Elizabeth felt little sympathy for her youngest sisters. “I saw to mine days ago. Besides, more hands make for light work. They should help stitch their own gowns.”
Mama’s voice drifted into the room before she rounded the corner. “Has Lizzy returned yet? So much to be done and the ungrateful child dashes off to Lord-knows-where! She has no respect for my nerves. Just like her father.” Her caps fluttered around her face. “Oh, there you are. Just in time to help Jane. My girls must look their best for Mr. Bingley’s ball. I am convinced he will announce your engagement tonight, Jane.”
“Mama, he—” Jane tried, but their mother was like those heavy steam engines Elizabeth had read about: impossible to stop once she got going on her favorite topic.
“A ball to celebrate my Jane’s recovery!” Mama clapped her hands under her chin and swayed. “I knew you could not be so beautiful for nothing.”
As though Jane’s chief accomplishment was no more than the pleasing features with which she had been born—features which their mother was quick to point out were similar to her own in her youth. Next, Mama would lament their precarious position without a male son to inherit Longbourn, and then she would bemoan Mr. Bennet’s imminent death, proclaiming they would all be cast into the hedgerows when Mr. Collins took possession of their home. She would not-so-subtly imply that it was Elizabeth’s duty to marry that oaf, and then she would repeat the one thing that never failed to make Jane cry herself to sleep at night: “If only my beautiful Jane was married already.”
Elizabeth grabbed Jane’s hand and tugged her toward the door. “It is for that reason we shall see that Kitty and Lydia return with our shoe roses. Jane cannot manage alone, and if we all help, she will have sufficient time to rest before the ball.” And now the clincher. “You do wish for Jane to look her best tonight, do you not, Mama?”
“Oh, I had not considered that, but of course she ought to look her best if Mr. Bingley is to propose. How clever you are, Lizzy! Let me ask Mr. Collins to accompany you and you may be on your way.”
After several frustrating lost minutes, during which Mr. Collins kept them waiting in the hall, Mr. Hill finally approached, hands clasped in front of him, face downcast. “I regret to inform you that Mr. Collins’ boots are nowhere to be found.”
“Nowhere to be found? How can that be?” Mama fanned her face, a sure sign of her increasing agitation.
Elizabeth reached for her coat. “‘Tis no matter. We shall not be long.”
Mrs. Hill helped her and Jane into their warm clothing, and Elizabeth saw Mr. Hill share a look with his wife as he crossed the hall to open the door. What was the pair up to? A subtle wink from the faithful manservant confirmed that he knew more about the disappearance of Mr. Collins’ boots than he let on. Elizabeth would have kissed him on the cheek, but her mother was watching.
Neither the chill in the air nor the mud squishing under the soles of her half-boots dimmed Elizabeth’s resplendent humor. Thanks to the efforts of the Hills, she had successfully evaded Mr. Collins, Mary was practicing a pleasant tune she would perform to advantage, and they would snatch Kitty and Lydia away from Meryton before any harm could be done. It was a beautiful, perfect day. “I think I shall buy the Hills a sugar plum before we return,” she told Jane.
“That is thoughtful of you, Lizzy. They shall enjoy a well-deserved free evening, though I daresay they will have Sarah stay up to receive us.”
Elizabeth looped her arm around Jane’s. "What of you, dearest? To have Mr. Bingley host a ball in your honor...?"
Jane blushed. "You would have me believe he arranged it for me when it is no such thing."
"Is it not?" Elizabeth peeked at her askance.
"I dare not flatter myself so much."
"But do you not wish for such a marked display of his favor?"
Jane collected her thoughts, then replied slowly, deliberately. "Of course, I do. Mr. Bingley is a kind gentleman and an attentive host."
"Then what is the problem?"
“It is so painful to have one’s expectations dashed. I would rather not have any. You heard him say that he is just as happy here as he would be anywhere else, and his sisters are accomplished in ways I shall never be—”
Elizabeth hugged her arm tighter. “And their money comes from trade! Do not convince yourself that you are undeserving of his attention, Jane. By birth, you are his superior; in temperament, his equal; in the heart, his perfect match. You must believe me. You are worth a hundred Miss Bingleys."
Jane looked down. She was too modest to admit what Elizabeth knew in her bones to be true, and it made her angry that anyone should make Jane doubt her worth. Had she not suffered enough superior airs during their week-long stay at Netherfield Park to last a lifetime? From that, Mr. Bingley must, of course, be excused. He was the perfect gentleman and an exceptional host. But his sisters’ airs and condescension offended all convention.
And then there was Mr. Darcy. That such intelligence should be granted to such a proud, disagreeable man was a grave infraction of justice. Every opinion Elizabeth gave, he challenged. Every conversation, he turned into a debate. Every time their eyes met, he frowned and crossed his arms. The pompous, insufferable…
“Ouch, Lizzy, you are pinching me.” Jane tugged her arm.
Elizabeth loosened her hold. “Sorry, dearest. My thoughts took a sour turn.” She would not waste another moment on Mr. Darcy. He was not Mr. Bingley’s guardian for his opinion to be of any consequence. Smiling at Jane, she shared one of the conclusions she had pondered during her morning ramble. “In truth, love is a great equalizer. It cares not for station, fortune, or connections. Its only requirement to thrive is to be returned in equal measure. Mr. Bingley loves you, Jane. Of that, I am certain.”
The uncertainty in Jane’s eyes made Elizabeth more determined to prove her point.
Unfortunately, that was the same moment the confectionery came into view, and who should be blocking passage into the shop but Lydia? And that was not the worst of it. Not by the least. Mr. Wickham held something out of her reach, and Lydia shamelessly leaned over him, hopping, squealing, and draping herself all over him to fetch whatever the source of her desire was.
He, at least, attempted to pull her off, though Elizabeth feared that his forbearing smile only encouraged Lydia rather than conveying embarrassment.
Kitty was too busy batting her eyelashes at Mr. Denny to be of any assistance.
