“Are you settled in?” Elizabeth asked, steppinginside.
Jane looked up and smiled. “Quite. This room is beautiful. Mrs. Hurst insisted I take it—it has the best light, she said.”
Elizabeth arched an eyebrow. “How very generous of her.”
Jane tilted her head, blinking. “You do not sound convinced.”
Elizabeth hesitated, then took a few steps closer. “What do you make of Miss Bingley’s behavior this evening?”
Jane blinked again, confusion clouding her lovely features. “Miss Bingley? Why, she was… as she always is, I suppose.”
“You did not notice anything?”
Jane frowned slightly, her tone still gentle. “No. Should I have?”
Elizabeth gave a small laugh and waved a hand as if to dismiss the thought. “Never mind. Perhaps I imagined it. Perhaps I was distracted.”
She perched beside her sister, nudging her gently. “You, after all, have quite the distraction of your own. I believe the only thing you noticed tonight was Mr. Bingley.”
Jane flushed but did not protest.
Elizabeth leaned in, lowering her voice and affecting an exaggerated tone. “‘If Mr. Bingley does not propose before Christmas, I shall eat my best hat! The blue one, trimmedin ribbons! And it will beyour fault, Lizzy, for not throwing them together at every opportunity!’”
Jane laughed, the sound soft and musical. “That is a dreadful impression of Mama.”
Elizabeth grinned. “Yes, but not an inaccurate one.”
They both laughed again, and for a moment the tension that had clung to Elizabeth since morning loosened its grip.
She stood and gave her sister’s hand a squeeze. “Sleep well, dearest.”
“You as well.”
Elizabeth returned to her own chamber, closing the door behind her with a soft click. The fire had burned lower, casting longer shadows now. She moved to the bed and slipped beneath the covers, pulling them up around her shoulders, letting her body relax into the warmth.
But her mind did not rest.
She stared at the canopy above her, thinking again of the drawing room—of Miss Bingley’s thinly veiled remarks, her watchful gaze, the brittle smile that never reached her eyes. Jane did not see it, of course. Jane saw only kindness and good intentions wherever she looked. Elizabeth envied that capacity, even as she found it maddening.
Miss Bingley did not like Jane. Of that Elizabeth was certain. She tolerated her for her brother'ssake, but her affection was feigned and fleeting. And her dislike for Elizabeth herself was becoming more difficult to disguise with every passing day.
Still, what did it matter?
Elizabeth let her thoughts drift to the walk she had taken that evening—the way the wind had tugged at the ribbons of her bonnet, the quiet hush of the earth beneath her boots, and the man who had walked beside her with such surprising ease.
Mr. Darcy.
She had not expected him to laugh. But he had. Not loudly, not mockingly—but sincerely. His eyes had crinkled at the corners, his voice had softened, and for a few stolen moments, he had not been the proud, aloof figure she had first judged so harshly.
He had listened to her. He had taken her concerns seriously. And when he had spoken, it had been not with condescension, but with thoughtfulness.
She had admired him before—grudgingly, stubbornly—but now the feeling was something gentler, something warmer. There was no denying that she looked forward to his company, that his presence steadied her.
And if she must endure Miss Bingley’s brittle smiles and sharp words for a few days longer, it would not be such a great hardship.
Not if he remained near.
Elizabeth turned onto her side and pulled the covers closer. The fire crackled gently, and the night stretched quiet around her.
