“You have stolen my sister from me! You, whoknewhow heartbroken I was at our estrangement, have stood by and pretended to be puzzled by her bitterness and jealousy, all the whileknowingthe cause!”
“That is not true! I was not aware she knew of my feelings until we argued just before I left Netherfield. How would I have suspected? What woman in her right mind would trick a man sheknowsdoes not love her into marriage?”
His obstinate ignorance brought tears to Elizabeth’s eyes. “One who loves him very, very much.”
“She did?”
“I daresay she still does. Else she would not care that you do not.” She took a deep breath and swiped away a tear, determined not to weep on his account. “How could you? You have betrayed us all.”
He could not have looked more wretched, but she could summon no pity for him. “Get out of my sight, Mr Bingley. Better yet, get out of my house.”
She really thought he might begin to weep when he mumbled a pitiful query as to where he ought to go.
“I have long been an advocate of your leaving the country,” Mrs Sinclair opined. “The idea has had few supporters as I understand it, but I suspect exile is presently the safest option available to you.”
Bingley nodded glumly. “I shall leave England as planned in two weeks.”
“I think not, sir,” Elizabeth objected. “You must see it is your duty to return to Netherfield and be a proper husband to my sister.”
“I should let him go, Lizzy,” Mrs Sinclair demurred. “He is of no use to anybody this side of the Atlantic.”
“He is of use to Jane.”
“A ringing endorsement, by all accounts!” She levered herself to her feet with her cane. “Mr Bingley, you have the privilege of being the most unparalleled idiot I have ever known. And since I have been alive for the best part of a century, I urge you not to underestimate the scope of such a commendation.”
Bingley sent Elizabeth a plaintive look. “For what it is worth, I truly love you.”
“It is worth nothing, Mr Bingley. Nothing at all.”
She took the arm Mrs Sinclair held out for her and left, resolutely refusing to shed a tear until later when she was securely closeted beneath the covers of Darcy’s bed.
Friday 5 March 1813, London
Caroline Bingley arrived home in a foul humour, having passed the previous two hours being out-ranked, out-shopped and out-flirted by her friends. “Where is everybody?” she enquired, flicking her things at the butler.
“Mr Hurst is at his club, ma’am. Mrs Hurst is taking the air with her daughter, and I believe you will find Mrs Bingley in the parlour.”
She inclined her head and walked with little anticipation of pleasure to find the latter. Her expectations were not disappointed. She found Jane hunched over a letter, sobbing uncontrollably into a handkerchief from which a needle still dangled on a thread from a corner. With a resigned sigh, Caroline sat next to her, patted her knee with the furthest ends of her fingertips and enquired what the matter was.
After one or two false beginnings, Jane managed to communicate that the letter was from her sister. “Mr Darcy gave it to me yesterday, but I have only now had the courage to read it.”
“I take it whatever made you delay opening it has come to bear?”
She shook her head. “I knew not what to expect, but this is worse. Elizabeth writes that Charles is seriously contemplating going to live in Nova Scotia!”
“I see. You may cease your fretting this instant if that is all that has distressed you. Charles has neverseriouslyconsidered anything in his life. Even if the thought has occurred to him, he will get no furtherthan choosing which of his neckcloths to pack. He will come home. You may rely upon it.”
“In that case, what comfort will it be to know it was only irresolution that made him stay?”
Caroline weighed her low opinion of Jane’s fortitude with the need for frankness and decided the latter was more pressing in the present circumstances. “Pardon my saying so, but if you do not begin to give him a little encouragement, irresolution may well be the best for which you can hope. My brother has a great natural modesty of which Louisa and I have ever despaired. He is the sort of man who requires considerable urging to resolve on anything.” In response to Jane’s look of bewilderment, she added, “Your determination to be as cold and indifferent a wife as ever lived is not likely to convince him to love you.”
Perhaps she might have worded it better. The tears returned.
“Cold and indifferent?”
“My dear, you are hardly what one would call a demonstrative wife.”
“But you impressed upon me the importance of not being one! You disdained my meekness! You instructed me in my tone of voice, my address and expressions—in all the things that would make me more acceptable to your sphere. Indeed, Lady Ashby was adamant that becoming more fashionable would earn me his esteem!”
