They walked a little farther, watching the horses, then sat upon a bench formed by a fallen tree trunk.
“There is an estate near Meryton, perhaps two miles from our home, perhaps more.”
He tried not to look directly at her, wishing to give her complete freedom either to speak or remain silent. He admired her extraordinary beauty, but even more her modesty. Most beautiful ladies he had known in the past were entirely conscious of the power such beauty gave them.
“Netherfield,” she continued.
He remembered the estate at once. He had visited it once with Elizabeth, though he said nothing.
“Last November, the house was rented. It belongs to an elderly gentleman from St Albans who never comes there; at least, we do not know him.”
“But you know his name?”
At first, Jane misunderstood him, thinking he meant Mr Bingley.
“You mean the owner’s name? No, but my parents surely know it. In their youth, there were balls at Netherfield.”
“It does not matter,” he said. “Go on. So the estate was rented to—”
“To Mr Bingley,” Jane whispered. She still hesitated, though in truth there was little to tell. Sometimes, even she marvelled at how little had truly passed between them. They had danced together, then she had fallen ill and remained two days at Netherfield. Their worldly acquaintance had been so slight. How could she explain the depth of her feelings in so few facts? There had been the way he looked at her and his gentleness, his timidity so perfectly suited to her own.
“Did he make you any promises?”
“No,” she answered, vaguely uncomfortable. Looking back upon it, it scarcely resembled a love story at all, and at times she wondered how she had managed to grieve over it for so many months. Then, without looking at him, she told him the story: her certainty regarding her love and her profound uncertainty about the feelings of the man she loved.
“Was it truly a love story, or was it only my imagination?”
“You are wrong to have doubts,” Uncle Thomas said with vehemence, understanding her discomfort. “It was a real love story; I am sure you did not imagine it. It was a pure and cloudy feeling, and it had more power than any noisy love.”
Jane’s gratitude was so great that tears filled her eyes. He understood everything so well. Not even Elizabeth, who hadlived beside her through all those months, had perceived her attachment to Mr Bingley in quite that way.
“Elizabeth is wonderful, but she lives entirely in the real world,” Jane said at last, almost apologetically, as though excusing that slight disloyalty towards her sister.
“Everybody is different. Even sisters raised together may look upon life in entirely different ways.”
“I dearly love her—”
“I know, but Elizabeth cannot understand why you are suffering so much over a couple of dances and a visit to Netherfield.”
“Yes, that is it. She repeats over and over that I must have imagined more than there was. But I did not.”
“Then how do you explain his departure?”
“I cannot,” Jane admitted, blushing.
Uncle Thomas allowed a moment to pass before continuing gently. “Was he previously attached to another lady?”
“I do not believe so. I met his sisters, and I am certain they would have informed me immediately had such a thing existed, merely to make me forget him.”
“So these sisters, did they like you?”
Again, Jane blushed deeply, overcome by old emotions. “I believe they wished their brother to marry a rich lady, or someone from London society.”
“I see.”
There was something in Uncle Thomas’s voice that made Jane stop and look at him. She suddenly felt certain that had the Bingley sisters been present, they would have received some severe words from her uncle. “They treated you unkindly?”
“Not openly. But they spoke disdainfully of my uncle Gardiner’s house because it is not situated in a fashionable district. Things of that nature.”
