“But you would rather be alone now?”
“You must have things you wish to say to me,” Jane hedged. “As kind as it was for you to come, I know you have been disgusted with me for a long while. I have been disgusted with myself.”
Disgusted? Was Jane waiting for some sort of dressing down? What good would it do? Was that why she had avoided all discussion? But the matter plainly needed to be addressed; Jane’s guilt was like another person in the room.
“Jane, a year ago, I overheard what you never meant me to know. Yes, a part of me wishes I did not know your feelings regarding?—”
“I did not mean it! I am sure you have no interest in taking charge of Longbourn. I cannot think why I ever thought you might.”
“You thought it because Fanny suggested to you that I would,” Elizabeth said, gently but inexorably.
“Oh, she did not intend it that way. Fanny meant only that, in your competence as the former mistress of a great property?—”
“No,” Elizabeth interrupted. “Tell me that you are at least aware of how Fanny despises me. You must know that much.”
“I am certain she does not. It is ridiculous! Why, only yesterday she was complimenting you! You heard her!”
Elizabeth sighed. “It will not do, dear. Either I am an intractable idiot who would prefer to live in one room rather than sensibly reside in the splendid home I inhabited for nearly half a decade, or she does all in her power to ruin myreputation and make my life a misery whenever she is near. If I ask John Coachman to bring me to Meryton, he must first ask her permission. Does sheevergrant it? No. It suddenly becomes necessary for her to use the carriage, or for the gig to be repaired, or for Mr John Ashwood to have the curricle held at home at the ready for some errand he might require. She does not rule me, but she certainly rules her household with an iron will. All the servants are afraid of her, with the possible exception of Mrs Heartly. But then, she is the best housekeeper in the entire county. Fanny is malicious, but she is not stupid—she would not want to lose her.”
“Oh, but Lizzy…this is impossible! She could not be so cruel. Youmustbe mistaken.”
Elizabeth shook her head, impatient. “How many times has Fanny visited Longbourn, and told you that she begged me to accompany her? How many times has she reported to you her efforts to convince me to ‘let bygones be bygones’ between us?”
“Every time,” Jane averred. “She is always trying to bring about a reconciliation.”
“I thought as much. But no. If you believe nothing else I ever say, believe this: she has never once spoken to me about the situation between us. She hasneverinvited me to accompany her to Longbourn. I haveneverrefused to come. I have never said any of the things she has probably told you I said, because I have never discussed our differences with her. Never once.”
Tears filled Jane’s eyes. “Oh, but…but…”
“You cannot make both of us innocent. Either I am lying to you now, or she has lied to you all along. It is up to you whom you wish to believe. But I will tell you this, and youmay accept it or not: I hold no ill will towards you. I was hurt in the moment. It was a bad time, directly after Mr Ashwood died. I was not as patient as I might have been, had I been less distraught. For a long while now, I have been very sorry that we were estranged when you lost your babe. I did not hear about your loss for some time, but I should have at least written when I did. My only excuse is my worry that hearing from me would only increase your pain, rather than relieve it.”
A tear tracked down Jane’s cheek, and her voice emerged in a whisper. “Fanny knew. She did not tell you?”
“No. Charlotte wrote, and it was she who told me of it, assuming that I had already known. Several weeks had passed by that time, I understood.”
Jane nodded, tears still leaking from her eyes. Elizabeth felt…peaceful; it did not matter to her what happened next—it was all out in the open now. She had apologised for her part, and bitterness was replaced with serenity.
“I wish I had not said any of it,” Jane cried. “I hope you know how sorry I am. I have long felt that losing my baby boy was a judgment.” She broke into sobs.
Elizabeth placed her hand over her sister’s. “I do not believe that, not for a moment,” she protested. “You must not either.”
“Have you ever—ever lost a child?” Jane sobbed.
“No. But I know many good, deserving women who have. It is not a punishment. It is life, and sometimes terrible things just…happen.”
It took several minutes before Jane could be restored to any semblance of composure, but by virtue of much soothing consolation, finally calm prevailed.
It has always been thus, Elizabeth realised. Her elder sisterwas a tender-hearted soul, who required a great deal of bolstering. Her tears dried to sniffles, and Elizabeth almost asked whether Jane believed she was increasing again, but Molly’s knock interrupted them.
“Excuse me, ma’am, Mrs Collins. But Mrs Bennet is here to see you. May she come up?”
19
CASTING A WIDE NET
Mrs Bennet had aged at least a decade since losing her husband and daughter. The vitality—and nerves—that once defined her had faded into a vexed sort of lassitude. Elizabeth did not doubt her mother’s concern for Jane’s health, but it was much more like her to prod and poke at Mr Collins to visit than to come herself. In Jane’s expression, Elizabeth saw implicit understanding—both her daughters were surprised that she had bestirred herself to the effort.
“Mama,” Jane said, as Elizabeth rearranged Jane’s pillows so that she could sit up. “How good of you to come. I am feeling much improved, as hopefully you can see.”
