Chapter 2
TWO
NOTHING TO REPROACH
She found the parsonage devoid of its master and mistress when she returned.
Mrs Collins, she knew, had planned to visit a tenant with a charity basket; Mr Collins had been summoned to Rosings on some errand of Lady Catherine’s that was no doubt of the utmost consequence to him and of no consequence whatsoever to anyone else.
Elizabeth was grateful for the solitude. She went directly to the small parlour and sat down and allowed herself, for one moment, to put her face in her hands. Then she sat up and tried to think.
The first and most obvious matter was that Mr Bingley be told of the consequences of his actions.
Whatever he chose to do with the information, he was the father of Jane’s child and he must be made to answer for his actions that night of the ball.
How he might do that, she knew not. The most favourable outcome, one which she felt had very little hope of happening, was for him to quickly marry Jane.
A more likely eventuality was for him to pay Jane to go away somewhere.
How well did she recollect what she had thought of him after he left Jane!
Much as she had always been disposed to like him, she could not think without anger, hardly without contempt, on the easiness of temper, of that want of proper resolution, which had made him the slave of his designing friends.
Of course, there was a great deal more to be recollected from that regrettable time.
When Miss Bingley had sent a note expressing the firm intention of their party to remain in London for all the winter—with a less obvious message telling Jane to surrender her hopes for her brother—Jane had said very little.
Mrs Bennet’s lamentations had been a torment that Jane suffered until a day or so later when Jane told Elizabeth, as they walked the garden,
“My mother can have no idea of the pain she gives me by her continual reflections on him. But I will not repine. It cannot last long. He will be forgot, and we shall all be as we were before.”
Elizabeth looked at her sister with incredulous solicitude but said nothing.
“You doubt me, but I assure you of this: he may live in my memory as the most amiable man of my acquaintance, but that is all. I have nothing either to hope or fear, and nothing to reproach him with. Thank God! I have not that pain. A little time therefore—I shall certainly try to get the better.”
With a stronger voice she soon added, “I have this comfort immediately, that it has not been more than an error of fancy on my side, and that it has done no harm to anyone but myself.”
Elizabeth could not remember if it was that very same night, or one that followed shortly thereafter when she learnt the truth. They were again in the bedroom they shared, she and Jane, and she was nearly asleep when Jane very quietly said, “Lizzy?”
“What?” Elizabeth mumbled into her pillow.
“Will you think I am terrible if I tell you something I did?”
“’Course not.” Elizabeth sighed and opened her eyes.
“Do you remember in the garden this morning when I said I had nothing to reproach him for?”
Elizabeth was awake immediately and sat up. “Mr Bingley, you mean?”
“Yes.”
“I remember you saying so,” Elizabeth said, her voice steady despite the alarm which had begun to twist in her gut. “Why?”
It took Jane a long time to answer, and when she did, her voice was very meek and small. “For myself, I have nothing but reproach. Reproach and deepest shame.” A quiet sob came from across the room. “I was so stupid!”
Jane had then told her all, or nearly all.
The quiet book-room, the kisses, the promises, the declarations leading to the time spent in Mr Bingley’s bedchamber.
Time that was, she admitted, only enjoyable to her insofar as she had believed that she was sealing her promise to love him, to be his wife, as he was to be her husband.
And now she would suffer the unmitigable consequence of that.
Not if I can do anything for it. In a flurry of emotional action, Elizabeth went to the small writing table in the corner and opened it. She sat. She un-stoppered the ink bottle. She took out a sheet of paper. She picked up the pen and hovered over the ink.
She set down the pen a long minute later.
To whom could she write? Not to Mr Bingley, that much had already been established. To his sisters? Likely futile.
Was there not anyone who could help poor Jane? She wished to scream it aloud.
Me. I am the only one who can help her, and I have no idea what to do.
Elizabeth pressed her fingertips to her temple where the headache had taken root.
The scene which would arise at Longbourn when the truth was known was unimaginable.
Their mother would faint and shriek and call for her salts and be of no use to anyone.
