“Mrs. Darcy,” he said, the title still sounding strange to Elizabeth’s ears even a week after acquiring it. “I must congratulate you on your marriage. Darcy is a fortunate man. Though I confess I was surprised by the suddenness of it all.”
“It was rather sudden,” Elizabeth agreed, keeping her voice light despite the complicated truth beneath those simple words. “But sometimes these things happen quickly when circumstances align properly.”
Bingley nodded enthusiastically, already turning his attention back to Jane before Elizabeth had finished speaking. “Miss Bennet, I had hoped I might see you again, had been considering a return to Hertfordshire, but circumstances kept preventing it.”
The excuse sounded weak even to Elizabeth’s ears, and she saw Jane’s expression flicker with something that might havebeen disappointment or perhaps relief that circumstances had indeed prevented his return.
“I have barely been at Longbourn since Christmas,” Jane replied, her hands folding more tightly in her lap. “I stayed with my aunt and uncle in Cheapside for a while, and now reside with Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy, to keep my sister company in these early days of her marriage.”
Elizabeth watched the exchange with growing understanding. Jane’s responses were perfectly polite, her manner warm enough that Bingley would find no fault with it. But there was distance there, a reserve that had not existed during their earlier acquaintance. She sat slightly angled away from Bingley rather than leaning toward him as she once had. Her smiles came a beat slower than they should, as though she had to remember to produce them rather than offering them spontaneously.
And Mr. Bingley seemed not to notice these subtle withdrawals. He spoke of his time in the north, of Netherfield which remained leased though he had not yet returned to it, of mutual acquaintances from Hertfordshire. His conversation flowed with the easy charm Elizabeth remembered, but it felt now like water running over stones rather than finding purchase in soil that might help it grow.”
Elizabeth shifted on the settee, drawing Bingley’s attention briefly. “Mr. Bingley, you mentioned a possible return to Netherfield. Will you take up residence there soon?”
Bingley’s expression showed uncertainty, his enthusiasm dimming slightly. “I am not certain. The lease continues until Michaelmas, but I have been considering other options. My sisters prefer London, you see, and Caroline in particular has been urging me to consider properties closer to town.”
The mention of Caroline Bingley made Jane’s posture stiffen almost imperceptibly. Darcy had been honest with Jane and Elizabeth about Caroline’s attitude towards Jane, about herunkind words, and Jane was clearly still hurt by the betrayal of someone who had pretended to be her friend.
Jane rose suddenly, her movement graceful despite its abruptness. “Forgive me, I believe I left my embroidery in the morning room. I shall return in a moment.”
She glided from the drawing room before either Elizabeth or Bingley could respond, leaving them in silence that felt awkward without Jane’s presence to anchor it. Bingley watched her go with expression that showed confusion mixed with concern, as though he sensed something was wrong but could not identify what.
“Mrs. Darcy,” Bingley said, turning to Elizabeth with boyish enthusiasm that seemed almost desperate. “I cannot tell you how delighted I am to see Miss Bennet again. She is just as lovely as I remembered. More so, perhaps. Time has only enhanced her beauty.”
Elizabeth felt sympathy stir in her chest despite everything. Bingley’s feelings were genuine, his affection for Jane real even if he had allowed himself to be influenced away from her. But Jane’s feelings had clearly changed, had cooled in the months of separation until what remained was respect without the warmth of love.
“Jane is indeed lovely,” Elizabeth agreed carefully, choosing words that would not encourage false hope. “She has many admirers in London.”
The statement was true enough, though Elizabeth had not intended it as a warning until the words emerged. Bingley’s face fell slightly, his enthusiasm dampening as he processed this information.
“I see,” he said quietly. “I had hoped... that is, I had thought perhaps...” He trailed off, unable to complete whatever confession he had been building toward.
Jane’s return interrupted the moment, her embroidery basket in hand and her composure fully restored. She settled back onto the settee beside Elizabeth, resuming conversation with Bingley as though the interruption had never happened.
They spoke for another quarter hour, the talk ranging over safe topics that required no particular intimacy or understanding. Bingley maintained his enthusiasm throughout, but Elizabeth saw it begin to waver as Jane’s polite distance continued. He must have sensed it eventually, must have recognised that something had changed.
When Bingley finally rose to take his leave, his movements lacked the energy with which he had entered. He bowed over Jane’s hand with less assurance than he had shown earlier, his smile not quite reaching his eyes.
“I hope we may meet again soon, Miss Bennet,” he said, the words carrying question rather than assumption.
“It is always pleasant to see friends,” Jane replied, her tone warm but noncommittal in ways that made the answer’s true meaning unmistakable.
Elizabeth walked with Bingley to the drawing room door, offering her own farewells with genuine kindness despite the melancholy that had settled over the visit. She watched him depart down the hall toward the entrance, his shoulders slightly slumped in ways they had not been upon arrival.
When she returned to the drawing room, Jane remained on the settee, her embroidery forgotten in her lap and her gaze fixed on the window. Elizabeth settled beside her sister, waiting for Jane to speak first.
“I feel terrible,” Jane said finally, her voice soft with genuine distress. “He came here full of hope, and I could give him nothing but polite conversation.”
Elizabeth took Jane’s hand, squeezing gently. “You were kind to him, Jane. That is all anyone could ask.”
“But I do not love him,” Jane continued, the admission emerging with quiet certainty. “Not anymore. Perhaps I never truly did, or perhaps the feelings simply faded during our separation. But watching him today, listening to him speak...” She paused, drawing a shaky breath. “My heart did not race. I felt no particular joy at his presence beyond the pleasure one feels at seeing any agreeable acquaintance again. And that is not enough, Lizzy. Not for marriage, not for a lifetime.”
Jane had moved on, Elizabeth realised, had recognised that what she felt for Bingley no longer justified pursuing a match between them. And in that recognition lay freedom, space for something genuine to develop if the right person appeared.
“Then you did exactly right,” Elizabeth said firmly. “Being honest about your feelings, even through polite reserve, is better than encouraging hopes you cannot fulfil.”
Jane nodded slowly, tears gathering in her eyes though none spilled over. “I still respect him. He is amiable and good-hearted. But amiability is not love, and good intentions do not create the depth of feeling required for marriage. I see that now.”
