.
The familiar ache of humiliation prickled at the back of her throat.
She pressed her lips together, refusing to let her voice tremble.
The only good thing about this moment was that Mr Darcy was not present to hear it.
Inwardly, a fierce defiance rose. I will not alter myself to win his regard—nor do I need to. He had already seen her as she was, faults and all, and still he had chosen her. That, she thought with quiet pride, was worth more than any lace or silks her mother might demand.
“Well, Mrs Bennet,” her husband said at last, his tone dry as ever, “if Lizzy’s wildness has not frightened Mr Darcy off already, I doubt a lack of lace will do the trick.” He sank into his chair and reached for his book. “If Mr Darcy survives this household, he is welcome to her.”
Elizabeth closed her eyes briefly, fighting the urge to groan.
How easily her father dismissed her mother’s cruelty—as though it were no more than a jest!
Could he not speak one word in her defence?
He had tried to dissuade her from the courtship before; now, his indifference stung more than opposition.
She looked at Jane, hoping for a smile or a reassuring glance, but her sister’s eyes were downcast. Even she doubts me now. For the first time in her life, Elizabeth felt she could not depend upon a single member of her family to stand beside her.
Her fingers tightened around the fabric in her lap.
How she longed for Mr Darcy’s return! The thought of leaving Longbourn, which had once seemed bittersweet, now felt like deliverance.
If she needed any further reason to accept Mr Darcy’s proposal — beyond the deep and growing feelings he had already inspired — it was surely the desire to quit this house and all its noise.
As soon as she could do so without remark, she escaped the room, seeking solitude. Thinking the music room would be empty, she slipped inside, grateful for even a few moments of peace. The faint scent of polish and paper lingered in the air, and for an instant she allowed herself to breathe.
But she was not alone.
Mary sat at the pianoforte, her posture straight, her fingers resting idly upon the keys. Elizabeth nearly withdrew at once, unwilling to impose, but Mary lifted a hand to stop her.
“Come and sit with me a moment,” Mary said quietly, keeping her voice low so that they would not be overheard. She rose from the pianoforte and moved to the settee.
After only a brief hesitation, Elizabeth obeyed, taking a seat beside her sister on the settee. “Yes, Mary,” she said at last, attempting a composure she did not entirely feel.
“So, Mama knows of your courtship now,” Mary observed, a faint, knowing smile tugging at her lips.
Elizabeth let out a breath that was half a laugh.
“The entire household doubtlessly knows by now, and of course Mama is not satisfied with only a courtship.” Her tone turned wry.
“I must learn to behave more like Jane when Mr Darcy returns, lest he abandon me. That is—if he returns at all, since according to Jane, he may only be toying with my emotions.”
She sighed. “Oh, Mary, it is all such a muddle. I would hardly blame Mr Darcy if he decided not to return, particularly after how our family behaved at the ball.”
“They were not so bad,” Mary said mildly.
Elizabeth gave a low, incredulous laugh.
“Perhaps Lydia did not run about waving an officer’s sword, and perhaps my two youngest sisters did not drink more than they ought nor flirt with every red coat present.
Perhaps my mother did not drink too much herself and spend the evening speculating on the prospect of Mr Bingley marrying Jane — or Mr Collins marrying one of her other daughters!
” She shook her head. “No, Mary, it was mortifying. I do not know how Mr Darcy bore it.”
“Very well,” Mary conceded with a small sigh. “It was dreadful. But I do not believe Mr Darcy saw half of what you fear. You said yourself he appeared quite taken with you, and he did promise to return. Do you doubt his word?”
Elizabeth slumped against the back of the settee, propriety forgotten.
“No, I trust him. I truly do. But I cannot help doubting whether he will wish to connect himself with my family once he remembers the reality of us all.” Her voice softened.
“If only I could escape to London, meet him there, and be married quietly—without Mama’s exclamations echoing in his ears. ”
Mary reached over and laid a tentative hand upon her sister’s shoulder. “Then you are decided in his favour?”
Elizabeth looked up, her expression unguarded.
“Oh, Mary… yes. Entirely. He is a wonderful man. I still can hardly believe he would wish to court a mere country miss — one with no fortune, no dowry to speak of, and relations in trade. Still he does. That he should overlook it all, and still—still care for me—” She broke off, shaking her head with something like wonder.
Mary gave a small, rare smile. “Then you must believe him. He has chosen you, and you have said he is decided in your favour. I should think that ought to be comfort enough.”
Elizabeth’s throat tightened unexpectedly.
She turned to look at her sister fully, seeing for once not the moralising young woman who quoted sermons at supper, but the quiet, steady soul beneath — one who sought to soothe rather than correct.
“Thank you, Mary,” she said softly. “You always see things more plainly than the rest of us realise.”
Mary looked faintly startled by the praise but did not contradict it. “Perhaps,” she murmured. “I think, in this case, it is you who sees most clearly of all.”
Elizabeth smiled, small but genuine. “I hope so.”
For the first time since his departure, a feeling of peace settled over her. The firelight caught the sheen of the pianoforte keys, and she thought of Mr Darcy’s hands, strong and certain, resting upon hers as he had vowed to return.
She believed him. Truly, she did.