Immediately upon leaving my cousin’s home I called upon Bingley, where I found no relief for this new concern. Once we were able to extricate ourselves from Miss Bingley’s attentions on a pretence of business matters, I asked after the Gardiners and Bennets and learnt that though all were in health, Miss Elizabeth had declined to appear in society any longer.
“Miss Bennet has been quite uncommunicative about the matter,” he mused, seeming no less worried than I. “Sir John is no longer in the picture, that is all I know. I have seen Miss Elizabeth when I called, and she seems in very low spirits.”
“I am sorry for it, and sorrier still for my own part in her troubles. I hope, rather than believe, that they are not connected.”
Bingley looked at me in some surprise, then frowned. “You think that he may have thrown her over due to her lack of popularity?”
“Something like that, yes.”
“Ridiculous! She is as fine a lady as I have ever known!” he protested. “Sensible, good-humoured, and devilish clever, not to mention nearly as pretty as her sister.” He drummed his fingers on the desk for a moment, and then added, “I hope very much that she will soon be my sister.”
“You have made your decision, then?”
“I have. Do you think that you and Miss Elizabeth will be able to get along?”
“Certainly, for my part. Whether she will be able to abide me, I cannot say,” I replied. I squelched the impulse to again attempt to talk him out of marrying a lady of little distinction; speaking against a Bennet had already gone spectacularly wrong, and I was in no mood to chance a repeat. Let Bingley make his own choices, and live with them. It seemed unlikely that he would be unhappy with such a gentle creature, after all.
I saw the Gardiners and Miss Bennet at a card party held by a distant relation of mine two days later. Though I only bowed to Sir Edward and his wife from a distance, I boldly approached Miss Bennet, despite Bingley’s absence, and rather awkwardly mentioned that I had hoped to see Miss Elizabeth with her.
Miss Bennet smiled as though I had said something entirely wonderful. “I will be sure to tell her that you asked after her, Mr Darcy. She has decided that she does not much care for the social whirl,” she added delicately, “but her friends are always welcome to call at my uncle’s home. Miss Downing and Lady Julia visited us earlier today.”
I wondered if Miss Bennet had forgot that her sister certainly did not consider me a friend, but suspected that she had simply chosen to believe my enquiry meant that all was forgiven between us. I was not so sanguine, but the idea of calling upon Miss Elizabeth, of seeing for myself how she fared and perhaps attempting to further mend matters, took root in my mind. I deliberated over the notion for several days more before resolving to risk the very real possibility of being turned away.
When I presented my card at the large, handsome house on Gracechurch Street, the door was not shut in my face. I was instead brought upstairs to a finely appointed room where Lady Gardiner greeted me with perfect civility. We spoke for some minutes—it transpired that she had spent much of her childhood not five miles from my own home—before I felt myself able to enquire after Miss Elizabeth.
“She is in good health,” the lady replied.
“So I have been told; but with you, I will be open and confess that I have been concerned for her state of mind since her confrontation with a certain gentleman who does not deserve the appellation. Indeed, I feared that he might have bruised her, for he seemed to be gripping her arms very tightly.”
I soon understood that I had blundered again. Lady Gardiner knew nothing of a confrontation, or of my presence during it. She knew only that the man had made her niece a dishonourable proposition, and had been refused. I had little choice but to inform her of what I had witnessed. That she was displeased was evident, but her wrath was reserved for the scoundrel, and she thanked me most graciously for my intervention and subsequent silence, and requested that I pass her gratitude along to my cousin, also.
I soon took my leave, for the atmosphere had become stilted and it was clear that Lady Gardiner was distracted by what I had disclosed. I regretted that, as I regretted not coming to know the ladies of this household sooner. They were, each of them, estimable beyond the common way, and I felt that I had by my early behaviour relinquished the opportunity of a closer acquaintance than being tolerated as Bingley’s good friend.
As I approached the bottom of the stairs, a door opened to what a quick glimpse suggested was a comfortable family sitting room, and the object of my visit emerged. “Miss Elizabeth,” I said, hurrying the last few steps to bow before her. “How are you?”
Surprised, she made a perfunctory curtsey. “Mr Darcy. I am well, thank you.”
But I could see that she was not well. She was pale and drawn, with dark hollows beneath her eyes, which displayed none of the sparkle I had so admired. I was entirely determined not to fail in civility, and said, “I am glad to hear it, and more happy still to have the privilege of your company. Unless I am keeping you from something?” Belatedly, I had heard from the room behind her the murmur of voices.
She glanced almost guiltily towards the door, standing open a hand’s-breadth, then fixed me with a look I could only call challenging. “Mr Bingley hinted that he should like a moment alone with my sister. I obliged.”
“Ah.” I fought the urge to fidget with my cuffs or cravat. “If...if things are as you suspect, I believe your sister will be very happy. My friend is an excellent man, and will no doubt be the best of husbands.”
Her expression softened. “And Jane will no doubt be the best of wives. I believe your friend, too, will be very happy.”
“I am certain of it. Your sister is everything good.” This earned me the first genuine smile I had ever got from her, and brief as it was, it warmed me. “Will your family be happy for them also, or will they be disappointed that Bingley has no estate?”
“My father will be sorry to see Jane leave Longbourn, but he will be pleased for her. My mother will be ecstatic—with five daughters, no son, and an entailed estate, it has been the purpose of her life to see us all married. Though realistically, she will probably have to settle for Jane and perhaps one of my other sisters. We have little to recommend us.”
The resignation in her voice disturbed me, for it sounded nothing like the lady who had so cheerfully braved the scorn of society. Guilt smote me. My sins against her were nothing to Sir John’s, and yet they had opened the way for his disgusting behaviour. “Surely you cannot think that you will end a spinster? With your wit and vivacity, a gentleman father and a baronet for an uncle, and what I understand to be a respectable dowry, it is inconceivable.”
She shook her head. “I have received all the offers I am likely to, sir, and my greatest hope now is that I will be invited to live with my dearest sister.”
The certainty in her voice struck me a blow that sent me reeling, and as though from a great distance I heard myself say, “I could marry you.”
She stared at me for a long moment, and I am sure I stared back with equal, if not greater, shock. Then she huffed out the ghost of a laugh. “I am tempted to accept,” she commented in a peculiarly detached tone, “and plague you all your days. But I shall not. I have always been a happy sort of person, and I hope to be so again. Marrying for spite would not restore me to myself.”
“I would make it my business to assure your happiness.” Even as I said it, I wondered why I was pressing the point. I knew only that I felt I must.
