Chapter 24 Machinations Revealed
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
MACHINATIONS REVEALED
The house was in delightful chaos. Lydia’s laughter rang through the hall, Kitty chattered without pause, and their mother fluttered about Mr Darcy with unrestrained delight. Jane stood a little apart from the commotion, her serene countenance concealing the unease that had settled in her heart.
She had known this moment would come. Although she was glad to be home, she felt utterly unprepared for it—especially with Mr Bingley there beside them, his nearness impossible to forget.
Despite his steady attentions throughout their time in London, uncertainty lingered like a shadow.
Miss Bingley’s letters had planted doubts that would not be silenced.
Then, in the midst of all the bustle and laughter, he turned his gaze towards her—and for one suspended heartbeat, Jane almost forgot to breathe.
She was convinced this was the moment he would tell her he was no longer interested; or worse, that he was and she had to confess that she was uncertain of him.
“Miss Bennet,” he began, his tone warm though a little uncertain, “are you glad to be home? I hope you found your time in London engaging, but I daresay you are pleased to be back at Longbourn.”
“I am,” she said softly. “London was delightful, but I am always happiest here. Everything moves more gently at Longbourn.”
“Ah,” he replied with a faint smile. “I confess I rather enjoy the pace of London, but I should not wish to endure it all the year. A few months of the Season are quite enough for me—unlike my friend over there.”
He nodded towards Darcy, who was presently doing his best to endure Mrs Bennet’s unrestrained enthusiasm.
Elizabeth hovered at his side, attempting to divert her mother’s attention, yet even from across the room, Jane could see her sister’s mortification.
A flicker of sympathy stirred—quickly followed by something sharper, more painful, that Jane could not wholly repress.
In London, she had been convinced that she had been foolish to lend any credence to Mr Wickham’s insinuations.
That man’s motives were plain enough now: to cause mischief where he could.
She could not forgive herself that error, particularly since it had seemed to create a distance between her and Elizabeth that she did not know how to overcome.
Still, Miss Bingley’s letters were another matter entirely.
Jane had seen Georgiana Darcy in company with Mr Bingley and knew the young lady far too youthful for marriage; still, the notion that he might one day offer for her refused to leave her thoughts.
Elizabeth had assured her such a match was improbable, but Miss Bingley’s words lingered with insidious persistence.
Her most recent letter had gone so far as to hint that she would welcome a connexion between Jane and her brother, yet Jane could not help but wonder whether that newfound warmth was genuine or merely another artful display meant to mislead.
Jane was nearly twenty-three, and time no longer seemed so abundant as it once had. Perhaps, she thought, she was destined to follow the path of Charlotte Lucas—sensible, resigned, and forever on the shelf. The idea pricked at her pride more than she cared to admit.
Elizabeth’s engagement had altered everything within their family.
While Jane rejoiced sincerely for her sister’s happiness, the contrast between them was impossible to ignore.
Their mother had always proclaimed that Jane—the most beautiful, the most gentle—would marry first and secure the family’s future.
Yet it was Elizabeth who had won the most brilliant match imaginable.
Jane told herself she was not envious, that her heart was full only of joy for her sister.
Yet whenever she looked at Elizabeth and Mr Darcy together, that quiet ache in her chest told a different truth.
Then she felt Mr Bingley’s gaze—warm, questioning, and undeniably fixed upon her. The flutter that followed was as unwelcome as it was familiar. He seemed to study her, concerned by her silence, and Jane, flustered by the weight of his attention, forced a smile and turned towards him once more.
“Lizzy enjoys the noise and faster pace of London,” she said lightly, hoping her voice did not betray her disquiet.
“Still, she prefers the country, although I daresay she will insist Mr Darcy attend far more events than he would wish, and she will coax him into good humour whether he likes it or not.”
Bingley laughed at that and agreed with her.
They were both silent for a moment, but then he seemed to gather his courage and spoke.
“Miss Bennet,” he began, then cleared his throat.
