And then there was James. Her sweet boy, who she had held only in dreams since waking in this past life. Was he still waiting for her in a future she might never reach? Would he be lost to her forever if she strayed too far from the path she once walked?
"Lizzy, dear, you are quite distracted," Charlotte observed.
Elizabeth blinked, drawing herself back to the present. "Merely tired, I suppose. It was a long evening."
Charlotte nodded, but there was something in her gaze that said she did not believe her. Elizabeth turned away before her friend could pry further.
Mary, who had been silent through most of the conversation, suddenly shut her book with a quiet but firm snap. Elizabeth looked over and found her younger sister’s gaze fixed on her in an unreadable expression. It was not curiosity, nor was it reproach. It was something else entirely. And then, just as quickly as it came, Mary looked away and resumed her usual quiet demeanor.
Elizabeth felt a prick of unease. She had been so concerned about Charlotte's perceptiveness that she had overlooked another observer—one who rarely spoke, but always saw.
She would have to be careful indeed.
Chapter 6
The ladies of Longbourn soon waited upon those of Netherfield, as propriety demanded. The visit was returned with all due civility, and though Mrs. Bennet declared herself satisfied with their condescension, Elizabeth found her own thoughts less generous. If anything, the passage of time—both lived and remembered—had only strengthened her opinion of the Bingley sisters. In their elegant gowns and affected airs, they performed the semblance of politeness with all the enthusiasm of an actress repeating a tired role.
Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst directed their attentions toward Jane, as Elizabeth knew they would. Their every kindness, however, was as insincere as she remembered, their regard for Jane driven only by the admiration of their brother. Elizabeth watched them with keen amusement, but her heart held quiet concern. She had witnessed too well the effect their influence would later have on Jane’s happiness.
That evening, when the two sisters sat together, Elizabeth turned to Jane with measured caution. “You must not trust them,” she said at last, her voice low and serious.
Jane blinked in surprise. “Lizzy, you cannot mean to say that they have given offense?”
“Not in the manner you mean, my dear, but offense is not always so boldly given. They are insincere, Jane. Their warmth toward you is not true affection; it is no more than obligation—a display performed to please their brother. I would not see you hurt by mistaking courtesy for friendship.”
Jane shook her head, smiling faintly. “You are too severe. Yes, their manners are perhaps less open than our own, but that is no crime. And how can we know that their regard is not genuine? I would rather think well of them until they prove unworthy of it.”
Elizabeth sighed, but did not press further. In this, Jane had changed not at all, and perhaps it was for the best. To warn her too strongly might cause distress, and despite all, Jane had found her happiness in the end. Elizabeth had no desire to rob her sister of her natural goodness, even if it left her vulnerable. Still, she resolved to remain watchful.
The next day, as Elizabeth sat beside Charlotte Lucas, the conversation naturally turned to Mr. Bingley’s attentions to Jane.
“You see how he looks at her,” Charlotte observed with an arch smile. “It is evident to all that he admires her.”
Elizabeth nodded, but her expression remained guarded. “Yes, but admiration, though pleasant, is a fragile foundation.”
Charlotte glanced at her curiously. “Surely you are not in doubt of Jane’s feelings?”
“Not at all. She is in a fair way to be quite in love. I only wonder if Mr. Bingley’s admiration, however strong, is enough to withstand the influence of those around him.”
Charlotte considered this. “Then you think he may be persuaded against her?”
Elizabeth hesitated. She knew he would be, but how much could she say? “It is not impossible. He is a man of easy temper. Gentle persuasion could move him in any direction.”
Charlotte shook her head. “Then Jane must make herself indispensable to him. Men do not marry women who give them no reason to believe they are wanted. If she hides her affection too well, she may find herself overlooked.”
Elizabeth laughed lightly, though there was no true mirth in it. “That is your advice? To act with calculation? Jane does not play such games, nor would I wish her to.”
“My dear Eliza, you misunderstand me,” Charlotte replied with a knowing look. “It is no game, only wisdom. Few men fall into marriage blindly; they must be guided.”
Elizabeth smiled, but did not argue further. The conversation was too familiar, and she knew well enough that Charlotte’s practical views on marriage were immovable. Yet, despite her foreknowledge, she could not dismiss a growing unease. She had always scoffed at Charlotte’s advice before, believing Jane’s natural goodness would prevail. Now, she was no longer so certain.
But what could she do? Would she allow events to proceed as they had, or would she attempt to change them? The weight of the future pressed upon her, yet she knew that even knowledge did not grant certainty. For now, she could only watch, and wait.
Occupied in observing Mr. Bingley’s attentions to her sister, Elizabeth was well aware that she, too, was being observed. She could feel Fitzwilliam’s eyes upon her, though he did not yet carry the weight of love in them. Curiosity, perhaps—an interest he had denied himself upon their first meeting in the past. She remembered the way he had once told her, long after their marriage, that his first inclination had been to dismissher, only to find himself drawn in despite his best efforts. Now, he seemed to be retracing those very steps, yet she walked them with the knowledge of their destination.
It was at Sir William Lucas’s, during a large gathering, that she noticed his particular interest in her conversation with Colonel Forster. A flicker of amusement passed through her; he had once mistaken her natural wit for flirtation. This time, perhaps, she would allow him to think so with knowledge that it is.
“What does Mr. Darcy mean,” she said to Charlotte, lowering her voice just enough to feign innocence, “by listening to my conversation with Colonel Forster?”
