“My dears,” he said cheerfully, “forgive my tardiness—I was waylaid by my steward, and you know how he can go on.”
There were smiles all around, though Elizabeth noted that Jane’s smile, while warm, held a touch of weariness—a reflection, perhaps, of the strain they all felt beneath the surface. And yet, Jane bore it with grace, never doubting Bingley’s devotion, never questioning the wisdom of an August wedding. Perhaps she had the right of it. Perhaps there was something noble in trusting love to find its way, even when all signs pointed elsewhere. They had chosen this date for a reason—six weeks had been enough the first time through, and she began to see the wisdom in Jane’s word again when her mother spoke.
Mr. Bingley greeted them all with his habitual good-natured courtesy, and soon took the seat beside Jane. Elizabeth, seated nearby, waited only a moment before she spoke.
“Have you had any reply from Mr. Darcy?” she asked, carefully light.
Mr. Bingley’s smile dimmed just slightly. “Not yet. But I have written again—this time to both his house in town and to Pemberley, in case he has gone north earlier than expected.”
Elizabeth nodded, but the quiet thump of her heart did not settle.
“That seems excessive,” Miss Bingley’s voice chimed from the doorway, “considering how very close the two of you are. One would think a gentleman so devoted would not need prompting.”
They turned. Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst had arrived in their usual finery, unannounced but entirely expected. Miss Bingley entered with the air of one resuminga performance halfway through the act. She settled into her preferred chair with a delicate rustle of ribbons and continued as if she had never stopped speaking.
“I should think,” she went on with a smile far too polished, “that the silence might be more telling than the delay. Particularly under the circumstances of your recent engagement.”
Jane turned slightly in her seat. “Caroline.”
But it was Elizabeth who answered. Her voice was quiet, even, but unmistakably firm.
“I should be very surprised,” she said, “if Mr. Darcy’s silence had anything to do with Jane’s happiness.”
There was a pause—brief but taut.
Mrs. Hurst glanced between them, clearly regretting the direction of the conversation. Miss Bingley merely gave a thin smile and reached for her fan.
“Well,” she said airily, “no doubt it is all a great misunderstanding. Gentlemen are dreadfully inconsistent creatures.”
“Some are,” Mary observed, not looking up. “Others merely dislike being spoken for.”
The quiet that followed was broken—blessedly—by Mrs. Bennet, who had chosen the worst possible moment to reenter with a flurry of notes in her hand.
“Now, I’ve narrowed it down to four colours for the gown,” Mrs. Bennet declared, flourishing a small swatch book she had assembled from scraps. “Pale blue shows off Jane’s complexion, of course, but ivory is more elegant—and the vicar’s wife wore white when she married, though I always said that was too plain. Lavender would bring out her eyes, and Mrs. Long said green was fashionable again. Oh, but I cannot decide!”
Jane smiled with admirable patience, though Elizabeth could see the strain creeping back into her posture.
Mrs. Bennet turned to Miss Bingley. “And I expect you and your sister will wish to be seated with the family—dear friends that you are.”
Miss Bingley blinked. “Oh… of course.”
And with that, the subject of Mr. Darcy was—at least for the moment—closed. Conversation turned again to gowns and ribbons, cakes and carriages. Miss Bingley offered opinions with languid authority; Mrs. Hurst chimed in only when prompted. Jane answered with steady composure, and Elizabeth, though silent, remained seated through it all, her smile practiced and her thoughts elsewhere.
The wedding talk continued for another half hour, unbroken by sense or ceremony. At last, Miss Bingley and her sister rose, declaring they had other calls to make—though none of them, Elizabeth was quite sure, involved genuine affection. They offered farewells with perfumed cheek kisses and more remarks about lace, then departed in a flutter of shawls and fan-rustling civility.
Only after the door had closed and the Bingley carriage rolled away did the house begin to breathe again. The drawing room fell into one of those silences too complete to be peaceful—a silence born not of calm, but of exhaustion. Jane bent again to her needlework with quiet precision. Mary excused herself, a faint furrow between her brows. And Elizabeth remained seated for a moment longer, unmoving, her thoughts caught somewhere between the echo of Miss Bingley’s voice and the quiet hum of what had not been said.
Later, Mary and Jane managed to find her alone in her room, where she sat by the window in restless stillness, watching the sky for signs of the Gardiners’ carriage. The soft hush of the house around her was almost comforting—if only it did not feel so much like waiting.
Jane, as ever, brought warmth into the room simply by entering it. She crossed to Elizabeth’s side and sat, her voice calm, but this time laced with a trace of uncertainty. “Of course there must be a reason, Lizzy,” she said. “You know Mr. Darcy—he is not thoughtless. But I admit, even I begin to wonder. Still, I believe love will find a way—it did for Charles and me, though not without trials.”
Elizabeth offered her a faint smile, grateful but unable to match the sentiment. Her heart was too crowded with doubts to make space for easy words. Before she could gather a reply, Mrs. Bennet’s voice called from the hall—something about lace, and the virtues of satin trim over taffeta.
Jane rose with a knowing glance, pressed Elizabeth’s hand, and went to answer.
Mary lingered. She crossed the room quietly and took the chair beside Elizabeth without asking, her hands folded neatly in her lap. For a time, she said nothing at all.
At last, Elizabeth spoke. The words came carefully—measured and restrained. She admitted to Mary the unease she could no longer dismiss, her growing concern over Mr. Darcy’s continued silence. And though she did not say it with bitterness, she confessed how heavily that silence had begun to weigh. Jane had never faltered in her belief. Elizabeth, who had once thought herself the more discerning of the two, now wondered if it was not wisdom, after all, to trust so completely. If love asked for anything, it was faith—and Jane had offered hers freely. Elizabeth could no longer say the same.