Mr Bennet would be equally useless but in his own way.
He might lament his failures as a father, but Elizabeth could not imagine him actually doing something for it.
Mary would no doubt have a sermon for them, something on the order of loss of virtue and female reputation.
Lydia and Kitty would likely laugh until they comprehended how it would affect them.
Perhaps the Gardiners might help. Elizabeth knew not if Jane had confided in the Gardiners as yet, but the unhappy truth could not be concealed for long.
I will go to London, and somehow we will form a plan to find Mr Bingley and make him marry her.
How they would do that, she could not imagine, but it was the only way.
Mr Darcy was the only person of her acquaintance who might have some sway over the situation, and his advice would likely be for his friend to run as far away as he could. Just as he had advised him to do in November, she thought bitterly.
She frowned thinking of that. Had Mr Bingley told his friend what he and Jane had done?
Of the promises he had made her? Men were not discreet; well, Mr Darcy was, but that would not prohibit Mr Bingley telling him what had happened.
Perhaps Mr Darcy thought Jane a wanton or a whore.
Perhaps he imagined it was her sister’s arts and wiles, designed to entrap his friend.
She remembered now teasing him a little, saying her sister had been in London these months and had he not seen her.
Had there been a disgusted curl to his lips when he replied, ‘No, I have not had the pleasure’?
She stayed at the writing table for a long time, the blank page in front of her, the pen drying at the side, her headache steadily growing into a howling fury within her skull.
“Eliza? You are not dressed.” Charlotte startled her.
Elizabeth looked up to see her friend and hostess standing in the parlour, dressed in one of her best gowns.
When had she returned? Elizabeth had not heard anything, so lost in thought was she, but she heard it now—Mr Collins muttering and stamping about somewhere in the house, the housekeeper and maid bustling about in the halls.
“Dressed?” Elizabeth said faintly. “Was I… Oh. Dinner at Rosings.”
Charlotte came over and peered at her. “Oh dear, you are not looking well. Is something wrong?”
Elizabeth shook her head and looked down at the still-blank page, terrified for a moment that somehow the tale might have written itself on the page. “I have a headache such as I have never known before.”
Charlotte reached out and smoothed Elizabeth’s hair. “Poor dear. Shall I tell Lady Catherine you are indisposed?”
Elizabeth looked at her gratefully. “Please do. I am sorry; I know it will displease her.”
“Most things do displease her,” said Charlotte with a wry grin. “Why not retire? I will ask Mrs Davis to bring you a poultice or some powders. Would you like some dinner?”
Elizabeth shook her head. “No, thank you, I do not want anything at all. Do not trouble Mrs Davis. I think I just want to go to sleep and hope the headache is gone when I wake. But will not Mr Collins be angry?”
“I will manage him, do not worry about that,” Charlotte told her. “By the bye, I meant to speak to you about something today. My sister wishes to remain the whole of the summer. I know you were meant to depart next week, but perhaps you—”
“Oh! Um, no, you and my cousin are too good, but…in fact, I fear I must get back as soon as I can.”
“As soon as you can!” Charlotte’s clear grey gaze penetrated her and made her look away. “What do you mean?”
“A-as soon as I can arrange it.” Elizabeth looked down at the page.
“Everyone at Longbourn is well, I hope?”
Elizabeth looked up again, forcing a smile. “Oh yes, it is nothing like that, only…I miss Jane.”
Charlotte’s brow smoothed. “Of course you do. You have not been with her since after Christmas!”
“Just so,” Elizabeth agreed.
Charlotte stepped forwards and gave her a little pat on the arm. “Do not worry about it. We can speak to Mr Collins tomorrow and see what he can arrange.”
Tomorrow! Elizabeth wished to be there tomorrow, with Jane in London.
But Charlotte could not know that; she would never understand her desperation unless she knew the truth and that was impossible.
Thus, Elizabeth smiled and thanked her friend and wished more than anything she was a man who could blow about hither and yon as he pleased.