“Miss Bennet, I am wondering if you might allow me to call on you between now and the wedding. I have come to realise that I have, perhaps, given you reason to think me inconstant, but I wished to prove my constancy.”
For a moment, Jane could not find her voice. Her heart beat so violently that she feared he might hear it. At last, she managed a small, hesitant nod—unwilling, or perhaps simply unable, to trust herself to speak.
They sat in silence for several minutes, the hum of conversation and Lydia’s laughter filling the space between them. Jane was painfully aware of every breath, every flutter of her pulse, uncertain whether she dared to hope.
It was a relief, in some ways, when Mr Darcy at last succeeded in extracting himself from Mrs Bennet’s clutches and declared their intention to return to Netherfield.
Mrs Bennet, of course, was determined to keep them longer, pressing invitation after invitation for dinner that evening.
Darcy, with admirable patience, declined each one in turn, insisting that the housekeeper at Netherfield awaited them and that business matters required their attention before nightfall.
To Jane’s quiet amusement—and Bingley’s evident one—Mr Darcy was obliged to repeat his polite refusal several times before her mother finally relented.
Outside, the horses waited, stamping restlessly, and the carriages that had carried the Bennet sisters home had long since departed for Netherfield.
As the gentlemen took their leave, Jane could not help watching Mr Bingley.
His words still echoed in her mind, soft yet deliberate—he had asked to call, not to court her.
For all their restraint, his words had carried a sincerity she had not heard from him before.
It was not a promise, but it was something.
Perhaps this slow beginning was wiser; after so much uncertainty and a lack of communication, they both needed time to be certain of one another.
Her thoughts turned to Elizabeth, and she wondered fleetingly if she ought to keep this small hope to herself as her sister had once done.
But secrecy had only widened the distance between them.
No, she would not follow that path. The rift between them was largely of her own making—her jealousy (for she could finally name it) had made her too ready to believe Mr Wickham’s falsehoods and too slow to trust her own sister.
If she wished to restore what they had lost, she would have to begin by being honest, with both Elizabeth and herself.
As the door closed behind the departing gentlemen, Jane drew a slow breath, the faintest smile touching her lips. Hope seemed to stir within her heart for the first time in weeks.
Soon after the gentlemen rode away, Elizabeth begged her mother for a little time to change out of her travelling gown and refresh herself.
The moment Mr Darcy had left Longbourn, Mrs Bennet turned the full force of her excitement upon her, pressing for details about her purchases, the people she had met in town, and—most eagerly—the arrangements she had begun to make for the wedding.
She spoke at great length of all she had begun to plan, lamenting that there was not nearly enough time to accomplish everything she deemed necessary.
Mrs Bennet barely paused long enough for Elizabeth to answer, and by the end of the exchange, Elizabeth was quite overwhelmed and in desperate need of a reprieve.
Having only just returned home, Elizabeth already felt exhausted by her mother’s exuberance.
She almost wished the wedding could take place sooner rather than later, if only to escape the chaos that seemed to grow daily.
Too much time with her mother’s unchecked enthusiasm would drive any sensible person to distraction, and Elizabeth was determined not to yield to pleas for further delay.
The few weeks that remained would be quite enough—particularly since Darcy was soon to return to London for the fortnight surrounding Christmas and Epiphany. He had promised to come back around the New Year, but even that brief absence already loomed large in her mind.
Still, she resolved to endure her mother’s excitement as best she could and prayed the weather would remain fair enough for her walks.
Darcy had already arranged for one of his footmen to stay at Longbourn and accompany her whenever she ventured out.
The matter had been discussed with her father, who—though somewhat reluctant—had agreed once he learnt that Wickham remained in the neighbourhood.
Elizabeth could not deny that she found her intended’s protectiveness both vexing and endearing.
It was so very like him to think first of her safety, even at the expense of his own peace of mind.
Yet she understood the reason behind it.
If Wickham had learnt of Darcy’s efforts to call in his debts—or suspected that his schemes were in danger of exposure—there was no telling what desperate step he might take.