Elizabeth might have laughed on another day, but now, everything within her felt taut as a wire. She had neither patience nor amusement for his indifference. How lightly he took everything! How willingly he ignored all that was uncomfortable so long as he might retreat into his study! If only he would act—if only he would exert himself to temper her mother’s foolishness and guide their family with sense!
The evening passed in the usual way, though Elizabeth scarcely heard the idle talk of her younger sisters. Lydia chattered endlessly of officers, Kitty echoed her sentiments, and Mary made solemn pronouncements upon the virtues of moral refinement, to which nobody listened. Mrs. Bennet’s complaints about their early return wereplentiful, and Mr. Bennet, as was his habit, responded with dry remarks that pleased only himself.
Elizabeth could not bear it. She set down her tea with a clatter and rose abruptly to her feet. "You may think it nothing, but this—this—is what will ruin us all!" The room fell silent. "You fret over Jane returning home too soon, Mama, as if a day or two would make any difference, but it is your very scheming that will drive Mr. Bingley away. And you, Papa—do you think yourself blameless? You who sit by and laugh, content to let matters fall as they will, without lifting a finger to prevent disaster?"
"Lizzy!" Jane gasped.
Mr. Bennet blinked at her, momentarily taken aback. Then, in his usual indolent way, he sighed. "I suppose I ought to take offense at such a tirade, but it is rather amusing to see you in such a passion. Tell me, my dear, what great calamity do you foresee?"
Elizabeth’s hands clenched at her sides. She could not tell him. She could not tell anyone. She could only watch, helpless, as the future unfolded just as it had before. Her mother’s folly. Her father’s neglect. And her own mistake—one that had already set Mr. Darcy against her.
Tears burned behind her eyes, but she refused to shed them here, not before them. Without another word, she turned on her heel and fled up the stairs, the sound of her mother’s indignant exclamations ringing behind her.
She barely reached the safety of her chamber before the storm broke. Sinking onto her bed, she buried her face in her hands and let the tears fall at last. She had ruined everything. Mr. Darcy thought her allied with his greatest enemy. And in two days, that very man would appear before her, confirming every suspicion. How could she fix it? How could she undo the damage she had wrought?
Her sobs echoed in the stillness of the room. Two days. That was all the time she had left before everything would unravel.
Chapter 13
Morning light spilled into the chamber, painting the walls in soft gold, yet Elizabeth felt none of its warmth. She had not slept well. Her mind had been too consumed with worry, playing over every possible scenario, each one worse than the last.
She had risen before the rest of the house, intent upon finding some way—any way—to change what was to come. Mr. Darcy believed her to be in league with Wickham. She could not bear it. Could she avoid him entirely? Could she, by some miracle, ensure that he never saw her first encounter with that man?
Feigning illness? No, that would not do. Mr. Darcy would still see her family in Wickham’s company, and his suspicions would remain unchanged. If anything, it would seem as though she were hiding something.
Perhaps an early morning walk? If she could chance upon Mr. Darcy before he left Netherfield, she might find some way to speak to him, to reassure him that she had no connection to Wickham at all. But no—today of all days, her escape would be impossible.
Mr. Collins was to arrive.
Her stomach twisted at the thought. How had she nearly forgotten? Another problem. Another figure in her life she had no wish to manage.
She had not even met him yet, but she knew precisely what to expect. A man full of self-importance, puffed up with his own consequence, eager to ingratiate himself with those he deemed superior. And her mother—oh, her mother! She would latch onto the idea of an advantageous marriage with the desperation of a drowning woman grasping for a lifeline.
Elizabeth sighed and sat up. There was no use lying in bed. If she delayed too long, Jane would come looking for her, and the last thing she wished was to be questioned about her melancholy. Jane had knocked softly on her door last night, but Elizabeth had not answered. She had needed time. Time to mourn what had been lost—or at least what she feared she was losing.
James. Her son.
She had never been without him before. She missed the weight of him in her arms, the softness of his cheek against hers. It hurt, deep in her chest, the knowledge that she might never have him again. But she would. She must. She would not let herself waver.
Throwing back the covers, she rose and dressed quickly. Whatever emotions churned within her must be buried. No one could suspect. Today would be difficult enough without her family growing concerned over her demeanor.
When she finally entered the breakfast room, the clatter of plates and cheerful voices did little to soothe her frayed nerves.
"Good morning, Lizzy," Jane greeted her gently, her eyes warm with concern.
"Good morning." Elizabeth forced a smile, hoping it might reassure her sister.
Mrs. Bennet, however, barely spared her a glance before launching into her lamentations. "Oh, what a trial it is to have such ungrateful children! I still cannotbelieve you insisted upon returning home so soon, Jane. Mr. Bingley will think you care nothing for him!"
"Mama, I—"
"Oh, do not protest, child! What is done is done. We must only hope that your dreadful mistake has not cost you everything."
Elizabeth’s jaw tightened. She would not engage. She could not afford another outburst like last night.
Mr. Bennet, lounging in his chair with his customary amusement, merely arched a brow. "Well, my dear, if Jane has indeed lost all hope of securing Mr. Bingley’s affections, we must take solace in knowing that we have another gentleman arriving today. Perhaps he shall be the answer to all your prayers."
"Who?" cried Mrs. Bennet, her brow furrowing in suspicion. "Who could possibly—"
