CHAPTER FOUR
THE ACCEPTABLE BENNET
Elizabeth
My sister had never,in twenty years of devoted sisterhood, overruled me on a matter of consequence.
There had been small rebellions, to be sure. Jane had once insisted on wearing the blue ribbon, even though I had recommended the white. And she had a habit of choosing men I deemed intolerable. I indulged her with the grace of a sister who understood her generosity but watched over her like a hawk. And I must say, I have been correct each and every time. And I was there to comfort and soothe her—the latest being Bingley’s leaving of Netherfield Park without even a call to say farewell. I firmly expect her, from now on, to defer to my superior judgment regarding gentlemen.
And so, I thoroughly berated her for inviting Mr. Darcy to Gracechurch Street, conveniently neglecting that my aunt had done the same. Instead of agreeing with me, Jane had pertly stated, “Perhaps, I genuinely welcome him. Why should I shun him because you dislike him?”
Me? As if I were to bear the entire blame for Darcy’s despicable behavior?
“Because he so thoroughly insulted me and made his disdain for our family clear,” I had argued, only to be met by her defense that Mr. Darcy was entitled to modify his opinion.
And so, it was with great shock and consternation that I received Mrs. Gardiner’s intelligence over Saturday breakfast. She poured the chocolate, passed the toast, and then said, as though remarking on the weather, “Jane, my love, your uncle received a request yesterday. Mr. Darcy has asked permission to call on you.”
“On me?” Jane glanced at me, for no particular reason I could ascertain. “But why?”
“I suppose he wishes to call on you for the same reasons gentlemen usually give.” Mrs. Gardiner’s smile was too encouraging. “He asked your uncle’s permission quite formally.”
“Then Uncle has given his consent?” Jane asked with an almost breathless quality I would have disdained on any other woman.
“Your uncle believes it should be your decision, and I agree with him. But he has no objection to the call itself, if you are willing.”
I could no longer hold my tongue. Did my aunt not see what Mr. Darcy was doing? He was the architect of the Bingley snub, standing at the window, proud as Lucifer, and now, he pretended to humble himself to gain an entrance with Jane?
I set my cup down hard enough to rattle the saucer. “Willing? Jane cannot possibly bewillingto receive a man who delivered a tortoise, lingered for tea, and now presumes to request a formal call as though he had earned the privilege. He brought a stone yesterday, Aunt. Abasking stone. For a reptile. That is not courtship; that is a man who has run out of plausible excuses and is improvising.”
“Elizabeth.” Mrs. Gardiner’s tone held a warning. “The question was addressed to Jane.”
“Yes, but she always sees the good in every person, and she does not look behind their motives. Then when they hurt her, she cannot understand how it happened.”
“I believe Jane can speak for herself,” Mrs. Gardiner admonished. “And you need to be calm.”
“I am being calm.” I resisted the urge to stomp my foot.
“Your definition of calmness is at a pitch that is causing the dog next door to bark.” She took a sip of her chocolate. “Jane?”
Jane averted her gaze from mine, which was the first indication that she would not heed my warning. Whenever she was about to agree with me, she looked at me for confirmation and reassurance—for that nod that told her I had found an answer she was welcome to adopt as her own.
Instead of looking toward me, she looked straight into Mrs. Gardiner’s eyes. “I should like to receive him.”
My heart lurched deep inside my chest, trading places with my stomach. The entire room rearranged. The toast froze. The chocolate turned to fudge, and Mrs. Gardiner’s eyebrow arched.
“Jane.” I felt like rapping her knuckles. “You cannot be serious.”
Her gaze fell on me like a signal fire. “I am completely serious, Lizzy. I find nothing objectionable about Mr. Darcy.”
“Even when he stood at the window when you called on the Bingleys and approved their cut?”
At this, Jane winced, but she maintained eye contact. “It was not his house, Lizzy, and I wish to hear what he has to say.”
“About what?” My vision blurred, and I blinked it clear. I knew Jane’s face better than my own, had studied it every morning of my life across a shared pillow, and what I saw was new—resolve, not compliance. “More stories about Pemberley and its perfection?”
“He is Bingley’s friend.” Jane buttered her toast as if the explanation should suffice. “He may bring news or explain what happened in November.”
“He will bring excuses. He will sit in our drawing room and drink our tea and tell you whatever serves his pride, and you will believe him because you believe everyone. You cannot conceive that people might act from motives less generous than your own.”
