But alongside that image came another—one less ideal.
Mr. Bingley was too agreeable by half. He deferred to others, avoided conflict, and sought peace above principle. And Jane—dear Jane, with her tender heart and endless capacity to forgive—could so easily be steamrolled by the strong wills around her. What might their life look like, if Caroline Bingley were given leave to remain?
Elizabeth could see it clearly. Miss Bingley insinuating herself into every decision, dropping scathing remarks masked as compliments, treating Jane with condescension laced in honey—and Jane, smiling sweetly, pretending not to notice, making excuses for it all.
And Bingley?
Bingley would wring his hands, perhaps. He might look concerned. But would he act? Would he do more than gently suggest Miss Bingley behave with more kindness?
Would he ever truly protect Jane?
Elizabeth doubted it.
And that was the crux of her unease. Not just that Miss Bingley had done something cruel—but that Jane might forgive and forget so completely that she would never insist on better.
She pressed her hand to her brow, willing the thoughts to stop. But the worry lingered.
What use is goodness,she wondered bitterly,if no one defends it when it is harmed?
The fire dimmed to embers. Elizabeth turned over once more and pulled the blankets tighter.
She had never wished for power or wealth. But in that moment, she wished, fiercely, that she had influence—enough to guard her sister’s gentle heart from being bruised again.
Chapter 17
Elizabeth woke with the same tight knot in her chest she had carried to bed. The unease had not softened with rest; if anything, it had sharpened, as though her thoughts had spent the night honing themselves against one another. Jane slept on, peaceful at last, her breathing even, her color returning. Elizabeth watched her for a moment, reassured, then rose quietly.
She dressed with little care for ornament and went down before the household had fully stirred. The air outside was cool and bright, the sort that promised clarity if one only walked far enough into it. She set off at once, her stride brisk, her thoughts restless.
She had not gone far before she saw him.
Mr. Darcy was already on the path, not in his riding coat this time, but in a dark morning jacket, his gloves tucked into one hand. He looked almost startled when he noticed her appear out of the morning fog, then distinctly pleased.
“Good morning, Miss Elizabeth,” he said, inclining his head.
She returned the greeting with a curious smile. “You are not riding today?”
A faint flush touched his cheeks, so slight she might have missed it had she not been watching him closely. “No,” he said.“I thought you might wish for a walk this morning. Given… last evening.”
Elizabeth stopped short, genuinely surprised. Then warmth spread through her, quick and unwelcome and entirely pleasant.
“You anticipated correctly,” she said. “I find that movement is sometimes the only remedy for unsettled thoughts.”
“I have observed as much,” he replied quietly.
She laughed, soft and unguarded. “You are perceptive, sir.”
They fell into step together, turning down a narrower path that led away from the formal gardens. The hedges grew taller here, less carefully trimmed, and soon the entrance to the old maze appeared before them. Its paths were half reclaimed by ivy and bramble, the symmetry softened by time.
Elizabeth paused. “I had forgotten this was still here.”
“You know it?” he asked.
“I do. I spent many hours here as a child, when Netherfield was occupied before. It was far less overgrown then, though no less capable of swallowing one whole.” She smiled at the memory. “Shall we?”
He gestured ahead, and they walked in companionable silence for a time, the sound of their steps muffled by grass and fallen leaves. At last, Elizabeth spoke.
“I wished to ask you something,” she said. “If you do not mind.”
