Chapter 26 #2
She pressed her hand to her middle and turned again.
It had grown worse this morning. That was the part she could not reason away.
She knew—knew—precisely where Mr Collins was in the house.
Not by sound, not by sight. By a faint, sour wave that moved through her without warning, leaving her oddly queasy and alert.
When he crossed the passage outside her door, she felt it behind her eyes.
When he lingered below the stairs, it reached her even there.
Elizabeth stopped pacing and leaned her forehead against the window. The glass was cold, and she welcomed it. It brought some relief to the insistent throbbing that had become a part of her existence of late.
Outside, the garden lay stripped and damp, the lawn darkened by recent rain. Beyond it, the rose hedge climbed the side of the house in its usual disorder—bare stems, thorns exposed, leaves long since fallen.
Except…
She squinted.
Along one length of the hedge, tight knots had formed at the joints of the stems. Small. Green. Unmistakable.
Buds.
In November.
Elizabeth turned away at once, pressing her fists against her eyes as though she might blot out the image by force.
Frustration surged, hot and useless. Nothing fit!
Nothing agreed. People caused pain they should not, the foliage around her seemed to forget which season it was, and her own body insisted on meanings she could not understand.
If there were answers to be had, they did not lie here. The thought arrived whole and unwelcome.
If she were to understand anything at all, she must begin with Mr Darcy.
The conclusion did not comfort her. It did the opposite. Because after supper last night, he wanted nothing to do with her and had already made himself unreachable.
The door opened.
Elizabeth dropped her hands and turned, schooling her face by instinct rather than intention. Jane stepped just inside the room, her colour uneven, her composure strained. She held something in her hand—a folded sheet, gripped too tightly.
“Jane? What is it?”
Jane’s mouth trembled. “This just came from Miss Bingley.” She did not explain further. She held out the paper instead.
Netherfield Park
Tuesday Morning
My dear Miss Bennet,
I hope you will permit me the freedom of writing to you so soon, but the events of this morning have left me in a state of such vexation that I find I cannot rest until I have spoken, at least to you, upon whom I can always count for sensible counsel.
You may already have heard that Mr Darcy quitted Netherfield at a very early hour, with scarcely more than a word to my brother before his departure.
I need not tell you how unexpected and mortifying this was to us all, particularly after the attentions he was at such pains to show our party last evening.
That he should have been driven to such a step speaks, I think, to the degree of discomfort he must have experienced.
I will not pretend to understand how so regrettable a misunderstanding arose.
Certain freedoms, taken without reflection, can place even the most forbearing gentleman in an impossible position, and Mr Darcy is, as you know, scrupulous in all matters of conduct.
He bears embarrassment badly, and when once offended, prefers removal to remonstrance.
It grieves me to think that anything should have occurred under my brother’s roof to occasion such an insult.
I am sure you, at least, will appreciate how delicate such situations are, and how easily a single ill-judged moment may undo the harmony of an entire evening.
Your own manner, always so quiet and considerate, only throws the contrast into sharper relief.
I trust you will understand my anxiety to see this matter set right, insofar as it may yet be possible. I rely upon your good sense—and your influence within your family—to prevent any further unpleasantness arising from what I can only hope was an error of judgment rather than intention.
Pray believe me when I say that my regard for you remains undiminished, and that I should be loath to see our friendship suffer on account of circumstances so entirely avoidable.
Yours most sincerely,
Caroline Bingley
Elizabeth read the letter again.
Not from the beginning. From the middle—where the courtesy thinned and the meaning sharpened. Where the words ceased to pretend at concern and began to lean, ever so delicately, in one direction.
Jane came to stand over her shoulder so she could read the lines again as well. “Lizzy… perhaps she only means… Well, you know, she attended that fine London seminary, and she can be very particular about manners. It may have nothing to do with you at all.”
Elizabeth lowered the page. “It has everything to do with me.”
Jane looked stricken. “No—surely not. She speaks only of misunderstanding, of discomfort. That could be any number of things.”
