Be assured—naught ails him that time will not mend.
Col. Fitzwilliam
Wednesday 20 May 1812, Hertfordshire
Jane started when the parlour door was flung open, and her mother swept in.
“Ah, good, you are both here,” said Mrs Bennet, dropping into her favourite armchair. “Come closer, girls. I would speak with you.”
Jane looked enquiringly at Elizabeth, who returned a look of equal bemusement. Both set their work aside and moved to sit on the sofa.
“It is clear after yesterday,” began Mrs Bennet, “that you are both in dire need of some direction. Jane, I shall begin with you. Mr Bingley arranged that picnic in your honour, yet you spent most of the afternoon sitting out of games and refusing to speak to him. He will think you are not interested if you continue to be so unforthcoming.”
Her mother could not have made a more distressing observation, for Jane was all too conscious that the easy friendship she and Mr Bingley once enjoyed had been eclipsed by awkwardness and reserve.
“You like him, do you not?”
“I love him!”
“Then you must show it, or he will never offer for you.”
Jane gasped.
“I think what Mama is trying to say,” Elizabeth interjected, reaching for Jane’s hand, “is that perhaps Mr Bingley needs a little encouragement. If you only spoke to him a little more?—”
“Oh, as you do?”
Jane had not meant to say the words aloud and was sorry whenElizabeth recoiled. Yet, now it was said, she found she could not regret it. All day at the picnic, whilst she had struggled to think of a thing to say, her sister had delighted the guests—and, more particularly, the host—with her easy conversation and clever wit. Watching Mr Bingley watch her at archery had been deeply troubling, akin to watching the entire neighbourhood watch them dance together at the assembly. Both incidents had kindled a wholly unfamiliar yet potent sentiment in her mind: envy.
“She is quite right, Lizzy,” Mrs Bennet said. “You must desist from flirting with Mr Bingley.”
Elizabeth’s expression of pained disbelief was nothing to Jane’s dismay. Surely her dearest sister would never usurp Mr Bingley’s attentions by design. Yet if her mother believed it…
“I assure you, I flirted with nobody yesterday,” Elizabeth said tightly. “And certainly not Mr Bingley. Indeed, it grieves me that you consider me capable of it.”
Mrs Bennet clicked her tongue impatiently. “Do not get on at me, girl. I did not say your manner was at fault—only your focus. Leave Mr Bingley alone and?—”
“You speak as though I am Lydia, pestering the poor man for attention! If Mr Bingley and I have become better acquainted, it is only through my attempts to help you, Jane, when you have been too shy to speak to him.”
“You have no business being friends with Mr Bingley!” Mrs Bennet objected, negating the necessity of Jane saying the same thing. “No, you must direct your efforts towards Mr Greyson.”
Elizabeth’s eyes widened. “Mr Greyson?”
“Why, yes! He likes you very well. You could secure him in an instant if you would only use the same charm on him you have done with Mr Bingley.”
“Madam, I have used no charm! And I do not wish to persuade Mr Greyson of anything.”
Mrs Bennet’s expression grew pinched. “You will do as you are told. If you had done your duty and married Mr Collins, none of this would matter. Then you could have flirted with whomever you chose!”
Elizabeth surged from her chair with an angry growl and stormed to the door. Mrs Bennet followed her, screeching at her even after she left the room about wilful ways and ingratitude. Elizabeth’s only replywas to close the front door with excessive force. Mrs Bennet turned back into the parlour, her lips pursed, and her face and neck suffused with a deep flush. “Obstinate, headstrong girl!”
Jane was unused, but not entirely averse, to the sense of vindication that overcame her. “Not quite so charmingnow, Lizzy,” she muttered.
Her mother rounded on her. “You could learn a good deal from your sister. She has gentlemen eating from the palm of her hand. You would do well to take a leaf from her book before Mr Bingley changes his mind again and disappears off to Nova Scotia forevermore!” She stomped from the room shouting for Hill and Jane was left to all the satisfaction of having forced her to say what gave no one any pain but herself.
Thursday 21 May 1812, London
The air was damp and the sky overcast, yet the day was not cold, and birdsong filled the park. Had Darcy not been burdened with the prospect of a most disagreeable conversation, he would have taken a good deal more pleasure in the early morning ride.
