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TRUE COLOURS

E lizabeth took the post from Hannah and thanked her.

The uppermost letter, she could immediately see, was from her father.

She tucked it into her pocket, for she dared not risk her sister asking to read it.

Mr Bennet’s last letter had been full of melancholic remonstrations against her mother and repeated warnings as to the consequences of her continued absence—as if it was in Elizabeth’s power to do anything about it.

Much though she pitied him, she was growing increasingly frustrated with his reliance on her to resolve the matter.

Her sagacious and constructive solution was to continue to disregard his letters.

“Still nothing from Mama,” Jane said once Hannah had left. “Do you think it odd that she has not written to us?”

Elizabeth broke the seal on her second letter. “I think it more than odd—I think it unpardonably selfish.”

“Unless she is too ill to write. Remember how unwell Mrs Randall was.”

Elizabeth remembered perfectly well. “She is not too ill, Jane—but I am too cross to think about it. Let us talk of something else.”

Something else promptly presented itself for their diversion, when the content of Elizabeth’s next missive turned out to be so absurd it made her laugh.

“What is it?” Jane asked.

“An invitation to dine with the Countess of Marling.”

“Are you acquainted?”

“Yes. She was at Lady Rothersea’s soiree. But I shall not be going.”

“Why not?”

“It is addressed to me and Mr Darcy. Which is ridiculous. Lady Marling knows very well that we are not engaged, and even if we were, I could not accept on his behalf—only his wife could do that. She is making a point, and I shall not give her the satisfaction of rising to it.” Elizabeth tossed the invitation aside and flopped backwards on the sofa.

After a moment of silence, she lifted her head and peered at Jane, who was smirking at her embroidery as she worked on it. “You would laugh at my misery?”

“Most people would be flattered that the first circles had formed such a high opinion of them. You are the only person I know who could find a way to be offended by an invitation from a countess.”

“Oh Jane, you must admit it is nonsense,” Elizabeth said, sitting up. “Such a furore over a silly, unfounded rumour.”

Jane raised her eyebrows and said, gently, “Are you sure it is unfounded? You certainly seem to have seen a good deal of Mr Darcy since we came to town. How many times have you met now—a dozen?”

“Nowhere near that many! Seven or eight. Ten at most—and none of them by design.”

Jane smiled pityingly. “Ten since you came to London. Many more if you include his time in Hertfordshire. Plenty of people get engaged on flimsier acquaintances. Ten is more times than I was in company with Mr Bingley before you decided we must be in love.”

“Yes, well, I was very wrong about him, and I am heartily sorry for it—but that does not mean you must retaliate by pairing me with a man who is similarly disinterested.”

“What makes you think Mr Darcy is disinterested? You were the only person he danced with at Lord Aubrey’s ball—just as you were the only person he danced with at Mr Bingley’s. He has dined with us, and encouraged you to know his sister, and he spent the entire evening last night staring at you?—”

“Jane, please stop.” Elizabeth suddenly felt like crying.

Her sister put her embroidery aside and fixed her with the gentlest of looks. “You love him, do you not?”

Misery tightened its iron grip around Elizabeth’s chest. She forced some ebullience into her tone and said, “Despite all my sincerest efforts, I am very afraid I might. I know you do not like him, but?—”

“I do not dislike him, Lizzy. I disliked what he said to me—but I have disliked many a thing that you have said to me, and I am still reasonably fond of you.”

Elizabeth laughed. “True!”

“Besides,” Jane added, “in light of Mr Bingley’s evident disinclination, I am disposed to think Mr Darcy’s warning was more kindly meant than I understood at the time.” She grinned and added, “Which will make it much easier for me to love him when he is my brother.”

Elizabeth shook her head. “Mr Darcy will never be your brother. He would have considered marrying me a degradation before, but now—” It was such a force of habit to share everything with Jane, she only narrowly prevented herself from saying more.

Oh, how she hated concealing so much from her!

“Now, there are all these rumours,” she finished feebly.

“Surely he does not blame you for that.”

“No, I do not think he does.”

Indeed, Darcy had been far kinder than she could ever have expected in that regard.

She knew he was a private man; he had told her very early on in their acquaintance that he assiduously avoided behaviour that would expose him to ridicule and, more recently, that he disliked London’s prying attention.

