That decision necessarily brought others with it. If he truly meant to act, he could not afford to delay. Netherfield would soon be left behind. Once he returned to London, the opportunity for a discreet discussion would be lost, and with it any chance to act without the interference of distance or regret. If he were to speak, it must be now.
He would warn her.
The decision, once made, brought with it a strange calm. It did not ease his apprehension, nor did it lessen the difficulty of what lay ahead, but it imposed order upon his thoughts. He would not embellish. He would not justify himself. He would speak only of what was necessary, and no more.
He would tell her before they left; he would go to Longbourn the very next day.
That resolution served another purpose, which he acknowledged with a mixture of relief and unease. By limiting the moment, he limited himself. He would not allow the conversation to wander into territory he was not prepared to enter. His feelings, however deeply felt, must remain unspoken. A warning, offered plainly and withdrawn without insistence, was all he could permit himself.
Darcy rose once more, folding Georgiana’s letter with care and placing it safely within his pocket. When he left the room, his manner was composed; his purpose settled. Perhaps Miss Elizabeth would dismiss it all out of hand, rage at him, call him a liar. At least he would know that he had not failed her through cowardice.
He owed Elizabeth Bennet the truth, and that was what he would give her.
Chapter 5
On a damp and cloudy December morning, Elizabeth expected neither visitors nor much else of interest. The family had gathered in the drawing room, each listlessly pursuing their own amusements with little enthusiasm. Mrs Bennet sat looking over the menus for the coming week, though her attention wandered away from her task with alarming frequency. Jane was settled near the window with her embroidery, her manner composed but subdued. Kitty idled between chair and hearth, while Lydia complained about the dullness of the weather and the still greater dullness of remaining at home. Mary read from a great tome of morality for young ladies, pausing at intervals to consider a passage with solemn care.
Elizabeth had also taken up a book, more from habit than inclination. She had turned several pages without retaining a word of what she read, her thoughts wandering beyond the printed lines to matters far less easily ordered. It was not often thatreading failed her so entirely, and she found her inability to focus considerably vexing.
Charlotte Lucas — soon to be Charlotte Collins — occupied her thoughts, making a grey day seem yet more dispiriting.
Elizabeth had told herself that her friend’s engagement ought not to disturb her so deeply. Charlotte had chosen practicality over love with her eyes open. No deception had been practiced, no promises broken.
Still, Elizabeth could not reconcile herself to how easily Charlotte had surrendered not only the hope of a husband she might love, but of one she might respect. That such a sacrifice should be made willingly, and even defended, unsettled her more than she wished to admit.
Perhaps still more disturbingly, it was not merely disappointment she felt, but a loss of certainty. Charlotte had always been her confidante, her steady counterbalance, the friend whose judgement she trusted even when she did not share it. To discover now that their principles diverged so completely forced Elizabeth to reconsider assumptions she had never thought to question. If Charlotte could be content with so little, what, then, did Elizabeth require to be happy?
The question had no immediate answer.
She was roused from these reflections by thearrival of the post. There were several letters, one to Elizabeth herself from her aunt in London, two for Mrs Bennet, and one for Jane which interested Mrs Bennet considerably more than her own correspondence, as it was addressed from Netherfield Park. Before Jane had read so much as a line of her own letter, her mother had snatched it from her and was poring over it with excitement that quickly turned to agitation.
“Well, this is beyond endurance,” Mrs Bennet remarked angrily.
Elizabeth watched in concern. Mrs Bennet was waving the letter as though it had gravely offended her. Jane, who seemed to have given up on recovering her mail, had coloured and lowered her eyes.
“What is it, Mama?” Kitty asked eagerly.
“What is it?” Mrs Bennet repeated. “Why, the very worst news imaginable. Miss Bingley writes to say that they are all leaving Netherfield. Leaving it, I say, and for an indefinite period. There is not a word in it of their return.”
Elizabeth’s attention was fixed on Jane. Her sister’s composure was admirable, but it was not difficult to detect the effort it required. She had returned to her work with careful precision, but her hands moved more slowly than before.
That was simply too much. Elizabeth crossedthe room and took the letter from her mother, gently but firmly, before giving it into her sister’s hands. Jane gave her a look of wordless gratitude before beginning to read the news for herself.
“They are going to London,” Mrs Bennet continued loudly. “To London, at this season, when every sensible person knows attachments are formed and fixed with time spent together. And Jane is to be left behind as though she were of no consequence at all.”
Having reached the end of the brief note, Jane spoke up quietly. “Miss Bingley writes very civilly. She expresses every hope of seeing us again.”
“Civilly,” Mrs Bennet scoffed. “Civility costs nothing. If her brother had the slightest regard for you, he would not be persuaded away so easily.”
Elizabeth felt a familiar irritation stir within her. “Perhaps the decision was not made lightly,” she said.
Mrs Bennet harrumphed indignantly. “Little enough you know of it, Miss Lizzy. It does no good to say so, for whether Mr Bingley goes lightly or reluctantly, still he goes. But you will sit there and think nothing of it, though you will be sorry when your father dies, and none of us have anywhere to go.”
Elizabeth did not reply. She glanced again at Jane. Her sister’s expression remained gentle, but the brightness that was so much a part of her spirithad dimmed. That her mother’s complaints should be voiced so freely, and at Jane’s expense, struck Elizabeth as particularly cruel.
Mary looked up from her book. “We must remember,” she said solemnly, “that disappointment is often sent to strengthen the character.”
Lydia laughed. “I should like to have my character strengthened in London,” she said. “There is nothing here to be endured but boredom, and that surely cannot strengthen anybody’s character.”
