Chapter 20
Elizabeth did not wish for Jane to come downstairs.
Indeed, she had argued against it with all the gentle firmness she could command.
Jane had been better that day, certainly, but better was not well, and Elizabeth did not like the bright color that still rose and faded in her sister’s cheeks, nor the softness of her voice when she insisted she had been shut away long enough.
“You have taken three turns around the room this afternoon,” Elizabeth said as she adjusted Jane’s shawl. “That is already a campaign worthy of commemoration.”
Jane smiled faintly. “Then let me win one more battle. I promise I shall only sit by the fire.”
“You promise that now. In half an hour, you will say you are no trouble and try to pour tea for someone.”
“I shall not.”
“You will think it.”
Jane’s smile grew a little. “Perhaps.”
Elizabeth wished to refuse her. She wished to insist upon another evening upstairs, where there was quiet, where Jane could rest without the exertion of civility, and where Elizabeth herself would not be obliged to sit in the same room as Darcy and pretend not to notice that he had ceased to notice her.
But Jane’s eyes had turned toward the door with such wistful longing that Elizabeth could not harden herself against it.
Her sister had borne two days of illness with patience, and Mr. Bingley, poor man, had looked as though every closed door between them was a personal affliction.
If Jane desired half an hour below stairs, Elizabeth would not be the gaoler who denied it.
“Very well,” she said at last. “But if you begin to look pale, I shall carry you back myself.”
“You could not.”
“I would attempt it with great dignity.”
Jane laughed, and the sound, though weak, repaid Elizabeth for surrendering the argument.
With Susie’s help, they made Jane presentable enough to satisfy her own sense of propriety.
She looked delicate in her pale gown, her shawl wrapped about her shoulders and her hair arranged loosely, but her sweetness required very little assistance.
Illness had only softened her beauty, lending her that air of patient fragility which made every feeling heart wish to protect her.
Elizabeth guided her slowly along the passage and down the stairs.
Jane leaned more heavily upon her arm than she would ever admit, and by the time they reached the drawing room door, Elizabeth was already regretting the concession.
But the moment they entered, Mr. Bingley rose with such open delight that Jane’s face brightened at once.
“Miss Bennet! You are come down at last.”
He crossed the room so quickly Darcy and Mr. Hurst had scarcely time to rise to their feet as well.
“You must take the chair by the fire. No, not that one—it is too far from the screen. Hurst, pray move a little. There is a draft by that window. Miss Elizabeth, did she walk all this way? Should she have done so? Ought I to send for another cushion?”
Jane, who might have been overwhelmed by such attention from any other man, only smiled. “I am quite well, Mr. Bingley. Or nearly so.”
“Nearly is not enough for me to be easy,” he said, but his voice was warm, and he arranged the chair as though the comfort of the entire household depended upon the precise angle of its back. “There. Is that tolerable? Shall I have more coal put on?”
“It is very comfortable. Thank you.”
Elizabeth helped Jane settle, then stood a moment beside her, uncertain what to do with herself.
Had it been two nights ago—had it even been yesterday morning—she would have taken a chair somewhere near Darcy.
Not too near. Nothing improper. But near enough that, after a few moments, he might have looked up from his book or his letters, made some quiet observation, and drawn her into the kind of conversation that seemed to belong only to them.
There had been a brief time, no longer than the life of a candle flame, when she had believed she understood him and that he wished to be understood by her in return.
That time had ended with her mother’s visit.
Darcy sat at the writing desk now, a letter before him, his shoulders straight, his expression composed, his entire manner closed against the room.
He had been perfectly polite to Mrs. Bennet the previous day.
More polite than Elizabeth could have expected, perhaps more polite than her mother had deserved.
But as Mrs. Bennet had spoken—of Jane’s beauty, of Mr. Bingley’s attentions, of the misery of an entail, of the dreadful fate awaiting five girls if they did not marry well—Elizabeth had seen Darcy withdraw by degrees.
Not with visible rudeness. He would not do that.
But the warmth had left his eyes, his replies had shortened, and the man who had laughed with her in the library and looked at her across the dinner table as though she were a secret worth cherishing had disappeared behind cold, careful reserve.
At first she had thought he might have a headache.
It was a charitable explanation and one she clung to for several hours.
