Elizabeth sat up, brushing a hand through her tangled curls. "As well as can be expected," she replied with a small smile. "Hopeful, at least."
Jane hesitated, then spoke with even greater tenderness. "Will you not share your own sorrows with me, dearest? I worry so for you—my dear little sister."
Elizabeth’s impatience to acquaint Jane with the particulars of her time at Hunsford could no longer be overcome. Resolving to suppress every detail that might unnecessarily alarm her, she gathered her courage, and at length, prepared Jane to be surprised. With careful words, she related the chief of what had passed between herself and Mr. Darcy.
Miss Bennet’s astonishment was at first very great; but it was soon lessened by that strong sisterly affection which rendered any admiration of Elizabeth perfectly natural. All surprise was shortly lost in more tender feelings. She was grieved that Elizabeth should have borne such a burden alone, and still more that her brave confession had not yet been rewarded by certainty.
"To have lived with such knowledge and said nothing!" cried Jane, pressing Elizabeth’s hand with tearful earnestness. "Dearest Lizzy, how much you must have suffered."
Elizabeth smiled faintly. "I do not think I could have borne it at all without you."
Jane, overcome by a sudden memory, exclaimed, "But I interrupted you in London!" Her cheeks flushed with regret. "I came to you so thoughtlessly that afternoon—speaking only of my own happiness—when you and Mr. Darcy—oh, Lizzy, I see it all now. I might have ruined everything!"
"Nonsense," Elizabeth said warmly, brushing aside her sister’s distress with a smile. "You brought me joy, Jane. The news of your engagement was a balm to my heart. I would not have exchanged that moment—your happiness—for all the explanations in the world."
Jane still looked troubled, but at Elizabeth’s gentle encouragement, she gathered herself and said, "You do not blame me, then?"
"Blame you!" repeated Elizabeth, laughing a little, though her voice trembled with emotion. "Oh no. I never could."
"And I do not blame you," Jane added softly, her voice steady with conviction. "You did only what love and duty demanded. And your confession to Mr. Darcy was the same."
Elizabeth looked away, blinking hard against the sting of unshed tears. "But what if... what if by speaking, I have altered everything beyond repair?"
"You must not think so," said Jane, with the same sweet solemnity that had soothed her since girlhood. "You must have faith, as I do, that James and Clare will still be born, and that happiness will find you again. Surely heaven would not punish such courage."
Elizabeth, overcome, could only nod, her heart too full for words.
"And now," Jane said, her voice brightening with a gentle cheer, "I know you will be as pleased as I am that Mr. Bingley and Mr. Darcy are expected at Netherfield within a few days. Mama says they are to dine with us soon, and that an invitation will shortly follow."
Elizabeth gave a small laugh, pressing a hand to her heart as if to steady its wild beating. "I suppose I must prepare myself for every eventuality."
"Hope, Lizzy," Jane whispered, squeezing her hand. "Hope."
The sisters came down to breakfast arm-in-arm, laughing softly in a manner that recalled the happiest days of their youth, when the world had seemed a much simpler and more generous place. Elizabeth, her cheeks slightly flushed with the exertion of emotion and renewed intimacy, leaned affectionately towards Jane, whose gentleness had ever been the balm to her more impetuous spirit.
Mary, already seated with a book before her—though she had not turned a page in some minutes—looked up as they entered. A faint, uncertain smile touched her lips. She knew at once they had spoken, and the easy affection between them, the soft glances, the shared whispers, struck her with a pang she could not entirely suppress. Yet even as jealousy stirred in her breast, Mary fought to master it. She had guided Elizabeth towards her confession; she had done what was right, though it cost her something dear. She must not, she told herself sternly, fall into selfish resentments.
Thus, with a deep, steadying breath, Mary put on a brave face and turned her eyes back to her book, though her heart was not in the reading.
It was Elizabeth who, noticing her subdued air, drew her forcibly back into their circle. She crossed the room at once, her arm still linked with Jane's, and lightly touched Mary's shoulder.
"Come, Mary," she said with playful warmth. "You must not be allowed to sequester yourself this morning. We were just debating whether we ought to walk to Oakham Mount or to the meadows beyond Meryton; we cannot come to a decision without your judgement."
Mary blinked, startled, but a flush of grateful feeling rose in her cheeks. With a nod, she closed her book and set it aside, joining her sisters with a hesitating smile.
Before more could be said, however, the door burst open, and Kitty and Lydia tumbled in, as noisy and heedless as ever.
"Oh, how dreadfully dull it is now!" cried Lydia, throwing herself into a chair with an air of theatrical despair. "There is nothing to do—nothing! The officers are all gone! I shall die of ennui if something does not happen soon!"
"Indeed, Lydia," said Kitty, though with less spirit, "there is hardly anyone left in Meryton worth looking at."
Elizabeth and Jane exchanged a glance, amused despite themselves. Mary, whose sensibilities were too well-governed to express irritation aloud, merely pressed her lips together and looked steadfastly out of the window.
"Perhaps, Lydia," Elizabeth said, her voice sweet but dry, "you might seek a new diversion in the pages of a book."
Lydia made a face. "Books! I would rather have another ball. I declare I have not danced in an age."
"And yet," said Jane, smiling kindly, "we are to have company at Netherfield very soon. That must be excitement enough, surely."
