“I do not deny that I enjoyed his attentions in the autumn, but it is not jealousy that motivates me to speak thus—it is prudence. Mr Wickham has attempted to seduce two young girls—perhaps more—and brazenly lied about Mr Darcy. How can you defend him?”
“Indeed, I am not defending his actions, but neither am I prepared to condemn his character entirely until I know his reasons. We cannot know beyond doubt that he did not love Miss Darcy or Miss King, and if he was truly attached to both, then the poor man has had his affections rebuffed at every turn for nothing more than his want of circumstances. It is too horrible. Iknowthat pain, Lizzy!”
Elizabeth comprehended at last. Jane’s obstinate support stemmed from some imagined affinity with him because he, too, claimed to have been jilted. Comprehension scarcely eased her frustration. Evidently, her sister wasnotready to hear any unpleasant truths—in which case, she was certainly not ready to hear about Mr Darcy’s proposal. No doubt, she would argue his conduct had been faultless, smooth away all insult in misunderstanding and render his contemptuous address romantic and heartfelt.
“I understand your desire to condole with him,” she conceded, “but you will never convince me your situation and his are comparable. May we at least agree he is not beyond reproach?”
To this, as well as to the appeal to preserve Miss Darcy’s secret, Jane readily agreed, after which the matter was dropped. When Longbourn’s chimneys came into view half an hour later, the sisters were returned to their usual harmony, their quarrel well and truly behind them.
Saturday 2 May 1812, Hertfordshire
Kitty’s announcement that a certain gentleman was riding towards the house threw Jane into an unbearable state of suspense. Elizabeth had walked out, and in the absence of her good sense, there was little to prevent Mrs Bennet’s hysterical fluttering or Kitty and Lydia’s wild speculations as to their visitor’s purpose. By the time Mr Bingley arrived and the long-awaited interview began, Jane had abandoned all hope of approaching it with equanimity. She longed to observe whether he paid her any peculiar attention yet scarcely dared look at him. She longed to speak but could think of nothing to say. It seemed safest to concentrate on her embroidery and allow her mother to do the talking. Mrs Bennet soon proved otherwise by forcing a mortifying turn in the conversation.
“I recall you saying, Mr Bingley, that whenever you were in Town, you never wished to leave it.”
“Did I? But, of course, I must have if you recall it,” he replied amiably.
“You did. Yet, here you are! How ought we to account for it? What is here that could possibly tempt you away?”
To Jane’s astonishment, Mr Bingley looked directly at her andreplied, “I decided the country had one considerable advantage over London and that I should be much happier here.”
She gasped and instinctively lifted a hand to her breast. Her embroidery hoop dropped to the floor. She lunged after it, but too fast, for she lost her balance and toppled after it. Stifling an unladylike screech, she reached for the nearby occasional table to break her fall. The folding leaf of the traitorous furniture unceremoniously folded, clearly mistaking the occasion for an entirely different one where its services were not required. Her hand swept down towards the ground, followed by her head and shoulders as she made unintentional obeisance to the room, the stack of ribbons atop the table unfurled in a colourful fountain and to her utter mortification, a distinct ripping sound came from under her arm.
Her sisters erupted into laughter. Her mother openly lamented her inelegance. She dared not look at Mr Bingley as she slid back into her seat, despairing of ever regaining his esteem after such an exhibition. It was with a palpable sense of relief that she heard the front door open and the sound of Elizabeth’s voice. When her sister came into the parlour, Jane turned away from the gathered company and mouthed to her urgently,Help!
Elizabeth judged the awkwardness pervading the parlour to be beyond salvation. She suggested they walk in the garden instead, and with a little help from her mother in dissuading the younger girls from joining them, it was agreed.
“’Tis well,” she assured her sister quietly, nudging her towards the stairs. “He has come this far—a dropped hoop is not likely to put him off. Go! Change your dress and take a moment to collect yourself. I shall sing your praises until you return.”
She found Mr Bingley by the front door, and together they resolved to take a slow turn whilst they awaited Jane.
“Is your sister well?” he enquired.
“Perfectly well, thank you. She is changing into something better suited to walking.” It did not seem to placate him overmuch. In an attempt to give him heart, she added, “We are all exceedingly pleased to see you returned.”
“It is exceedingly pleasant to be back.”
“And were there one person’s opinion you particularly cared for,” she said with a sly glance, “I daresay you may be confident of a warm welcome there also.” The hope overspreading his countenance was all she could have hoped for on Jane’s behalf.
“I thank you sincerely for your assurances. I hoped, from what Darcy said, you would be my ally.”
Her heart skipped a beat. “He spoke of me?”
“Oh yes, he confessed everything. I know it all.”
“All, sir?” It was an effort to keep her voice steady.
“I know you did not see eye to eye with him, but I assure you Darcy is a very good sort of man—and exceptionally loyal. As soon as he realised his actions had injured me, he felt obliged to confess his mistake. I know of his misjudgement of your sister’s affections, his concealment of her presence in Town this winter, and your assertion of her regard—all of it.”
“I see.” Elizabeth could only hope the omission of any mention of his proposal was indicative of Mr Bingley’s ignorance rather than his discretion.
“I cannot thank you enough for speaking up, Miss Elizabeth. I am quite in your debt.”
She smiled distractedly, consumed by a sudden and compelling desire to hear more about his friend. With as much disinterest as she could feign, she enquired whether Mr Darcy would be joining him at Netherfield.
“Not on this occasion,” he answered. “He has been particularly busy these past weeks—rarely home to callers and unwell to boot.”
“He is unwell?” She endeavoured to ignore the cloying sensation of guilt, for surely even with her vanity, she could not take credit for an ague.
