Chapter 15 #2
Elizabeth hesitated only a heartbeat. The sting of her sister’s words still lingered, but it could not withstand the sight before her. Crossing the remaining distance, she reached for Jane and drew her into her arms, holding her fast.
“I was so pleased to hear from Caroline again that I did not stop to consider why she might be writing to me,” Jane murmured against her shoulder, her voice broken.
“She said that you had done something to offend Mr Darcy—something so dreadful that he would wish to have nothing more to do with our family and encouraged his friend to do the same.”
Feeling her shudder as she struggled to compose herself, Elizabeth tightened her grip reflexively in response.
“As a consequence of whatever you had done—Caroline did not say what, only that it must have been most grievious—the Bingleys had been obliged to leave Pemberley as well, and that they would never return to Netherfield. She hinted that he had intended to come back before his lease expired, and that there had once been hope—” Jane’s voice faltered—“only to insist that it was entirely at an end since there was no possibility of his ever connecting himself to our family now.”
“Had Mr Bingley wished to return to Netherfield before now, there was nothing to prevent him from doing so,” Elizabeth replied, the words escaping more sharply than she intended.
She felt Jane stiffen in her arms and draw back at once.
“What do you mean?” Jane asked, seeming to search her face to determine her meaning.
Elizabeth closed her eyes briefly, drawing in a steadying breath before she stepped away. When she opened them again, she squared her shoulders.
She knew she must be honest—she had known it from the moment Jane spoke. She and Fitzwilliam had discussed the matter more than once during their journey, and she had even raised it with her aunt; yet none of it made speaking now any easier.
“When Mr Darcy first proposed, I was deeply offended by the manner in which he spoke of my family,” she began, her voice measured.
“But, upon reflection—and after many readings of the letter he gave me before he left Kent—I was forced to understand why he had done so.” She moved away a step, unable to remain still, her hand trailing along the back of her chair as she passed it.
“Pemberley is… everything one might expect it to be, and more. I cannot but consider how Mama might be received there—and I begin to comprehend what he must have anticipated when he considered marrying me when he first offered.”
She turned back to face her sister, her expression earnest, though still touched with agitation.
“It is, in truth, remarkable that he persisted in his attachment to me, given all that might have arisen from our family—and from Lydia in particular in this instance.” She drew in a breath, then went on, more firmly, “Yet he did persist. He offered for me once, despite believing the match imprudent, and then he humbled himself to ask again, after I had refused him most harshly only a few months ago. He had no surety of my acceptance, yet he asked anyway. I have seen the strength of his regard, and I cannot doubt it—or him.”
She resumed her pacing, though more slowly now.
“If Mr Bingley has been persuaded to remain away from Netherfield for so long, then I must question whether his attachment was ever of the same depth. Can a man truly in love be so easily guided by others—by his sisters, or even by his closest friend?” She stopped, looking back at Jane.
“I do not believe Fitzwilliam could have been dissuaded—certainly not in April—whatever objections might have been raised. Mr Bingley is a man grown, but he has made no attempt to discover where you were, nor did he even act as a gentleman ought when he left Netherfield so abruptly.”
Jane did not answer at once, and Elizabeth watched her in silence as she once again turned her back towards her, moving back towards the window, her hands braced lightly against the sill as though she required its support.
“I do not know what to think any longer,” she said at last, her voice low and uneven.
“I only know that I have been mistaken so often before—and I cannot bear to be so again. Mr Bingley was all that a young man ought to be, or so I believed, and I was heartbroken when he left me. There was Lydia—Mama was so distressed—and then I received Caroline’s letter, and I did not know what to think. ”
Elizabeth watched her in silence, unaccustomed to being at odds with her sister.
Jane had never spoken so forcefully—nor so angrily—and Elizabeth knew she herself had rarely, if ever, addressed Jane with such severity.
She could not wish her words unsaid—they had been true—but she could not deny that she had spoken them more harshly than she had intended.
“And so you thought the worst of me,” she said at last, more quietly. “You chose to believe Miss Bingley, rather than wait to ask me what had occurred.”
Jane closed her eyes, her fingers tightening against the wood, but she did not turn.
“I did not know what to think,” she repeated.
That, more than anything, struck her. For a moment she could not speak; she did not understand how Jane could think so ill of her.
At length, she drew herself up, the softness that had begun to return to her manner retreating once more into composure.
“I see,” she said, though she was far from understanding.
Neither moved.
After a moment, Elizabeth inclined her head, more from habit than feeling. “It grows late,” she added, her tone polite, though it carried none of its usual warmth. “We had better return downstairs, or they will wonder at our absence. I wish to speak with Aunt Gardiner before we retire.”
Jane nodded and turned, and they made their way from the room together.
Elizabeth hesitated only a moment before following, closing the door softly behind them. Neither spoke as they descended the stairs, and they entered the sitting room in silence.