The thought came without ornament—not with the fever of novelty, but with the steady recognition of something essential.
He loved her wit, her courage, her clear-eyed refusal to flatter him into comfort. He loved the steadiness beneath her playfulness. He loved the way she met difficulty with humor rather than retreat.
Could he relinquish her if she would not share his faith?
The very notion felt like tearing something vital from himself.
He drew a slow breath.
No decision could be made in silence.
Before any formal steps were taken—before promises hardened into vows—he would speak with her plainly. She deserved that. So did he.
Only then would he know what future lay before them.
Chapter 22
The weeks that followed passed with a swiftness that surprised even Elizabeth, who had long believed that life at Longbourn moved at a pace determined chiefly by her mother’s nerves and Lydia’s impatience.
Calls were paid and returned with much more frequency than they had been before. Netherfield’s carriage became a frequent sight upon the road, its arrival prompting Mrs. Bennet to adjust her cap and posture with equal urgency. Mrs. Hurst presided over her brother’s household with cool competence, receiving the Bennet ladies with civility that bordered upon indifference. Miss Bingley, though scrupulously polite when she deigned to join them, found it necessary to remind the room—whenever opportunity allowed—that Hertfordshire could not rival the refinements of London.
Elizabeth bore it with composure; Jane bore it with grace.
Mr. Bingley’s attentions, however, were neither ambiguous nor restrained. His pleasure in Jane’s company was so evident that even Mrs. Bennet’s most extravagant anticipations seemed, for once, founded upon fact rather than fancy. He rode over often, sometimes with Darcy, sometimes alone, and if the conversation turned to the management of Netherfield’s tenants or the improvement of its fields, it did not prevent his eyes from seeking Jane across the room.
One morning, Mr. Bingley arrived earlier than was his habit, and alone.
Elizabeth observed it at once. There was something in his expression—an earnest gravity that sat awkwardly upon his naturally cheerful features. He greeted Mrs. Bennet with unusual composure, bowed to her daughters, and then, after only the briefest exchange of pleasantries, requested the favor of a private word with Mr. Bennet.
Mrs. Bennet froze.
Elizabeth felt Jane’s hand tighten upon her own.
Mr. Bennet, who had been reading in his accustomed chair, lowered his spectacles and regarded Mr. Bingley with a look of mild curiosity.
“With me, sir?” he drawled.
“If you please.”
Mr. Bennet rose with deliberation. “Very well. I am always interested in private discourse conducted at ten in the morning.”
He led Mr. Bingley toward his study and closed the door.
The click of the latch sounded far louder than it ought.
Mrs. Bennet immediately began pacing.
“Oh heavens. Oh, my nerves. Jane, sit up straight. Lizzy, do not look so knowing. Kitty, for once in your life, quit coughing!”
Jane’s complexion had taken on the delicate pallor of one attempting composure by sheer will. She folded her hands in her lap, her gaze fixed resolutely upon the carpet.
Elizabeth remained outwardly calm, though her own heart had begun to beat with inconvenient force.
“How long can it possibly require?” Mrs. Bennet demanded after less than a minute had passed. “What can men say to one another that is so very mysterious?”
“Perhaps they are discussing crop rotation,” Elizabeth suggested.
“Lizzy!”
