If righteous fury were a combustible fuel, Elizabeth Bennet could have single-handedly heated the entirety of London through the foggy winter of 1811. As it was, she had to content herself with radiating enough heat to keep her pelisse uncomfortably warm, despite the biting December wind that whipped through the streets of the capital.
It had been nearly a month since the "Netherfield Desertion," as she had mentally christened the event. A month of silence, confusion, and the slow, agonizing breaking of her sister's heart.
The twenty-sixth of November had been the turning point. The Netherfield ball had been a triumph of awkwardness, certainly, but it had ended with the distinct impression that Mr Bingley was on the verge of a proposal. He had looked at Jane as if she were the only woman in the universe, a fact Elizabeth had noted with immense satisfaction. And then, the very next day, he was gone. Vanished. Whisked away to London with thespeed of a man fleeing a plague, leaving behind only a brief, confusing note from his sister.
Caroline Bingley's letter had been a masterpiece of passive-aggressive cruelty. It had spoken of their eagerness to seeMiss Darcy, of the close intimacy between the two families, and of the inevitability of a match between Mr Bingley and Mr Darcy's sister. It was venom wrapped in expensive stationery, designed to crush Jane's hopes with surgical precision.
And it had worked.
Jane, being an angel clad in muslin, had borne the blow with a quiet, devastating dignity. She refused to speak ill of Bingley. She refused to suspect his sisters of malice. She simply faded, her smile growing strained, her eyes losing their sparkle.
Mrs Bennet, conversely, had not faded. Mrs Bennet had exploded.
For two weeks, Longbourn had been a theatre of war, with Mrs Bennet playing the role of the tragic victim. She had wailed about the cruelty of men, the impending destitution of her daughters, and the specific malice of the universe in denying her a wedding. She had lamented the loss of Netherfield until the very wallpaper seemed to peel in protest.
It is a mercy we are here,Elizabeth thought, watching her sister stare out of the window of her uncle's house in Gracechurch Street.If I had heard Mama exclaim 'But he danced with her twice!' one more time, I might have committed matricide.
The invitation from the Gardiners had been a lifeline. Her aunt Madeline—sensible, elegant, and possessed of the kind of emotional intelligence that seemed to have avoided Mrs Bennet entirely—had seen the lay of the land immediately.A letter had arrived, inviting the two eldest Bennet sisters to spend Christmas in Cheapside, away from the scene of the crime.
They had arrived on the fifteenth of December. Cheapside was bustling, loud, and supposedly "unfashionable" by the standards of the West End ton, but to Elizabeth, it was paradise. Here, in the warm, well-appointed home of Edward and Madeline Gardiner, there were no entailed estates, no hysterical mothers, and no memories of Mr Darcy's haughty disdain or Mr Bingley's spineless departure.
Or so she had hoped.
"Lizzy?"
Elizabeth turned from her brooding to see her aunt standing in the doorway of the parlour. Madeline Gardiner was a handsome woman, dressed in a morning gown of practical dark wool that did not hide her natural elegance.
"You are scowling at the embroidery hoop again," Mrs Gardiner noted with a wry smile. "I fear for the safety of the fabric."
"I was merely thinking, Aunt."
"A dangerous pastime. Jane is ready. Are you sure you wish to venture out? The weather is grey, and the wind is sharp."
"I would walk through a hurricane if it meant distracting Jane for an hour," Elizabeth declared, setting down her hoop. "Besides, I need fresh air. I find my levels of cynicism are reaching critical mass, and I require a change of scenery to disperse them."
"Very well. The carriage is ready to take us to Bond Street, but I thought we might walk a little if the rain holds off. Henry and Alice wanted to come, but I have left them with the nurse. Ruthis currently trying to eat a wooden doll, so she is occupied."
Elizabeth smiled, the first genuine expression she had worn all morning. Her uncle, Edward Gardiner, was a man of trade—a warehouse owner who worked hard and loved his family fiercely. His children—Henry eight, Alice six, and little Ruth five—were boisterous, happy creatures who had no idea that society deemed them lesser because their father worked for a living.
"Let us go," Elizabeth said, fastening her cloak with determination. "Let us show London that the Bennet sisters are not defeated. We are merely regrouping."
Not much later, they descended the carriage, and Elizabeth looked around. The West End of London was a different world from Cheapside. If Cheapside was the engine room of the city, the West End was the showroom—polished, expensive, and filled with people who looked as though they had never lifted anything heavier than a teaspoon.
Elizabeth walked arm-in-arm with Jane, Mrs Gardiner flanking them on the other side. They made a striking trio, despite their lack of a carriage crest or a retinue of footmen. Jane, even in her heartbreak, was breathtaking. Her pale complexion was set off by a bonnet of deep blue velvet, and her height gave her a natural grace that turned heads as they walked.
But Elizabeth felt the tension in her sister's arm. Jane was performing happiness. She was smiling at the shop windows, admiring the ribbons in a milliner's display, and making polite conversation about the Christmas decorations, but her eyes were hollow.
"Look at that silk, Lizzy," Jane said, pointing to a bolt of fabric in a window on Bond Street. "Would that not make a lovely sash for Lydia?"
"Lydia does not need more sashes," Elizabeth replied, a little too sharply. "She needs a book on decorum and a muzzle."
"Lizzy," Jane chided gently.
"I am sorry. The cold makes me uncharitable."
"The cold or the company?" Mrs Gardiner asked shrewdly.
"The general state of the male species," Elizabeth corrected. "I have decided that men are, as a collective, a disappointment. They are either pompous, arrogant statues like Mr Darcy, or easily led weather-vanes like Mr Bingley."
