They parted quickly, and Elizabeth returned to her room unseen, feeling like a different person than she had when she awoke. Fleetingly, she wondered, as she glanced in the mirror, whether anyone could notice.
She had begun their walk in restless anxiety, fearing his disappointment and his reprimands. Now she felt an exhilarating happiness that she had never before known and a fierce relief that the strength of her precious feelings for him had not made her lose his good opinion. She had judged him wrongly again.Not only did he approve of her boldness, but while she had been unknowingly tempting him, he was suppressing the same desires as she was. What had happened was not an unpardonable folly for which either of them had to bear the sole blame, but the natural, affectionate actions of two people in perfect accord.
What a relief not to have to hide those feelings or desires from Fitzwilliam—not when he feels the same way.
Elizabeth was not prepared to speak to Jane—nor anyone, for that matter—about what had passed, and she was therefore pleased that when Jane came in she took up the conversation.
“I did not have the chance to tell you yesterday, but Caroline wrote to me.”
“What does she say?”
“She articulated her delight on learning of my approaching marriage to her brother and repeated all her former professions of regard.”
“Do not tell me you believe her? After all she has done to keep you and Bingley apart?”
“I am not deceived, but I am affected by her words. I ought to write her a kind answer for Bingley’s sake.”
“So long as you know that your generosity is far more than she deserves.”
Elizabeth would not tell Jane that Georgiana had written to her with far more sincerity. Four sides of paper were insufficient to contain all her delight and earnest desire of being loved by her new sister. Elizabeth would miss Jane terribly when she left for Derbyshire, but the comfort of knowing that Georgiana eagerly awaited her softened her sadness.
“Is not Bingley the most amiable man of our acquaintance?” Jane said dreamily as she sprawled out on Elizabeth’s bed. “I have nothing to fear and nothing else to hope for. It is such a comfort after being disappointed over the winter.”
“You are fortunate to have found such a partner in life. We both are since we have a poor example to follow in my mother and father. They have neither affection nor respect for each other.” She gathered her thoughts and her courage before speaking again. “But do you not feel that something else is to be had in one’s marriage beyond fondness? Something more akin to excitement…or passion?”
“I do not understand,” Jane asked, sitting up.
“I mean that you and Bingley enjoy one another’s company, but I hope for more than just a sensible marriage with an agreeable partner.”
“Well, of course, Lizzy! What a silly notion. I love Bingley as I am sure you love Darcy. Tell me now, how long have you truly loved him?”
“I wish I could say that the first moment I beheld him, my heart was irrevocably gone, but now when I set my mind to remembering, I believe that I hated Darcy for longer than I have loved him!”
Elizabeth remained deep in thought after Jane left. Passion, as she could fully understand and value now, was not a word she would apply to her sister and Bingley. Jane only longed for the company of an affable man.
Elizabeth knew that she and Fitzwilliam would have verbal battles and would argue their difference of opinion. But she admired his intelligence and powers of perception, and he admired her wit and liveliness. Jane would be shocked at the idea of taking pleasure in arguing with Bingley.
Bingley lacked substance, but in an amiable way, for there was nothing laughable about him, and Jane was too good-natured to believe ill of anyone, no matter the evidence before her.
Such a marriage would never suit Elizabeth. What she felt for her own betrothed was more than attraction—more than ardent love. She had Fitzwilliam’s love, his respect, and his confidence. She felt the compliment of being well loved by such a man, and she was satisfied that she meant as much to him as he did to her. As she thought back with a contented sigh to the morning’s events, she was even more assured that she had made an excellent choice.
How soon could she obey the first impulse of her heart and repeat them? She felt a deep glow spread over her cheeks at the hope of it.
* * *
The weekwithout Fitzwilliam passed slowly for Elizabeth. Her mother’s prattling about how handsome Darcy was, how amiable Bingley was, and how rich they would all be drove Elizabeth to distraction. Her father sported with her by suggesting that her “unsocial man” would jilt her. She found little solace in Jane’s company, for she was always with Bingley, and Elizabeth preferred to be by herself rather than be with Mary or Kitty. It was consequently necessary to have another point on which her hopes might be fixed to console herself: Fitzwilliam would return on Saturday, and in a fortnight, they would be married before travelling north with the Gardiners.
Bingley omitted no opportunity of being with them, threw himself in Jane’s way, and called at all hours. Friday evening, Mr Bennet and Bingley played backgammon after supper while Mary attempted a piece of music that was beyond her skill, and the other ladies sat at their work. It was late when a rider was heard approaching the house to deliver an express. After reading it in stony silence, Mr Bennet passed the letter to his wife and returned to his chair. The Bennet girls looked up from their needlework only when they heard their mother’s wails of misery.
“Oh, Mr Bennet! What is to be done?” she sobbed, but received no response from her husband.
The door to the hall remained open, and Hill, the express rider, and the footman were still in sight. Bingley dismissed them and shut the door. Elizabeth noticed his disdainful glance toward Mr Bennet as he comforted her mother.
“Mrs Bennet, whatever the letter contains, I presume it is not for the servants to overhear,” Bingley said kindly as he led his future mother to sit by Jane.
Mrs Bennet could only sob into her handkerchief. Elizabeth, seeing that all attempts at reasonable discourse with her mother would be futile, addressed her father for information.
“It is from Colonel Forster, informing us that Lydia has gone off to Scotland with one of his officers.” He did not look up from the backgammon board as though the game held more interest to him than the safety and reputation of his youngest daughter. “She has left her friends and thrown herself into the power of Mr Wickham.”
