Her sister’s cheeks pinked. “No, she went away on some errand with her children, but she was back within a few minutes, and before you tease me, your schemes for this day were ineffectual.”
Elizabeth smiled. “It is only a matter of time.”
Jane sat and took her hand. “Are you quite recovered from yesterday?”
“Oh yes. It hardly takes a moment to recover from learning the man you imagined yourself falling in love with is the same man you hated for months.”
“But you do not hate Mr Darcy now, surely?”
“Of course not,” she cried, “although he might loathe the sight of me after I berated him so unjustly.”
“If he did, he did not show it at the park,” Jane said. “Now, are you truly recovered? Even my uncle remarked you seemed out of spirits.”
Elizabeth slipped her hand from her sister’s and stood. “I will do better to show a happier affect.”
“Lizzy, you can be honest with me.”
She sighed. “It is a shame because F seemed to have such a liberal heart, and every word he wrote announced the intelligence of his mind. I got the impression he was loyal to his friends and his family. I think in his own way he was eager to be loved. He was a young man deserving of my regard, and I entertained some private hopes that our writing might lead to our future happiness.”
“I am sorry you lost that opportunity with Mr Darcy. I think he is a good sort of man.”
Elizabeth was struck how much she admired Darcy after all. Jane was right—he was a good man, a far better one than she had previously given him credit for. Hope that his opinion about her might change entered her heart. Was it impossible that he could forgive her misjudgment and come to admire her? He forgave L for abandoning him, so maybe Darcy could pardon her, too.
“Have I truly lost that opportunity with him? L has lost her chance, but what aboutme?” L and F could only ever be friends, and their correspondence must sink. But F and Darcy were the same man, with the same values, same talents, same character—and the same qualities they were looking for in a spouse. “Jane, they are the same man,” Elizabeth cried, smiling. “If F was attracted to a lively, amiable correspondent without fortune but with some quickness, why could not Mr Darcy become attached to me?”
“I believe I said yesterday he looks at you a great deal and asked you to dance?—”
“He announced I was only tolerable,” she said quickly, holding up a hand. “And if he was at best indifferent before, he must dislike me now after what I accused him of. But perhaps he could grow to like me in that way. He is trying to be more patient and kinder to those outside his circle. He just has to consider me as a marriage partner when he has never thought of me romantically at all before.” All this time, while writing to an anonymous man, she was falling in love with Darcy. She laughed to herself, grinning at the hope of changing his opinion of her.
“Well, from what you have said of your letters and what little I have observed of him, you have literary tastes in common, and your cheerfulness will counteract his gravity. He is devoted to those he loves, just as you are.”
Elizabeth laughed again at the prospect of procuring Darcy’s regard. “Oh, Jane, my head is all bewildered with what I have to accept: I am attracted to Mr Darcy.”
“It is not so strange,” Jane insisted. “You never appreciated it before, but he is wealthy, handsome, and intelligent.”
Perhaps it was not strange, but she had wasted months hating the man and not bothering to know him at all. “I shall have to encourage him, show him more than I feel, as I suggested you do. He talked with me often before, you know, but I was always trying to provoke him with saucy speeches. He might take a stronger interest in me if I was pleasant to him.”
“I do not think Mr Darcy enjoys it when women flatter him.”
Elizabeth smiled wryly. “You are thinking of your future sister-in-law.”
“Lizzy,” Jane cried. “Bingley has said nothing of his feelings for me.”
“He might not have said he loves you, but his actions are finally expressing what he ought to have expressed in Hertfordshire. He is sending his carriage for us for tomorrow’sball. I know my aunt does not enjoy a crush where she knows not a soul, so you had better get an engagement out of it.”
“What about you?” Jane asked softly. “Mr Darcy will be at the ball.”
She would have to pursue Darcy, but with no flattery or undue deference. He never considered marrying Elizabeth Bennet in all his life, and now she was determined to make him like her. She had never had to try to secure the interest of a man before, and she certainly never had to overcome a man’s dislike.
Elizabeth grew embarrassed by how much she had talked of herself. “I suppose I must try to be more than tolerably pretty so he will dance with me.” It was one thing to encourage Jane to talk about her feelings for Bingley. The possibility of loving Darcy—of him loving her in return—was too new to be spoken of. “Where were you before Bingley called? I did not see you after breakfast.”
If Jane suspected she was changing the subject, she was too gracious to comment on it. “I wrote to my mother. I had a great deal to inform her about, and I had waited until I was surer of my feelings before I mentioned seeing Bingley.”
“I am glad not to hear her cries of joy myself. When you write about your engagement—yes, it will happen—my ears and I are pleased to be twenty-five miles from Longbourn.”
“I also explained some part of what we learnt about Wickham. Nothing about Miss Darcy, of course,” Jane added quickly, “but of his character. Perhaps Miss King can be removed from his influence. Now that my mother can spread the news of his prior bad behaviour, hopefully no other ladies in the neighbourhood will be imposed upon. And no one can press us for more details because we are not there.”
Elizabeth agreed, and then their aunt called them to give their opinions on what she ought to wear tomorrow evening. While they talked about dress and hair and shoes, Elizabeth’smind passed over if she truly had any hope in persuading Darcy that there was room in his heart for her.
