Page 161 of A Most Unwelcome Acquaintance

“That sounds like a sermon.”

“That is possible, but I do not know how else to say it.”

Kitty wiped her eyes with the heel of her hand. Mary offered the handkerchief, and this time she took it.

“I thought I might marry him,” Kitty said.

“You lost the man you believed him to be. You did not lose a husband, a home, or your last chance at happiness.”

“How can you know it was not my last chance?”

“I cannot. I know only that you are seventeen, the regiment remains in Meryton, and Lydia has decided that she cannot allow your vow against officers to stand.”

A sound escaped Kitty that fell between a sob and a laugh. She pressed the handkerchief to her face.

Mary rose and moved the tea closer. “It will grow cold.”

“I do not want it.”

“Then we can let it grow cold.”

They sat without speaking until voices carried from the road beyond Longbourn. Kitty shifted the curtain enough to see a file of red coats passing toward Meryton. She drew back, then looked again through the narrow gap.

“Is Lieutenant Chamberlayne with them?” she asked.

Mary followed her glance. “I cannot tell one officer from another at this distance.”

“He wears his hat at an angle.”

“That seems an unreliable system of identification.”

Kitty let the curtain fall, but her despair had lost its claim to permanence. She reached for the tea, tasted it, and frowned.

“It is cold.”

“I warned you,” Mary said, and remained beside her while the regiment passed from sight.

Chapter 34

NETHERFIELD WAS QUIETER since Caroline’s departure, though the number of guests had not changed. The servants no longer paused before acting to consider whether Bingley might contradict an order, and breakfast proceeded without anyone correcting the placement of a dish or the order in which letters were opened. Bingley noticed how smooth Netherfield ran without Caroline’s direction and took no pleasure in discovering how much of his own house he had surrendered.

Georgiana sat near the window with a book in her lap, while Anne worked at a piece of embroidery that had advanced little since her arrival. Darcy had taken a letter to the other end of the room, though Bingley suspected he read the same line several times. The morning lacked the strain Caroline once created by watching every exchange for advantage, but relief did not free Bingley from shame.

“I ought to have stopped her long before the summerhouse,” he said.

Darcy folded the letter. “You stopped her when you understood what she had done.”

“I should have understood sooner. She governed my house because I found it easier to let her.”

“You trusted your sister in matters she claimed to understand better than you did. The responsibility is hers for what she did with it.”

Bingley looked toward Georgiana, who had opened her book without turning a page. “You said that yesterday.”

“And I was right.”

Bingley stood and moved to the window. He had delayed because of uncertainty, Caroline’s objections, and the fear that Jane’s affection reflected kindness, not preference. Beneath them all lay his habit of seeking approval before trusting his own judgment. Jane had never demanded that he act or kept him from deciding that he must.

“I believe I shall ride to Longbourn,” he said.