“It satisfies Mr. Collins’s denial of the carriage,” Elizabeth continued, “while avoiding the indignity of a long journey on horseback in uncertain weather.”
“And preserves the appearance of obedience,” Jane added.
Elizabeth reached out, her hand finding Jane’s sleeve in a brief, affectionate touch. “I congratulate you.”
Jane smiled. “I had no wish to argue further,” she said. “This seemed…simpler.”
Elizabeth tilted her head. “And wiser.”
Jane’s gaze softened. “You are very good to me,” she said.
Elizabeth shook her head. “I am only observant.”
There was a brief pause. Jane’s expression shifted—just slightly. “You do not approve,” she said softly.
It was not Jane’s actions of which she objected. Elizabeth considered her sister’s words. “I approve of your judgment,” she said at last. “I only wish you were not placed in the position of needing to exercise it.”
Jane did not answer at once. Then she said, “It is not so great a hardship.”
Elizabeth did not contradict her. Instead, she said lightly, “You will have company enough at Netherfield.”
Jane’s lips curved. “I expect I shall.”
Elizabeth hesitated, then added, “And Mr. Bingley?”
Jane glanced away. “I expect he will be present. The note did not indicate one way or another.”
Elizabeth smiled faintly. “I am glad.”
Jane’s expression softened once more. “I shall return before it grows too late,” she said.
“You must not hurry on our account.” Her tease made Jane smile.
“I shall not.”
Elizabeth inclined her head.
Jane reached out then, her hand resting briefly over Elizabeth’s. “Rest this afternoon,” she said. “You were unwell last evening.”
Elizabeth smiled. “I shall consider it.”
Jane’s gaze lingered for a moment longer before she turned away.
Elizabeth remained where she was. The house moved around her—footsteps, voices, the quiet industry of the day—but she stood still, her thoughts settling.
At last, she turned and made her way slowly back toward her chamber.
The light had shifted by the time Elizabeth reached her room.
It fell differently now—softer, less direct—and she paused just within the doorway to allow her eye to adjust. The faint ache that had begun at the assembly the night before had not entirely left her. It lingered still, a dull pressure behind her eye that sharpened when she attempted to focus too closely.
She set her walking stick aside and crossed to the bed. There was no reluctance in her decision. She had learned, over time, that such moments were best met with acceptance rather than resistance. To push through would only prolong the discomfort.
She sat first, then lay back, drawing the coverlet lightly over her. The room was subdued. She closed her eye. For a time, she did not think of anything in particular. The events of the morning drifted through her mind without insistence—the note, the conversation, Jane’s peaceful resolution.
And beneath it, a different thought. The terrace. A voice beside her. A manner at once reserved and attentive.
Elizabeth let out a slow breath. It was foolish to dwell upon it. It was one conversation. Nothing more. Nonetheless, her dismissal of it was not complete. Instead, she allowed it to remain, soft and indistinct, like the fading light at the edges of her vision. And with that, she turned her face slightly into the pillow and rested.
