Chapter 20 #3
When at last he descended, he found the breakfast room already occupied. Bingley stood at the sideboard, Mrs. Hurst poured chocolate, Miss Bingley examined a dish of rolls as though they had offended her, and Jane sat near the fire, pale but lovely, wrapped in a shawl. Elizabeth sat beside her.
Darcy’s eyes went to her at once.
She did not look up.
The omission was so deserved that it struck deeper than reproach would have done.
She was composed, her posture graceful, her expression attentive to Jane.
There was nothing dramatic in her manner, nothing that would draw notice from the room.
Only Darcy, who had spent far too many hours learning the small changes of her face, saw the guarded stillness about her mouth.
He took his seat and attempted to eat.
He failed.
Conversation moved gently around Jane’s recovery. Bingley was all concern, urging tea, toast, eggs, more cushions, less draft, and anything else a man might command when he had no useful authority over fever. Jane thanked him with such softness that Bingley looked ready to forget the whole world.
Then Elizabeth set down her cup.
“Mr. Bingley,” she said, “you have been most generous in allowing us to remain here, but I must ask the use of your carriage today. Jane is much improved, and I believe we ought to return to Longbourn.”
Darcy’s head came up.
Across the table, Elizabeth’s eyes darted to his.
For the smallest instant their gazes met.
Color rose into her cheeks, not the bright warmth he had seen in happier moments, but something nearer embarrassment, almost pain.
She looked down at once, then turned back to Bingley as though Darcy had not been the cause of it.
Bingley looked stricken. “Today? Surely not today. Miss Bennet has only just begun to leave her room. The air is still damp, and the roads cannot be comfortable. Pray, do not think of going so soon.”
“You are very kind,” Elizabeth replied, “but the carriage will be closed, and Jane shall be well wrapped. The distance is not great.”
“But Mr. Jones said she must not exert herself.”
“She need not exert herself in a carriage.”
“She ought not be exposed to the weather.”
“She was exposed to more in coming here, and that was not by choice.”
Bingley faltered, pained by the reminder. “Still, I cannot like it.”
“Nor can I,” Darcy said before caution could restrain him.
Elizabeth turned to him, and the guarded composure in her expression chilled him.
“If it were my sister,” he continued, more quietly, “I should hesitate to remove her so soon after fever.”
“But she is not your sister,” Elizabeth said. “She is mine.”
The room fell silent.
Darcy felt the blow as surely as if she had struck him. Not because the words were unjust. They were perfectly just. Jane was Elizabeth’s sister, Elizabeth’s care, Elizabeth’s right. He had no claim to advise, not after withdrawing every sign of friendship the moment she had begun to trust him.
Jane leaned slightly toward Elizabeth and whispered something too soft for Darcy to hear.
Elizabeth shook her head once, almost imperceptibly, but her hand found Jane’s beneath the table.
Miss Bingley, who had been remarkably silent through the first part of the exchange, now folded her hands and smiled with exquisite mildness. “I am sure Miss Elizabeth must know what is best for her sister. It would be cruel to keep Miss Bennet from home if she is so desirous to return there.”
The words were sweetly spoken and poisonous beneath the sugar. Darcy saw Bingley’s face change, the doubt striking exactly where Miss Bingley intended it. Did Jane wish to leave? Was his house oppressive to her? Had his attentions become a burden?
Jane saw it too.
She straightened a little, though the effort cost her.
“Indeed, I am very grateful for every kindness I have received here. I could not have been better cared for, nor more generously treated.” Her eyes moved to Bingley, and a delicate flush touched her cheeks.
“I shall remember it with great pleasure. But I do not wish to burden our friends any longer, nor to keep Lizzy from home when she has already done so much for me. If the carriage may be spared, Mr. Bingley, I would be grateful for it.”
Bingley looked at her as if she had asked for his estate and he would have given it gladly, though with a broken heart. “Of course. If you truly wish it, I cannot refuse you.”
“I think it best,” Jane said softly.
He turned at once and rang the bell. When the servant appeared, Bingley ordered the carriage to be made ready, then added that hot bricks, extra blankets, and every possible comfort were to be provided. His voice was too cheerful by half.
“You will need time to pack,” he said, turning back to them. “There is no hurry. Pray do not hurry.”
Elizabeth’s answer was calm. “Thank you, but Susie has already begun to gather our things.”
Darcy looked at her again.
Already.
She had not asked on impulse. She had decided before she came down. Perhaps in the night. Perhaps while he had been lying awake, blaming himself for hurting her, she had been arranging the only escape propriety allowed.
Jane glanced at Elizabeth, then softened the firmness of her sister’s words with a small smile. “But while we wait, we would be very happy for your company.”
Bingley brightened a little at that. Miss Bingley looked less pleased. Mrs. Hurst murmured something civil, and Hurst asked whether there would still be ham.
Darcy said nothing.
He could not.
He sat through the remainder of breakfast with a numbness settling through him, cold and heavy.
The magnitude of what he had done unfolded not all at once but in cruel increments.
He had feared loving Elizabeth because it might make him fail in duty.
To prevent that, he had treated her with such distance that she had determined to leave the house where he might have repaired the harm.
He had imagined sacrifice in grand terms—fortune, family, estate, future—and had not recognized the smaller, meaner sacrifice he was making in the present moment: kindness withheld, trust wounded, hope extinguished before it had been allowed to breathe.
After breakfast, the party moved to the drawing room while the carriage was prepared and the trunks brought down.
Jane sat near the fire again, with Bingley beside her, speaking in low tones that Darcy did not attempt to overhear.
Elizabeth remained near her sister, answering when addressed and smiling when civility required it. She did not look at Darcy.
He deserved that too.
When at last the carriage came around, there was a flutter of movement: shawls, cloaks, a final inquiry after Jane’s comfort, Miss Bingley’s polished farewells, Mrs. Hurst’s languid wishes for continued recovery.
Bingley insisted upon escorting Jane himself, and Elizabeth walked behind them with Susie following, the maid’s arms full of small parcels.
Darcy did not go out.
He told himself the hall was crowded enough. He told himself Bingley had the right to attend Jane. He told himself Elizabeth would not want his assistance. All were true. None were the whole truth.
Instead, he stood at the drawing room window and watched.
Bingley handed Jane carefully into the carriage, bending over her hand with such tenderness that even from a distance Darcy could see the reverence in it. Jane’s face was pale, but her smile was unmistakable, and Bingley lingered half a moment longer than necessary before releasing her.
Then Elizabeth turned.
Perhaps she had only meant to look back at the house. Perhaps she had felt him there. Darcy did not know. But her eyes found him through the glass as surely as if no wall, no window, no distance stood between them.
Neither looked away.
The world narrowed to that look.
There was hurt in her face, though she tried to hide it.
There was pride too, and disappointment, and something softer beneath both that pierced him worse than accusation.
He wanted to go to her. He wanted to cross the lawn, open the carriage door, speak before everyone and beg one moment in which to repair what his cowardice had damaged.
He did nothing.
Bingley said something to her, drawing her attention. Elizabeth blinked, turned away, and stepped into the carriage.
A footman closed the door.
The horses moved.
Darcy remained at the window as the carriage rolled down the drive. The wheels struck a shallow rut; the vehicle swayed, then steadied. He watched until it passed between the trees, watched after there was nothing left to see, watched until even the sound of it had faded.
Only then did he lower his hand from the curtain.
Elizabeth was gone.
And with a certainty that left no room for argument, Darcy knew his heart had gone with her.