A Surprising Visitor #2
Elizabeth accompanied her, her eyes drifting to the mirror.
In the glass, she saw Bingley. His infectious, bouncing grin had vanished, replaced by an expression of such tenderness, almost worshipful, that Elizabeth’s fingers faltered.
It was the face of a man who had discovered his mistakes, filling with a regret mixed with yearning—the way Darcy had looked at her that night in the small parlor.
Darcy, who could not grin like Bingley, could not beam or bounce or wear his heart on his well-tailored sleeve, had looked at her with exactly this quality of arrested attention, and she had refused to see it.
The ballad’s notes drifted through the room, carrying the sorrow of a maiden who had tarried too long, singing to a lover already lost. A lump rose in Elizabeth’s throat, and the thought that had hovered since Darcy’s confession finally alighted: she had blamed him for Bingley’s absence, for his advice, but her own pride had played its part.
She had steeled herself against Darcy, and now, she could only hope she was not too late.
“Beautiful,” Bingley said when the song ended, and the room applauded as Jane thanked him and returned to the sofa, sitting closer to Bingley than before.
They fell back easily, naturally into conversation, and Elizabeth realized that neither Jane nor Bingley was thinking about the changed entail or her status as Longbourn’s heir.
Even her mother had subsided, with her hands clasped, beaming at her girls with a calm satisfaction.
The room’s attention turned to Mr. Cecil, who had arranged his preferred canvases on the easel. He cleared his throat and stepped forward while Elizabeth went to take her place next to Charlotte, who squeezed her hand gently—no words needed.
“We have, as you see here before us, a small exhibition of the young ladies’ work. Miss Bennet and Miss Catherine have been applying themselves quite diligently.”
He unveiled Kitty’s work first. Her sketches were clever, and Elizabeth had to admit, surprisingly accomplished—a study of Cleo the cat, curled on the hearth, and a portrait of Mr. Bennet in his armchair that captured his dry amusement with startling accuracy.
The room exclaimed, and Mr. Cecil noted that she had a natural eye for character, which was true, while Kitty flushed pink with the praise.
Jane’s watercolor stilled the conversation, holding every breath as Mr. Cecil unveiled it.
The Longbourn lane in winter with its bare elms and frozen ruts.
Jane’s perspective was one of departure, looking out toward the lane, the colors mute and the light grey-gold, the emptiness and the hope of a return—watching down the lane of memory.
And Elizabeth saw in that painting a small figure of Darcy lifting his hat at the bend, looking back at the silence of a waiting house—though it was but a blur where Jane’s brush wavered.
“Miss Bennet, this is so very fine,” Bingley said, standing before the painting. “You have caught the light just so, the sense of leavetaking. I have passed this lane a hundred times and not seen it as you have painted it.”
Neither had Elizabeth, but now that she had seen it through the eyes of Jane’s heart, she realized that Bingley, too, could never look at this lonely stretch of lane the same way again.
Hill arrived with fresh tea and seedcake, and conversation meandered agreeably. Mr. Bennet, unexpectedly animated, discoursed with Mrs. Hurst on the Caledonians, while Bingley, chastened by Jane’s painting, regarded her with a sorrow so transparent that even Mrs. Bennet might have noticed.
“Miss Bennet, please forgive me… I must apologize…”
And Jane sat serenely, awaiting and not interrupting. Elizabeth held her breath lest her mother interject, but Mrs. Bennet was stirring sugar into her tea. Perhaps Mrs. Beaumont’s refining lessons were paying off.
“I behaved abominably, not saying farewell and not leaving a note with your father…” Bingley tugged at his cravat, apparently overwhelmed by the inner turmoil. “I have no excuse except that I am a fool and was badly advised.”
“Mr. Bingley, you are here now, and that is what matters.”
“Yes, yes,” Bingley nodded. “It is only that your family is so well established here. The oldest and most significant… and I… well, we are not quite accepted.”
“Oh, but Mr. Bingley, that is not at all the case.” Mrs. Bennet could hold back no longer. “Were we not welcoming? Why, I insisted Mr. Bennet call on you when you first arrived. Was that not so, Mr. Bennet?”
“That was indeed true,” Bingley admitted. “But a friend persuaded me that your opinions are so decided, and I feared that should I, or a member of my party…” Here he glanced at Louisa, who pursed her lips, “were to insult you, that I would invite the entire neighborhood’s censure.”
Mr. Bennet set down the book he was discussing with Mrs. Hurst. “Have no fear, Mr. Bingley. We hold no grudge with you or your friends. Certain young ladies might be capricious, but our Jane will make a gracious mistress of Longbourn. Of that I have no doubt.”
Elizabeth felt the sting of her father’s words and the truth, and she waited for Bingley’s response. But it was Mrs. Hurst who spoke first.
“We are so heartened to hear that Miss Bennet is now your heir. I have always felt the injustice of these ancient entails, although my husband became the heir when his uncle sired only daughters.”
Mr. Hurst did not appear to hear, as he had achieved his goal of unconsciousness and was snoring in his corner near Cleo, who was curled up on his lap.
Her remarks, however, set Mrs. Bennet’s fan fluttering. “And to think that Mr. Darcy, of all people, was next in line after poor Mr. Collins. Mr. Bingley, did you ever imagine that a Darcy would inherit from a Bennet?”
Bingley seemed to brighten as he accepted a glass of wine. “Why, that is exactly the kind of thing from a Gothic novel. Did you know, Mrs. Bennet, that our modest family has a connection to the Darcys way up the line?”
“Oh! Pray tell.” Mrs. Bennet’s eyes glittered with more interest, and even Mr. Bennet leaned forward, alert.