But the reserve had remained through the evening, through that morning, and now into another night.
He had scarcely looked at her all day. When he had spoken, it had been with the same civil distance he might have used for any acquaintance of no particular consequence.
It would not be the first time her mother’s conduct had driven off a suitor.
That unfortunate honor belonged to Jane.
Elizabeth had been thirteen then, Jane fifteen, and the young man in question had lived near Meryton with a visiting aunt.
He had written poetry—very poor poetry, though Jane, being Jane, had found something kind to say of it—and had contrived to speak with her at every assembly for nearly a month.
Mrs. Bennet had noticed, declared him half in love, praised Jane’s beauty within his hearing, and told every acquaintance that she expected an offer before Michaelmas.
The young man retreated within a fortnight.
Six months later, his wedding announcement appeared in the papers, and Mrs. Bennet blamed his aunt, his weakness of character, and the weather, in no particular order.
Elizabeth had laughed at the absurdity then, though not where Jane could hear.
She could not laugh now.
Heartbroken was not quite the word. That belonged to heroines in novels, to ladies who had been promised something and lost it.
Darcy had promised her nothing. He had offered no particular regard beyond looks, conversations, a shared secret, and a handful of moments that Elizabeth, in her folly, had allowed to grow bright in her imagination. He owed her nothing.
But her hopes felt crushed all the same.
Worse, she could not be entirely angry. Her mother had been in rare form.
Even Elizabeth, who loved her despite every mortification, had wanted to sink through the carpet when Mrs. Bennet spoke of eligible daughters and advantageous neighborhoods, of Jane’s good fortune in falling ill at such a house, and of how cruelly Longbourn’s entail pressed upon them all.
A man like Darcy, raised to consequence, burdened by duty, and already cautious in society, might well hear such speeches and retreat for his own preservation.
Elizabeth only wished he had not retreated from her.
“Lizzy?” Jane murmured, drawing her attention.
Elizabeth bent toward her. “Yes?”
“You will sit, will you not?”
“Of course.”
But where?
Mr. Bingley had taken a place near Jane, not so near as to be improper but near enough to respond if she wished for anything.
Miss Bingley occupied a sofa with Mrs. Hurst, who looked more disposed to observe than participate.
Mr. Hurst stood near the card table, already glancing toward it with longing.
Darcy remained at the desk, his pen moving with steady purpose.
Elizabeth chose a chair on the other side of the room. It was not the most comfortable, nor the best placed for conversation, but it was safe. A book lay upon the small table beside it, and she picked it up with more gratitude than curiosity.
For several minutes, the room settled into a quiet of unequal parts: Jane’s soft answers to Mr. Bingley, Miss Bingley’s occasional remarks, the scratch of Darcy’s pen, and Mr. Hurst’s increasingly restless movement near the card table.
“Shall we have a game?” Mr. Hurst said at last, turning with something like hope. “Surely we are enough for a table.”
Miss Bingley glanced toward Jane. “Miss Bennet may not be equal to cards.”
“Oh, I should not play,” Jane said gently. “But pray do not let that prevent anyone else.”
“Capital,” Mr. Hurst said.
Darcy did not look up. “I beg you will excuse me.”
Mr. Hurst grunted. “Writing?”
Darcy inclined his head without lifting his eyes from the page.
Miss Bingley rose and crossed toward the desk with a lightness Elizabeth suspected had been practiced before many mirrors. “What mysterious business occupies you so entirely this evening, Darcy? You have been as secret as a cabinet minister.”
“No mystery.” His tone was civil and even. “Only a letter to my sister.”
“Dear Georgiana!” Miss Bingley clasped her hands with feeling.
“How I long to see her again. She is the sweetest creature, and so accomplished for her age. Her performance, her drawing, her manner—everything about her promises the most elegant young lady. I always say she will be the very model of female accomplishment when she comes out.”
“Georgiana will be gratified by your remembrance,” Darcy said.
It was perfectly polite. It was also nothing more. He returned to his letter almost before Miss Bingley had finished smiling.
Elizabeth looked down at her book.
There had been a time when such cold civility from him toward Miss Bingley would have amused her. She might have caught his eye and shared the smallest smile over the lady’s effusions. But when Miss Bingley turned from the desk, Elizabeth made the mistake of looking up.
Darcy did not meet her gaze.