Dearest Lady Ashby,
We are back at Netherfield at last! I cannot thank you enough for the solicitous concern expressed in your last letter, which made what was indeed a difficult visit bearable. E has ever been possessed of a quick wit and stout courage, but I struggled to find ought pleasurable in either on this occasion. She made private jokes with the gentlemen, dominated every conversation, spoke impertinently to and of her husband with little mind to her audience and incorrectly assumed she would be universally admired for her independence.
You will know how deeply this behaviour distressed me, given my fear that her careless charms might once again draw B in. Yet, though at first he seemed excessively attentive to her, by the end, I was far less anxious. What you predicted, I believe, is coming to bear. Her power over him is fading. Your cousin reveals little of his feelings, but even he failed on a few occasions to conceal his displeasure, and if his favour is so rapidly diminishing, it cannot be long before B’s dwindles entirely.
Forgive me if it pains you to discover this. I know you were hoping for better news, but such assurances I cannot provide. He was embarrassed several times as a result of E’s disregard for propriety while we were there, and I fear such is not an uncommon occurrence. Even B expressed concern for his friend’s displeasure with E and the frequency and bitterness of their disputes.
He has invited them to stay with us on their way to your cousin’s wedding in Kent, which I sincerely hope is attributable to sympathy for his friend and nothing more. I do not relish another visit so soon, but wish that, away from P, E might spare a little more thought to the effect of her behaviour upon others less garrulous than herself.
All that remains to be said is what consolation your friendship brings me during these trying times, for which I thank you most sincerely.
Affectionately yours,
Jane Bingley
Monday 28 September 1812, Hertfordshire
Autumn had well and truly settled over Hertfordshire by the time the Bingleys returned from their travels. The trees were every shade of orange, brown and red, dusty paths had turned to mud, and the air grew chillier by the day. For Jane’s youngest sister, there was but one consequence of changing seasons worth considering: changing gowns. Thus, presently, Jane was ensconced in her bedchamber while Lydia rummaged through her closet for a different, mayhap warmer, definitely finer gown than any of her own to wear to the next assembly in Meryton. With Mrs Bennet closely supervising the search, there was little for Jane to do but sit on her chaise longue and watch.
“La, what is this old thing doing in here?” Lydia exclaimed, backing out of the closet and sneering at the gown she held up before her. “’Tis two years old at least! Look at the sleeves!”
“Lay it on the bed, Lydia,” Mrs Bennet instructed her. “That one can go to the maid.”
Lydia did as she was bid then returned to foraging. Jane sighed. “Mama, it is a perfectly serviceable gown. With very few adjustments, it could be worn for half-dress.”
“Half dress? You could not wear that to bed, never mind to dinner. You would not be fit to be seen! Really, Jane, you must better attend to these matters. It is no wonder you are not yet with child if that is the sort of thing you are wearing!”
Before Jane could summon a response to such a shocking and offensive non sequitur, her mother shuffled closer and began speaking in such a quiet voice, with such vastly exaggerated enunciation, as made her harder, not easier, to understand. “We have spoken before of men’s desires and how to entice them. The same is just as true after you wed. Bingley will not come to you if you do not make yourself alluring. And youneedhim to come to you, Jane, for unless he is prodigiously blessed, he will not get you with child from the next room.”
“He does come to me!” Jane whispered, mortified.
“Evidently not often enough or you would be increasing by now.”
“We have not yet been married three months!”
“And you must not go any longer. You must dress to tempt him better.” A shrewd smile overtook her countenance. “Indeed, when Lizzy arrives on Friday, ask to borrow some of her gowns. He will like that.”
Jane’s blood ran cold. “I have no wish to dress like Lizzy.”
“I know, dear, but it might not be such a poor scheme.”
She inhaled deeply, attempting not to sound too breathless as she enquired whether her mother believed Bingley favoured Elizabeth.
“It hardly matters which of you he favours. He married you;thus, it isyou who must provide him with an heir.”
Jane came to her feet with a wordless cry, appalled beyond measure. Her dismay, and perhaps the sudden movement, made her lightheaded. She fumbled for the arm of the chaise longue and dropped back into her seat with tears stinging her eyes. Her anguish was rudely interrupted when her mother shoved a bottle of smelling salts under her nose, bringing her lurching forward, retching, and the awaiting tears cascading down her cheeks.
“What is the matter with Jane?” Lydia enquired.
“Hush, child!” Mrs Bennet admonished as she leant over Jane, peering at her suspiciously. “Are you sure you are not already with child? Now that I notice it, you do seem very pale and mayhap a little thickened about the waist.”
Jane closed her eyes. “It is possible,” she mumbled, supposing it was—in theory—and hoping it might satisfy her mother enough to make her go away.
It did not.
“Oh,Jane! You clever girl! Lydia, did you hear? Oh, heavens above, what happy news!”
“Kitty and I wondered who would be first,” Lydia replied. “She thought Lizzy, but I thought you, Jane. And I was right! You have beaten Lizzy to it!”
