“Well, nothing actuallycameoff, so I daresay it could have gone worse for him.”
Darcy’s lips twitched, threatening a laugh, and Fitzwilliam knew all would be well. “She is not dead, is she?”
“No, she is very much alive.” With a small but triumphant smile, he added, “We are engaged.”
“Engaged? I thought she did not love you!”
“I thought you considered love a frivolous criterion for marriage.”
“I did. I do. It is! But?—”
The insufferable bugger smirked so boyishly he looked almost giddy. Awash with relief for his long-suffering cousin, Fitzwilliam gave over quibbling and gave him a firm slap on the shoulder. “I could not be more delighted for you, old chap.”
“Nor I. I had despaired, but—she is mine!”
They were interrupted by a loud groan from Bingley, who came trudging over the threshold behind Darcy. “You are very welcome, Fitzwilliam, but I hope you will forgive me if I postpone a proper greeting until tomorrow. I have the devil of a headache. I think I shall retire directly. Feel free to use my study, Darcy. I am sure you two have much to discuss.”
“There is no need to make yourself scarce in your own home,” Darcy assured him.
“You give me false credit. I had no such noble intentions. I only wish to be spared your raptures.”
Fitzwilliam scoffed. In eight and twenty years he had never heard Darcy rhapsodise.
“Help yourselves to brandy,” Bingley offered. Then, eyeing Fitzwilliam, he added, “If there is any left.”
“We shall make do! Snap to it!” he said as he passed Darcy. “I’ll not be kept in suspense any longer!”
Thus, the cousins retreated to Bingley’s study to enjoy a second evening of drink-fuelled discourse on the subject of Elizabeth Bennet—this one far pleasanter than the last.
Bingley hauled his tired body up the stairs, alarmingly close to vomiting. He and Darcy had passed the journey home explaining to each other how their relative betrothals came about. He had been largely unmoved by his friend’s allusions to various disappointments and struggles, for Darcy had Elizabeth and, therefore, no cause to repine.
His own story had been necessarily abridged, for he could hardly own that he had meant to offer forDarcy’sfuture wife.
Darcy’s last declaration, “She is mine,” was simply outside of enough. Ravaged by the thought of Elizabeth in any other man’s arms, Bingley had not the fortitude to listen to Darcy rave about it or hear his cousin congratulate him for it. Instead, he gathered his regrets and took himself off to bed.
Thursday 11 June 1812, Hertfordshire
“Alone at last!” Elizabeth sighed as the carriage juddered into motion. “I thought we might never speak privately again.”
Jane regarded her sister’s radiant smile sullenly. They travelled to breakfast at Netherfield, as agreed with their respective future husbands the previous evening, and it was the first time they had been alone together since. They might have spoken last night had she not pretended to be asleep, but, wounded that Elizabeth had concealed allhint of her dealings with Mr Darcy from her and devastated by Bingley’s apparent dismay, her envy had left her disinclined to celebrate. “I was not aware you wished to speak to me. You seem to have kept much unsaid of late.”
Elizabeth’s smile died instantly. “Are you angry with me?”
Jane turned to peer out of the window. “I am more hurt than angry.”
She felt her hands taken up and reluctantly looked back.
“I did not set out to exclude you,” Elizabeth said, “but in London, you were still so very low, and at the time, I was convinced everything that happened in Kent would soon be forgotten anyway. I saw no advantage to burdening you with any of it. And then…” She looked down at their clasped hands, and her voice became unexpectedly tremulous. “Once I ceased being a fool and acknowledged to myself that I loved Darcy, I was too embarrassed to mention it, for I was sure he would never return for me. It was easiest to say nothing.”
Jane understood better than most how much easier it was to deny heartache than suffer everybody’s remarks. Hearing it explained thus disposed her to be more understanding. “You must love him very much.”
“I do, Jane! So very dearly.” Her eyes sparkled as they had always used to whenever she disclosed some great mischief as a child.
Jane felt a flush of shame. This was Elizabeth—ever her dearest friend and closest ally. From whence had such unjust bitterness sprung? “Well then,” she said gently, “we have most of our journey remaining. Will you not tell me some more about my new brother?”
By the time they arrived at Netherfield, Elizabeth’s brief wretchedness had passed, and she once again bubbled over with jubilation. Jane’s own equanimity was less assured. Though delighted to have regained her sister’s confidence, she was, by the same token, returned mercilessly to her earlier envy as every part of Elizabeth’s quixotic tale gave stark contrast to her own less than zealous courtship.
Caroline Bingley awoke in a much-improved humour on Thursday morning. Louisa had said in her letter that Charles was immovably decided for Eliza Bennet, whom Colonel Fitzwilliam assured her was dead. She had sought and received confirmation of that fromPeabody, who had shaken his head gravely and agreed that no party could have wished for matters to end as they had. Though she would not rejoice in any person’s death, one played the cards one was dealt. Miss Eliza was deceased, Charles was unshackled, and her own future in societywas secured.
