He tossed the letter onto the table where it lay, taunting him with the possibility of its containing any mention of Elizabeth, while he lowered himself into a chair and poured some coffee. He knew not which he most wished to gratify: his desire never to think of her again or his longing to know how she fared. Reasoning that Anne was unlikely to have mentioned her in any case, he opened the letter. Then, though but a moment before he had believed his wish for news to predominate, he began to regret reading.
Rosings Park
20thApril
Cousin,
Your recent visit must render any news I have redundant. Nevertheless, my mother insists.
We do tolerably well. The weather is improving at last, and I have been out in my phaeton every day it has not rained. Mr Collins’ sermon yesterday was his worst yet. You would have choked. Still, my mother seemed pleased by it.
She is to host a dinner next week for Lord and Lady Metcalfe. I do not look forward to it, for I have always thought Lady Metcalfe rather stupid. I suspect my mother only tolerates the connection as a meansof relieving her occasional ennui, which might explain the peculiar interest she took in Miss Bennet.
You would not credit their most recent exchange—a discussion of the differences in understanding between the classes. Miss Bennet holds that intellect cannot be dictated by accident of birth. Her example was her success in teaching one of the children of her father’s tenants to read. His mother left or died or some such, and he wished to read stories to his sister. All very touching I am sure, but really! Does she fancy herself governess to the poor? My mother was most vexed at being required to justify her opinion, but then, she would engage Miss Bennet to begin with! I hope Lady Metcalfe proves to be an adequate proxy?—
The gnawing ache of loneliness abruptly fractured into a gaping abyss, seething with insuperable memories, Elizabeth’s compassion not least among them. How fiercely Darcy cherished her compassion—her everything! Her laugh, her liveliness, her wit, her figure, her eyes—dear God, her eyes!
“Damn it, why can I not stop loving you, woman?”
He threw the letter down and propelled himself from his chair to stalk off the intolerable feeling of loss. That he should be in love at all was absurd. That he should love a woman with so immoveable a dislike of him was unbearable. And she accused him of causing others’ suffering! What did other people know of this torment? What was Jane Bennet’s misery but a frustrated design to marry well? What was Bingley’s but a necessary evil? Not even Georgiana could understand?—
He drew up short. Could Georgiana’s disappointment be so readily dismissed? Could the fiend who caused it be so readily forgiven? The thought struck him with force, shame blossoming like a bruise in his mind. Darcy well knew the grief of seeing a sister broken-hearted, yet with what ease, what presumption, had he dismissed Elizabeth’s anger. His own heart squeezed to think she must despise him as vehemently as he did Wickham.
His remorse notwithstanding, a grim relief overtook him. Nothing was mended; nothing was as it ought to be, despite the lie he had toldhis sister. Yet, for the first time since Elizabeth entered and tore up his world, Darcy knew precisely what he must do.
The arrival of a visitor distracted them, but a quick glance from the window revealed it to be an acquaintance of their uncle. Jane returned to arranging her sister’s hair, aware of, but refusing to acknowledge, how she scrutinised her in the mirror.
“’Tis no good,” Elizabeth said. “I cannot forgive their interference—not when I see you are this unhappy.”
Jane suppressed a sigh. She had hoped the interruption might end their conversation. “I am unhappy, yes,” she mumbled past the pin held between her teeth. Taking it out and pushing it into a curl, she added, “But I cannot believe that either Mr Darcy or Mr Bingley’s sisters schemed to make me so. Their motive was much more likely to protect him than to harm me.”
“Whatever their motive, the consequence remains unchanged. You are miserable.”
Whatever Elizabeth’s motive in so obstinately pursuing the matter, it was not helping to relieve the misery upon which she was so keen to remark. “Do not blame them, Lizzy,” she begged, coiling a last length of hair around her finger. “If Mr Bingley was persuaded to leave on the basis of their recommendation alone, it confirms nothing more than an error of fancy on my part.”
“I sincerely hope you do not mean to blame yourself!” Elizabeth cried, twisting to scowl up at her.
Better that than to blame Mr Bingley, Jane thought, for if she allowed him to be as heartless as Elizabeth wished to paint him, and with such awful friends, she would feel even more foolish for being unable to stop loving him. She gestured for Elizabeth to turn back to the mirror. “Let us talk about it no more, for no amount of reproach will change anything.” She added a last few pins and stepped back to review her work. “I am sure I shall begin to get the better of it very soon.”
“I hope so. You deserve to be happy. You are so good—and five times as pretty as the rest of us,” Elizabeth added playfully.
Jane smiled as best she could, though her best felt rather feeble. At that moment, with her hair gleaming in the last rays of afternoon sun, a smile illuminating her face and her eyes shining with mirth, sherather thought Elizabeth was the prettier one. She felt a twinge of something unpleasant but dismissed it and searched in her box for a ribbon.
“Indeed! Mr Atkinson thought so, too. Only you were too modest to notice.”
Jane said nothing and continued working, weaving the ribbon between curls and securing it with jewelled pins. She had noticed, actually. There had been several young gentlemen in attendance at Mr Atkinson’s dinner yesterday, all of whom had flocked to her upon first introduction. During the course of the evening, however, their attention had gravitated towards Elizabeth, where it then remained. It had since struck her that this was not an entirely uncommon occurrence. The more she thought on it, the more instances she recalled of her sister’s prevailing popularity. In the wake of Mr Bingley’s abandonment, these were not happy insights.
“Ow!” Elizabeth yelped, adding with a laugh, “I am sure it will look well enough without the ribbon!”
“A moment, ’tis nearly done.”
When Jane had been in Mr Bingley’s company, her sister’s presence had gone entirely unnoticed. His attentions had never diverted to Elizabeth or anyone else—until he left. She dropped the pin she held onto the dresser. “I believe that will do. You look very well. I am sure you will be much admired at the theatre.”
Bingley sat perfectly still, gawping at his friend. He was aware of all the things he ought to have felt—anger, disappointment and hope to name but a few—yet all he truly felt was unnerved. The man who owned to having given him such disastrous advice was the very man to whom he would usually apply for guidance on what to do about it, leaving him at something of an impasse.
“I am not at all sure how you expect me to respond to such an admission,” he said at length.
Darcy stared at him with exceedingly disconcerting gravity. “You have every right to be furious.”
