Elizabeth rose and walked a few steps away before turning back.
“My dear Jane, you are far too generous.”
Jane’s eyes filled again. “I only wish him happy,” she said softly.
Elizabeth returned to her and took both her hands. “And what of your happiness?”
Jane did not answer immediately. At length, she said, “It will pass. Such attachments often do.”
Elizabeth wished she could believe it.
She sat beside her sister and drew her gently into an embrace.
Jane wept quietly for some minutes, and Elizabeth did not attempt to interrupt her. She merely held her hand and allowed the storm to spend itself.
At last, Jane wiped her eyes. “I am ashamed of this,” she said faintly.
“There is nothing to be ashamed of,” Elizabeth replied firmly. “If anyone ought to feel ashamed, it is Miss Bingley.”
Jane shook her head again, though a small smile appeared through her tears. “You must not quarrel with the entire world on my account.”
Elizabeth returned the smile. “I will attempt restraint.”
Jane drew a deeper breath.
“I only wish,” she said quietly, “that we had seen them once more before they left.”
Elizabeth thought of Netherfield – of Mr. Darcy – and of the silence that had followed the ball. She knew they would have no reason to see Mr. Darcy while his friend remained in London.
She told herself that this could not possibly signify. Mr. Darcy’s movements were no concern of hers. Yet the thought of his departure, without a farewell, left behind a faint and unexpected sense of disappointment – slight, but impossible entirely to dismiss.
She squeezed Jane’s hand gently and said, “Come. You must rest a little. The day has already contained quite enough surprises.”
Chapter 15
Altered Designs
The following morning at Netherfield began earlier than usual for Mr. Darcy. His valet had scarcely finished laying out the clothes for the day when Darcy entered his dressing room. “Fletcher,” he said, with unusual promptness, “I shall ride out this morning.”
“Yes, sir.”
Darcy paused before the wardrobe. His gaze moved over the coats with more deliberation than the occasion seemed to require. “This one will do,” he said at last, selecting a dark blue coat.
Fletcher accepted it without comment. Yet as he assisted his master in dressing, he could not help observing that Mr. Darcy displayed a degree of attention to the arrangement of his attire which exceeded his usual habits.
The cravat, in particular, received unusual consideration.
“That is not quite right,” Darcy said once.
Fletcher adjusted it.
A moment later, Darcy regarded the result in the mirror again.
“Perhaps a little tighter.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Now I cannot breathe.”
