Along one length of the hedge, tight knots had formed at the joints of the stems. Small. Green. Unmistakable.
Buds.
In November.
Elizabeth turned away at once, pressing her fists against her eyes as though she might blot out the image by force. Frustration surged, hot and useless. Nothing fit! Nothing agreed. People caused pain they should not, the foliage around her seemed to forget which season it was, and her own body insisted on meanings she could not understand.
If there were answers to be had, they did not lie here. The thought arrived whole and unwelcome.
If she were to understand anything at all, she must begin with Mr Darcy.
The conclusion did not comfort her. It did the opposite. Because after supper last night, he wanted nothing to do with her and had already made himself unreachable.
The door opened.
Elizabeth dropped her hands and turned, schooling her face by instinct rather than intention. Jane stepped just inside the room, her colour uneven, her composure strained. She held something in her hand—a folded sheet, gripped too tightly.
“Jane? What is it?”
Jane’s mouth trembled. “This just came from Miss Bingley.” She did not explain further. She held out the paper instead.
Netherfield Park
Tuesday Morning
My dear Miss Bennet,
I hope you will permit me the freedom of writing to you so soon, but the events of this morning have left me in a state of such vexation that I find I cannot rest until I have spoken, at least to you, upon whom I can always count for sensible counsel.
You may already have heard that Mr Darcy quitted Netherfield at a very early hour, with scarcely more than a word to my brother before his departure. I need not tell you how unexpected and mortifying this was to us all, particularly after the attentions he was at such pains to show our party last evening. That he should have been driven to such a step speaks, I think, to the degree of discomfort he must have experienced.
I will not pretend to understand how so regrettable a misunderstanding arose. Certain freedoms, taken without reflection, can place even the most forbearing gentleman in an impossible position, and Mr Darcy is, as you know, scrupulous in all matters of conduct. He bears embarrassment badly, and when once offended, prefers removal to remonstrance.
It grieves me to think that anything should have occurred under my brother’s roof to occasion such an insult. I am sure you, at least, will appreciate how delicate such situations are, and how easily a single ill-judged moment may undo the harmony of an entire evening. Your own manner, always so quiet and considerate, only throws the contrast into sharper relief.
I trust you will understand my anxiety to see this matter set right, insofar as it may yet be possible. I rely upon your good sense—and your influence within your family—to prevent any further unpleasantness arising from what I can only hope was an error of judgment rather than intention.
Pray believe me when I say that my regard for you remains undiminished, and that I should be loath to see our friendship suffer on account of circumstances so entirely avoidable.
Yours most sincerely,
Caroline Bingley
Elizabeth read the letter again.
Not from the beginning. From the middle—where the courtesy thinned and the meaning sharpened. Where the words ceased to pretend at concern and began to lean, ever so delicately, in one direction.
Jane came to stand over her shoulder so she could read the lines again as well. “Lizzy… perhaps she only means… Well, you know, she attended that fine London seminary, and she can be very particular about manners. It may have nothing to do with you at all.”
Elizabeth lowered the page. “It has everything to do with me.”
Jane looked stricken. “No—surely not. She speaks only of misunderstanding, of discomfort. That could be any number of things.”
Elizabeth gave a short, incredulous laugh. It surprised her as much as it did Jane. “She does not accuse,” she said. “She has no need. She only arranges the room so that blame may fall where she prefers.”
Jane frowned. “But she does not name you. She speaks kindly of me, certainly, but—”
“That is precisely how I know. Do you see how carefully she distinguishes?” she pointed out the lines, paraphrasing them. “You are prudent. You are discreet. You are to be relied upon. And I—” She stopped, pressed her fingernail hard against the paper. “I am the omission. The unspoken correction.”