Elizabeth gave a short, incredulous laugh. It surprised her as much as it did Jane. “She does not accuse,” she said. “She has no need. She only arranges the room so that blame may fall where she prefers.”
Jane frowned. “But she does not name you. She speaks kindly of me, certainly, but—”
“That is precisely how I know. Do you see how carefully she distinguishes?” she pointed out the lines, paraphrasing them. “You are prudent. You are discreet. You are to be relied upon. And I—” She stopped, pressed her fingernail hard against the paper. “I am the omission. The unspoken correction.”
“Lizzy, you are reading far too much—”
“No. I watched her last night. I saw where her attention lay. I saw where her stares were directed.”
Jane hesitated. “You mean… Mr Darcy?”
Elizabeth did not answer at once. She could still see him across the room—too distant to be chance, too deliberate to be coincidence. Could still feel the way the space between them had been kept, measured, enforced.
“She believes,” Elizabeth said slowly, “that I offended him. That whatever drove him away began with me.”
Jane shook her head. “But you did nothing improper. He seemed rather pleased when you were dancing the supper set—indeed, I am sure I saw him smiling, and once or twice he looked almost close to a laugh.”
“Oh, no, the dancing was rather pleasant. We got on quite decently, though he did seem a bit tired, even slightly clumsy in some of the figures, which I found odd. But he was… I was…” Elizabeth looked down at her twisting fingers. “I came perilously close to enjoying myself.”
“Yes, I saw,” Jane said with a suspicious grin. “In fact, I daresay you were flirting rather shamelessly.”
Elizabeth’s mouth dropped. “I did no such thing!”
Jane laughed. “I was only teasing, Lizzy. But you did both appear rather agreeably engaged. So, what did happen?”
She frowned. “I really do not know. It was over supper, that…” Elizabeth stopped.
“Well, it was only a bit of a misunderstanding, I suppose. Surely, not enough to run a man out of the county, but Miss Bingley would not know that. She only assumes that something occurred, and I am the most convenient cause.”
Jane was quiet now, studying the letter anew.
Elizabeth rose and crossed the room, the restlessness returning at once. “She had hopes,” she said. “You know she did. Hopes she did not trouble to conceal. And now he has gone—without explanation, without a cause anyone can fix—and she must place the fault somewhere.”
Jane’s voice was small. “She would not be so unkind.”
“She would be exactly so unkind, and in exactly this manner.”
Elizabeth turned away and moved back to the window, though she did not look out again. She rested her hand against the frame and stood there, breathing through the ache that had settled behind her eyes.
“So,” she said at last, with an attempt at lightness that convinced neither of them. “That is that, then.”
“Lizzy…”
“He has gone,” Elizabeth said more quietly. “And I am to be the reason for it, whether I consent to the distinction or not.”
Jane crossed the room and stood near her, close enough that Elizabeth could feel the warmth of her presence without turning. “We do not know that he has gone far,” she said gently. “Nor that he intends to be absent long. Such departures are sometimes made in haste and repented just as quickly.”
Elizabeth shook her head. “No. He does nothing by halves. Not when he has decided.”
Jane hesitated. “Lizzy… if you fear that something which might have been—”
“No!” she blurted abruptly, then checked herself. “No. That is not it. I have no romantic designs on Mr Darcy. At least, I…” Her brow furrowed. “Well, clearly there is something, but I am not sure what it is.”
She looked away again, searching for words that would not betray her into false ones. “It is not the loss of what was never promised that troubles me,” she said at last. “It is the removal of the only person who might have told me plainly what occurred. What is still happening to me. And why.”
“Lizzy, I do not pretend to understand, but surely Mr Darcy is not the only person you can speak to. What of Papa?”
Elizabeth shook her head. “He understands less than I do. Look, Jane, we shall not improve matters by standing about. If I am to be blamed, I may as well do so from a position of dignity.”
Jane smiled at that. “And what would that be? Mr Collins is still downstairs, you know.”
“It hardly matters today. He seems to give pain no matter where he is. Come, let us walk to Lucas Lodge and see how Charlotte fares today after drinking so much punch.”