Her maid had merely arranged her hair, then gone to other duties, leaving her alone for a few moments before the day began. She was impeccable, as she must be every morning, and she marvelled to see that she appeared the same as ever. Only she knew that something within her had broken, and that she must bear that burden without anyone suspecting it.
“The first days are the hardest,” she whispered, then smiled faintly, imagining that her smile might serve as a wall to conceal her pain. Yet, in the mirror, the face she discovered reflected no trace of joy. With the irony that, by luck, had not deserted her, she thought that at last Mr Clinton might be easy concerning his Principal; it would be long before she fell in love again, and until that time all her energy should be devoted to the Academy, which she already loved with passion.
And in that moment her decision was made—final and irrevocable. It was true that, at her first meeting with Mr Clinton, she had considered making a five-year commitment to be something impossible for her to accept, given that she had been waiting for a great love. But now that great love had come. She had not the slightest doubt that Fitzwilliam Darcy was the love she had long awaited and dreamed of; he was the man with whom she would have wished to share her life. In the past, in her youthful innocence and want of experience, she had desired perfection...but such a thing did not exist. This man, with hisvirtues and his faults, was the one with whom she would have chosen to build her future—but it was impossible.
The Academy had offered her the extraordinary chance of possessing an honourable occupation—a dream scarcely permitted to women; and now the Academy became also her salvation, for in the next five years she would devote herself entirely to it. It would not only be the fulfilment of her ambition but the means of saving her from the deep sorrow she felt, a sorrow with which she could scarcely have coped in any other condition.
Immediately after breakfast, she invited Mr Clinton into the library and smiled at his anxious countenance.
“It is precisely the reverse of what you imagine,” she began, with a touch of playful humour, as though speaking to a relation—for such indeed was the ease she had started to feel towards this gentleman. “I have not called you to say that I am leaving, but that I am staying. After careful reflection, I am confident that I can make this five-year commitment. It is also a practical resolution, for in this manner I might provide for my family whatever may occur—”
“Nothing shall occur,” Mr Clinton interrupted, visibly relieved. “Mr Bennet is younger than I, and has still many years before him.”
“That is what we all hope,” she returned quietly, “for his presence in our lives is essential.”
Although the conversation appeared concluded, Mr Clinton did not immediately depart; indeed, he began to regard her again with an air of suspicion.
“Yes?” she asked, waiting for him to express whatever troubled him.
“Has something happened?” he enquired cautiously.
“At the Academy?” she asked, perplexed.
“No...in your own life—” he continued, but broke off before finishing the thought.
Elizabeth smiled—and wondered how she managed it. “No, Mr Clinton. I have merely grown older and wiser.”
She spoke no more, and it became evident that she would not; so he at last withdrew, leaving her alone. Only when the door closed behind him did a few tears escape down her cheek, but she wiped them quickly away.
She longed to speak with someone, and in the end, Jane was the only one who could have understood and kept the secret. She awaited her coming with eagerness, starting at every carriage she heard stop in front of the house, or at every step in the corridor that sounded familiar. How ardently she wished that Jane might appear and, if only for a moment, lift the pain from her shoulders. But her sister did not arrive before dinner, and then it would be too late.
Chapter 18
“Go, pray, Miss Elizabeth, and rest,” urged Mrs Robertson just before dinner, with a mother’s authority and a look that admitted no refusal. “I am certain you have taken a chill. We already have three girls unwell.”
Elizabeth wished to protest, but Mrs Robertson did not allow her, and Mary, who had joined them, insisted likewise.
“Do listen for once,” she begged. “We shall send you a tisane and the tonic the doctor prescribes for the pupils. After a light supper and a sound sleep, you will feel yourself again.”
Elizabeth regarded her closely, wondering whether she suspected anything. Yet Mary’s countenance expressed only anxiety for her paleness and nothing more, for she possessed no talent for concealing her thoughts. Indeed, who could have imagined that a woman might refuse the proposal of the very man she loved? All around her, they believed that she detested him—as she herself had thought until the night before.
She consented; yet while ascending to her chamber, guilt pressed upon her that she was not ill with a cold, for hermalady bore another name, and no tisane could cure it. Still, she appreciated Mrs Robertson’s care, and above all, the chance of a quiet evening.
The young ladies dined early, at five o’clock, then read for an hour, taking turns at the pianoforte and the violin. There was also a harp, though none yet knew how to play it—a circumstance Elizabeth wished to amend. She resolved to find a young lady who might delight in learning to play that graceful instrument. For a fleeting moment, the thought of the Academy mingled with her sorrow, rendering it more tolerable. She sighed as she looked about her, grateful for the occupation that might enable her to forget…at least at intervals.
She lay upon her bed, eyes closed, awaiting supper, and fell asleep. She dreamt of Mr Darcy as she had seen him at Rosings, looking at her with what she now knew to be love, and she smiled at him likewise. In the dream, everything was natural; he knew she loved him, and he took her in his arms as if he had done so many times before, while their happiness soared to heights she had never imagined. Someone touched her shoulder gently, and from that rapture she fell sharply and painfully into the reality that was without him.
Mrs Robertson helped her change and compelled her to swallow the bitter potion sent by the doctor, persuaded that she was ill. But after the housekeeper’s departure, she could not sleep again. She feared to dream of him once more, and to wake without him. The pain was too great…unimaginably great; only then did she comprehend Jane, and all her suffering which had once seemed excessive.
She tried to read, but could not; she paced between parlour and bedchamber, admiring the elegance of her apartment and endeavouring to take pleasure in it as she had done each day since her arrival…but in vain.
Jane, however, had enjoyed one advantage: she had shared her pain with all about her, and though neither words nor gestures had comforted her loss, at least she had not borne that burden alone in her heart.
She slept at last, long after midnight, and woke believing herself at Longbourn, for Jane had nestled beside her as she used to do at home in their shared chamber.
Elizabeth looked at her in astonishment, thinking at first that she was dreaming, but Jane smiled and spoke. Though at first she understood little, once fully awake, she said with decision, “Jane Bennet, I entreat you, be calm and tell me from the beginning what has happened.”
Nothing bad had occurred, for Jane’s countenance, bright in the sunlight that streamed through the window, was radiant with joy.
