Page 18 of A Most Unfortunate Gentleman

Longbourn

Elizabeth

Elizabeth returned from one of her customary morning rambles early in November, her cheeks bright from the brisk air and her bonnet slightly askew from the wind. She had scarcely unfastened her spencer when her elder sister met her in the hallway.

“Mr. Bingley called while you were out,” Jane said with a smile.

Elizabeth lifted her brows in expectation “Alone?”

“Yes,” Jane replied, her smile dimming. “He said Mr. Darcy travelled. An emergency, he said, though he offered no more.”

At this, Elizabeth’s emotions tangled into a curious knot.

Relief came first. Mr. Darcy had not merely avoided Longbourn or neglected his promise to call.

Yet it was swiftly accompanied by unease.

What sort of emergency warranted such a sudden departure?

Could misfortune have returned to plague him at home?

Was it his estate? His sister? She prayed it was not Georgiana.

Despite her rational mind rejecting the idea of fated misfortunes, she could not help but wish she were near, just in case her presence truly could soften whatever affliction he faced.

How long would he be gone? Would he return to Hertfordshire soon? It seemed improper to ask Jane to press Mr. Bingley for details on his next visit, and far more improper to expect a letter from Mr. Darcy himself—not when he had made no formal declaration.

Three days passed with no further information about Mr. Darcy. All Elizabeth had were questions and prayers until that afternoon when a carriage bearing the Bingley sisters arrived at Longbourn.

Mrs. Bennet welcomed them with such exaggerated civility that Elizabeth almost wished her mother would adopt a touch more restraint. Mr. Bennet was not home, Kitty and Lydia had gone to their aunt Phillip, and Mary was diligently reading Fordyce at the far end of the room.

The sisters appeared all polite. Mrs. Hurst smiled warmly, and Miss Bingley was dressed in her finest wool, her posture impeccable, her tone falsely light.

“I trust your leg has made a full recovery,” Elizabeth asked, determined to meet her guest’s performance with her own calm grace.

“Oh yes,” Miss Bingley said, touching her knee with a dainty gloved hand. “Quite well now. Charles said I bore the pain with heroic patience.”

Jane smiled and added something kind, as she always did, and for a few moments the visit passed in a haze of pleasant words and careful compliments.

It was only after the tea had been served and small matters discussed that Mrs. Bennet asked after their brother.

“Charles is quite well,” she said. “He and Mr. Hurst are spending the afternoon with Colonel Forster. I believe a little game of pall-mall is in the offing.”

“I do wish Mr. Darcy had remained to join them,” Miss Bingley said, smoothing her skirts with deliberate nonchalance. “But alas, he had to depart. He went to visit his aunt, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, and her daughter, Anne.”

A shadow of unease crossed Elizabeth’s mind at the mention of Mr. Darcy’s family.

She could not recall him speaking of any aunt.

Their conversations had only touched upon his sister and his cousin, Colonel Fitzwilliam.

The rest of his family remained a mystery, and she found herself wondering if all was well.

Mrs. Bennet, who had taken very little interest until now, looked up from her needlework. “I do hope all is well?”

“I cannot say for certain,” Miss Bingley replied, and then added with a delicate smile, “but I understand it may have to do with his betrothal to his cousin Anne. It is something long expected.”

She said it lightly, as though the matter was common knowledge, yet her gaze drifted unmistakably to Elizabeth.

The air shifted. The clink of china became unbearably loud. Elizabeth’s fingers curled around her teacup as her breath caught with quiet force. Her chest tightened with something she could not name. A weight pressed against her heart, slow and heavy.

Betrothed?

She could hardly believe it. Mr. Darcy, who had walked with her, spoken so kindly, smiled in that singular way that seemed meant only for her. The man who had flipped a coin with childish glee and called her his comfort. Had it all meant nothing?

No anger came—not at first. Just bewilderment. And then, as if her mind had found its footing, a sting of something sharper. She had allowed herself to feel, even to hope. Had he merely been kind? Was it all in her imagination? Had she misread every look, every word, every smile?

She said nothing. Not then, not even when Mrs. Hurst turned the conversation toward London fashions. She listened, she nodded, she smiled as decorum required. But inside, her thoughts were loud and unyielding.

At last, the sisters rose, offered their farewells, and swept out of Longbourn with the same polished elegance with which they had entered. Elizabeth watched them from the parlour window, the sky grey above and the trees nearly bare. The silence they left behind was colder than the air outside.

And as the minutes passed, and the door remained closed, the ache in her chest deepened. Not because Mr. Darcy had chosen another, but because he had led her—however unintentionally—to believe she had been chosen.

It was a very long time before she moved from the window.

Jane was there, silent and present, her gaze filled with that gentle, knowing sympathy that only a sister could offer.

But Elizabeth, pride pricked and spirit bruised, was not yet ready to speak.

Not of feelings that had grown too fast and fluttered too high, only to fall back to earth with a thud.