Chapter Two #2
“I know not where to begin. To think Papa is an earl…” Jane removed her fichu and folded it carefully before placing it on their dressing table.
“I cannot wrap my thoughts around it all, even though we knew this would come to pass after poor Cousin Arthur’s son died without a legitimate heir.
The earl was still in his prime, only two and fifty. It is not right that he is gone.”
“Miss Bingley will choke on her assumptions when she finds out. After deploring our mother’s relations in trade, this news will stick in her craw.”
“You judge her too harshly.” Jane admonished, her cornflower-blue eyes reflecting her innate kindness.
“Do I? Need I remind you of the conversation I overheard at Netherfield during your illness? The one where the Bingley sisters decried our relations in trade.” Elizabeth adopted a haughty tone, tilted her chin at a severe angle, then repeated verbatim the mini tirade.
“You must remember, Louisa, when Jane Bennet told us herself, she has uncles in trade. One is an attorney in this dreary little hamlet, the other a gardener in town.”
“Nothing she said was untrue, although Uncle Gardiner is hardly a ‘gardener’,” Jane said, eyes downcast, unwilling to condemn the woman she hoped to call sister one day.
“There was no mistaking the condescension in her voice — it dripped like treacle from a spoon. Mr. Bingley, amiable as always, claimed such matters held no importance to him. Meanwhile, Mr. Darcy declared with cold certainty that our want of connections must necessarily diminish our prospects — prospects, as though we were parcels of land, our worth measured in acreage and proximity to a decent road. I can picture him now, propped up against a wall, glaring out a convenient window as he delivered his unwelcome assessment.”
“Once again, Mr. Darcy spoke nothing but the truth,” Jane replied softly.
“Must you always find the good in everyone? Do you not see?” Elizabeth huffed.
“Even before our elevation in status, we were daughters of a landed gentleman with ancestral lands dating back six generations. By birth, we stand as equals to Mr. Darcy and above the Bingleys. Yet Miss Bingley, with nothing but her brother’s fortune to recommend her, looks down upon us and our neighbours.
Both she and Mr. Darcy suffer from unwarranted pride.
Even Mr. Wickham remarked upon Mr. Darcy’s insufferable arrogance. ”
“I would caution you against placing too much faith in Mr. Wickham’s account. His connection to the matter suggests partiality, and I find his readiness to divulge such personal history to new acquaintances rather troubling.”
“He merely confirmed what I had already suspected. Did you not observe how Mr. Darcy treated Miss Goulding at Lucas Lodge? The poor girl merely enquired about his evening as he passed the refreshment table, and he turned away without a word! A deliberate slight if ever I saw one.”
“Perchance, he failed to hear her,” Jane said in a gentle tone. “Miss Goulding speaks barely above a whisper, and the gathering was particularly boisterous with Lydia’s incessant urging for Mary to play a jig so she could dance.”
“Very well, I will admit he may not have heard her, but I maintain he is insufferably proud and disagreeable.”
“Pride he possesses,” Jane acknowledged, “but given his ancient and noble lineage, perhaps some pride is warranted.” She turned in a small half circle, looking about the room. “Now, shall we discuss what to pack for town? And, more importantly, what shall we send ahead to Bedfordshire?”
While sorting through their cherished possessions, faded silk ribbons in a variety of hues, embroidered handkerchiefs, and miniature portraits of family members in gilt frames, the sisters were interrupted when their maid delivered a letter addressed to Jane.
“It is from Miss Bingley,” Jane said with some surprise, turning the envelope over in her hand to break the wax seal.
As her eyes travelled down the page, all colour drained from her face, and she sank onto the cheerful counterpane on their shared four-poster bed.
With no hesitation, Elizabeth extended her hand, her dark eyes flashing with concern.
“May I?”
The letter passed from Jane’s limp fingers to her sister’s eager ones, the paper crinkling softly between them.
“The audacity!” Elizabeth thrust the missive of misery back to her distraught sister. “Miss Bingley ought to be ashamed to commit such calculated cruelty to paper.”
“It is quite obvious that Mr. Bingley remains in London to court Miss Darcy,” Jane whispered.
“Impossible! Miss Darcy has not even been presented. She is younger than Kitty. Mr. Darcy would never permit Mr. Bingley to pursue his sister.”
“Perhaps there exists a long-standing arrangement, not unlike Mr. Darcy’s engagement to Miss de Bourgh of Rosings Park.”
“If that were true, then explain to me why he stood about Netherfield’s grand ballroom, and allowed Mr. Bingley to lavish attention upon you like a besotted schoolboy?”
“I have no answer,” Jane said quietly, folding the letter. A single tear threatened to spill down her cheek.
“This is a fantasy contrived by Caroline Bingley. Had Mr. Darcy shown her even a fraction of the regard her brother gave you, she would have already begun shopping for her wedding clothes and ordered flowers for the church.” Elizabeth said, lifting her sister’s chin with a warm, reassuring touch, gently brushing away the tear with her thumb.
“Mr. Bingley loves you, Jane. I would wager my newly anticipated dowry upon that fact. Do not give up hope.”