Chapter Eight
Jane's Reserve
Elizabeth's greatest temptation was Jane.
She knew the future that had once belonged to her sister.
She knew Jane loved Bingley. She knew Bingley loved Jane.
She knew how easily uncertainty could wound them both, and she knew exactly how tempting it would be to push one toward the other until the old happy ending arrived sooner and with less pain.
Instead Elizabeth attempted something harder.
She listened.
Jane sat beside her in the Longbourn garden one mild afternoon, her sewing lying forgotten in her lap. "Mr. Bingley is very amiable."
Elizabeth turned her head. "You have said so six times."
Jane flushed. "Have I?"
"Yes."
"I only mean that he is pleasant to everyone."
"I know what you mean."
Jane looked away toward the orchard.
Elizabeth's heart softened. Young Jane had concealed emotion even from herself. Older Jane had once admitted, after Bingley's death, that she had spent the first months of their acquaintance frightened of wanting too much and therefore determined to appear as though she wanted nothing.
Elizabeth rested her hand over Jane's. "You need not tell me anything you do not wish to tell me."
Jane looked at her suspiciously. "There is a but in that sentence."
"No but."
Jane smiled. "You have changed."
Elizabeth's fingers tightened. "Have I?"
"A little. You wait now."
"I was unaware I had ever been impatient."
Jane laughed. "Lizzy."
They sat in comfortable silence. At last Jane said, "I think of him when he is not here."
Elizabeth did not squeal. She considered this proof of remarkable self-command. "Do you?"
"Yes. And when he is here, I try not to think at all."
Elizabeth squeezed her hand. "Perhaps he would not be offended if you allowed him to see that you enjoy his company."
Jane's smile faded slightly. "Do I seem cold?"
"No. Never cold. But people cannot always distinguish kindness from preference when kindness is your natural language."
Jane considered that. "You think he is uncertain."
"I think anyone might be."
"Would you be?"
Elizabeth thought of Darcy standing in a corridor with her forgotten glove. "Frequently."
Jane smiled slowly. "Mr. Darcy?"
Elizabeth choked on a laugh. "What has Mr. Darcy to do with anything?"
"You smile whenever someone says his name."
"I do not."
"You do."
"Jane Bennet, you are becoming impertinent."
"Perhaps you might allow him to see your preference as well."
Elizabeth frowned. "I have no preference."
Jane merely looked at her.
Elizabeth sighed. Sisters were intolerable.
At Netherfield, Darcy was conducting a similar conversation with considerably more pacing.
Bingley stood before the library fire, one hand braced against the mantel. "She likes me."
Darcy sat with a book open upon his knee. "I believe so."
"You believe?"
"Yes."
"How much?"
Darcy lowered the book. "I cannot measure another person's feelings for you."
The irony of the answer was not lost upon him.
Bingley paced toward the window. "She smiles."
"Yes."
"She smiles at everyone."
"Not like that."
Bingley stopped and turned. "Like what?"
Darcy almost smiled. "Miss Bennet watches you leave a room."
Bingley's face changed. "She does?"
"Yes."
"How do you know?"
"I observe."
Bingley laughed. "Apparently. Do you think I should--"
He stopped.
Darcy waited.
"Should what?"
Bingley shook his head. "Nothing."
The younger Darcy would have pressed. He would have offered advice even if it had not been requested, confident that his superior judgment justified the intrusion.
This Darcy let his friend think.
That was the change.
Bingley's mistakes would belong to Bingley. His successes too.
Darcy looked down at the book without reading a word.
Elizabeth would approve.
The thought warmed him more than it should have.
If she remembered.
If.
Jane and Bingley's courtship continued in the spaces around these private tests. Bingley called frequently enough that Mrs. Bennet began listening for hoofbeats each morning. Jane never hurried to the window, but Elizabeth noticed she always knew when he arrived before Hill announced him.
One afternoon Bingley came without Darcy. Jane looked toward the hall behind him before she could stop herself.
Elizabeth saw and nearly smiled.
Bingley saw too.
His expression softened.
"Darcy remained at Netherfield to write to his sister," he explained, though no one had asked. "He may join us later."
Jane nodded. "I hope Miss Darcy is well."
"Better, I think. Darcy has become very attentive to her."
Elizabeth's head lifted.
Bingley noticed. "More attentive than usual, I mean. He writes every few days now."
Mrs. Bennet, who had little interest in correspondence not related to marriage, turned the conversation toward Netherfield's dining arrangements. Elizabeth remained thoughtful.
Later, while Jane and Bingley walked in the shrubbery under Kitty's entirely unnecessary supervision, Elizabeth sat with Mary near the pianoforte.
Mary said abruptly, "Mr. Bingley listens to Jane."
Elizabeth looked over. "Yes."
"Most gentlemen listen only until they think of what they wish to say."
"An alarming observation."
Mary frowned. "I was serious."
"So was I."
Mary looked toward the window where Jane and Bingley could be seen between bare branches. "Do you think he will marry her?"
The question struck more deeply than Mary knew.
Elizabeth could have answered from memory.
Instead she said, "I think they are very fond of one another. What they do with that fondness belongs to them."
Mary considered. "That sounds almost moral."
Elizabeth laughed. "Do not tell anyone."
When Darcy arrived an hour later, he found Elizabeth still smiling.
"What amused you?" he asked as they crossed near the card table.
"Mary accused me of morality."
Darcy's mouth curved. "A serious charge."
"I denied everything."
"Naturally."
Bingley, passing behind them, stopped. "How do you two always begin in the middle of conversations?"
Darcy and Elizabeth both froze.
Bingley looked from one to the other. "There. You did it again."
Elizabeth recovered first. "Perhaps, Mr. Bingley, you simply arrive late."
"To every conversation?"
"A remarkable talent."
Bingley laughed and moved on.
Darcy leaned closer. "Rule five."
"We do not have rules yet."
He stared.
Elizabeth realized what she had said.
They stood motionless.
Then Darcy murmured, "Not yet?"
Her heart jumped.
"A figure of speech."
"Of course."
Neither believed the other.