The onslaught of scrutiny precipitated by her mother’s conduct must be everything abhorrent to him, yet not once had he made her feel accountable—not even last night.

She had been mortified when he was announced into Lady Fulcombe’s drawing room, knowing it must appear as though, in defiance of the scandalous information he had imparted, she continued to obstinately trespass into his world, giving substance to the whispers about them and imperilling his reputation along with her own.

She had expected him to respond furiously.

Instead, he had been civil and obliging.

She would go so far as to say sweet-tempered, for he would have been well within his rights to rail about the circus of questions they had been forced to endure.

Then again, Elizabeth knew it was not in Darcy’s nature to rail.

She had publicly berated him outside her uncle’s house, and he had not so much as raised his voice in response.

She had not been surprised to discover that he had preferred to leave the Fulcombe’s party quietly, when the attention upon them had waned and nobody was looking. Wretched, but not surprised.

“But I know he hates it,” she concluded. “He said last night that he did not think the situation could get any worse.”

Jane frowned. “It seems to me that the situation is only bad because you are not engaged. If you were, all this celebration would be much more to the purpose.”

“I daresay you are right, but if Mr Darcy wished to marry me, I do not doubt that he would have mentioned it, for he could never be accused of timidity. I know it is difficult for you to believe, dearest, but you simply must accept that he does not appreciate my many merits.”

“Lizzy, be serious. I know you must be pained by his disinterest.”

“Oh, I am pained, Jane—I am mourning the loss of my good sense deeply. I have fallen in love with a man I was determined to hate, wooed by nothing more than his complete indifference.”

She could see that Jane meant to argue and was excessively glad to hear the front doorbell ring.

The conversation immediately diverted to speculation as to whom their caller might be, hoping it was nobody for Mrs Gardiner, for she was out with the children.

They were both stunned into silence when Hannah brought up Miss Bingley’s card.

It could only be guessed how Jane felt—she looked pale and confused—but Elizabeth was furious.

The entire Bingley family had treated her sister infamously!

Only in the last few weeks had she begun to recover her spirits after so many disappointments at their hands, and Elizabeth had no intention of allowing her sorrow to be dredged up again.

“Pray tell her we are not at home, Hannah.”

“No, wait!” Jane said urgently.

“You cannot mean to receive her?” Elizabeth cried.

“You must not worry that I shall be overcome with any revival of sentiment for her brother. And it is not Miss Bingley’s fault that he decided against me.”

“No, but…” Alas, Elizabeth could think of no good reason to turn Miss Bingley away.

“Please show her up and bring us some refreshments, Hannah.” When the maid had gone, Jane added, “Do not be angry with me, Lizzy.”

Elizabeth gave her a smile of reluctant acquiescence and said nothing.

She wished she had objected more vociferously when it became clear, a few minutes into the visit, that Miss Bingley had not come with any intention of furthering her friendship with Jane but to court a connexion with the ton’s current favourite.

“And so, Miss Eliza, I hear that you and Mr Darcy are quite inseparable these days.”

“As you see, we are comfortably separated at present. You ought not to believe everything you hear.”

“Indeed, it is difficult to, for nobody who saw you together at Netherfield could have suspected an affection would arise between you. But I understand you are beginning to move in the same circles. I imagine you wish to make a good impression. I should be happy to introduce you to my dressmaker, if you would like.”

“Thank you, but I have no immediate need of anything new. Jane was thinking of ordering a new gown. Perhaps you could introduce her?”

Miss Bingley spared Jane only a fleeting glance. “Yes, of course, but…Miss Eliza, perhaps you do not understand the significance of your good fortune. Your connexion to Mr Darcy will put you in company with?—”

“My sister is not engaged to Mr Darcy,” Jane interrupted.

It was almost funny to see the relief at war with the uncertainty on Miss Bingley’s face.

“Just so long as you know the offer is there,” she said at length, “for, if you were to begin to spend more time with Mr Darcy, then we should undoubtedly see much more of each other also, for he is, as you know, exceedingly good friends with my brother.”

“Mr Darcy told me he has not seen your brother since he left Netherfield,” Elizabeth replied coldly. “I do not think we should anticipate any notable increase in our engagements on account of that connexion.”