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Chapter Twenty-Two

T he parlor was quiet.

Jane sat by the window with a bit of mending, though the needle had not moved in some time. Aunt Gardiner had joined the children upstairs for tea. The fire clicked and settled in the grate.

Elizabeth turned a page of the morning’s society circular without reading it.

Her eyes passed over a column on last week’s art gathering.

Lady Frances had been praised for her red velvet.

A foreign nobleman had admired the bust of Caesar.

Miss Partridge had been described as “expressively dressed,” and Darcy was listed among the “notable gentlemen quietly surveying the field.”

Elizabeth’s name was nowhere on the page. Not mentioned. Not mocked. Simply—absent. She folded the paper, a little too roughly, and laid it aside.

“I did see her,” Jane said quietly.

Elizabeth looked up. “Who?”

“Miss Bingley,” Jane clarified. “At the exhibit. I thought perhaps I imagined it at first, but it was her. She passed me without speaking.”

Elizabeth rose and crossed to the sideboard. “That sounds precisely like her.”

“She looked well,” Jane added, too quickly. “Very much the same. Her gown was green.”

Elizabeth opened the teapot, found it almost decently steeped, and shut it again. “Yes, I saw her.”

“I heard her mention her brother. She was speaking to another lady—laughing, and surely loudly enough that she had to know I heard her.”

Elizabeth grunted. “Surely. Tea?”

“She said he was standing near the Neptune sculpture.”

That stopped her. Elizabeth lowered the pot. “She said he was present? At the exhibit?”

Jane nodded. “She said he had been speaking with a friend of hers. A lady. She claimed they were standing just behind the sculpture of Neptune.” Her hands had stilled completely. “I never saw him.”

Elizabeth swallowed. “Perhaps—he did not know you were there. Or perhaps he was not there at all, and Miss Bingley only suffers from an active imagination.”

Jane’s jaw flexed. “Perhaps.” She pressed the needle through fabric, once, twice, without anchoring it to anything.

Elizabeth moved to speak. Then stopped. Then said nothing.

“I do not blame him,” Jane said suddenly. Her voice wavered. “I never did. If he was misled—or if he simply found someone else—”

“Oh, Jane—”

“I only wish he would say so. I wish someone would say anything .” Her fingers trembled, and the needle bent slightly in her grip. “Why is it so hard to be clear?”

Elizabeth hesitated. There were too many answers. None of them kind.

Because people like Miss Bingley never had to explain themselves. Because men like Mr. Bingley could vanish without consequence. Because silence always looked like virtue on a woman—until someone decided it was arrogance instead.

Because Elizabeth had dragged her sister to London on a promise. Of clarity. Of fairness. Of a chance.

And none of it had materialized.

“I am sorry,” she said at last. “I should not have brought you here.”

Jane shook her head. “It is not about the place.”

“Perhaps not,” Elizabeth snapped. “But it is full of reminders, is it not? That you are not enough. That he did not choose you. That everything you did—quietly, perfectly, patiently—was still not enough.”

Jane’s face stiffened into a look of cold horror. “I never said that.”

“You do not have to. It must be infuriating.” Elizabeth rose and paced once across the rug, her skirts brushing too loud in the still room. “To try and try and be met with nothing but silence and implication.”

Jane looked down. Her voice, when it came, was tight. “You think I did not try? You think I sat there and waited for happiness to land in my lap?”

“That is not what I meant.”

“No? Because it sounds as though I have disappointed you. Again.”

Elizabeth froze. Jane rarely raised her voice. But her tone now had weight. Hurt.

The truth surged to the surface, sharp and urgent. The journal was gone. Caroline Bingley had it—she had to. Elizabeth was being dismantled one clever phrase at a time, and no one— no one —knew what she was losing, or how fast.

But the words stuck. She could not say them. Not now. Not to Jane, who already looked so near breaking.

“I meant,” she said, carefully now, “that I am angry. At them. At everything. Not at you.”

Jane looked away. Elizabeth sat back down, slower this time. She reached for Jane’s hand but did not grasp it tightly. “I should have protected you better.”

“I do not need protecting,” Jane mumbled. “I just need the truth.”

Elizabeth opened her mouth—she had no idea what was about to come out, but a knock split the silence.

Both sisters turned.

Elizabeth stood too quickly. “Yes?”

The door opened a cautious inch. The footman’s voice was tentative. “A message for Miss Elizabeth from the dowager Countess of Matlock.”

Oh, no . Not her again. Elizabeth crossed the room in two steps. “Leave it.”

He set it on the side table, bowed, and vanished. She stared at the seal, still breathing unevenly.

Jane bent to retrieve her sewing, eyes lowered. Elizabeth did not move.

Then, abruptly, she snatched the note and tore it open—not delicately, not like a lady. More like a ravenous fiend. She scanned the page with a flick of her eyes.

“A poetry evening,” she said flatly. “Thursday. Lady Strathmoor.”

Jane looked up, then back down. “Are we both invited?”

Elizabeth nibbled her upper lip and glanced down at the note again. “I suppose it could be read that way.”

“I ask because I would rather not attend. If I can remain behind without giving offense, I should rather do that.”

Elizabeth narrowed her eyes, trying to make sense of her sister’s reluctance. Jane had never been too bashful for a social occasion. But she was looking down now, studying her embroidery as passionately as Mary ever pounded away at a concerto. She appeared determined not to explain herself.

Elizabeth sniffed. “Perhaps I shall read something romantic and faint delicately into the arms of a major.”

Jane made a sound that might have been a laugh. Or not.

Elizabeth frowned. “Or perhaps I shall stay home and rewrite my will.” She folded the invitation once, twice, and pressed her thumb against the crease until the fold was sharp enough to cut her.

She did not need to see a guest list. She already knew who would be there, for it was inevitable.

“Will you accept Lady Matlock’s invitation?”

“I suppose I must,” Elizabeth said. She tried to keep her voice bright. “If I am to be trampled, I should at least do it in spectacular fashion.”

T he solicitor’s letter said nothing new.

It said it at greater length than the last, with more flourishes and more formal wordsmithery, but the meaning was the same: no legal action could proceed against Wickham’s blackmail without exposing Georgiana. And exposure, Darcy had made clear, was not an option.

He folded the letter once, stripping the fold to a crisp line with his fingernail as if he could punish the letter for his frustration, and laid it aside. The edges refused to stay even.

There was a knock on the study door—too brisk to be Mrs. Griffin, too polite to be the dowager.

“Come,” he said.

Charles Bingley stepped in, cheeks ruddy with the chill and his usual good spirits trailing behind him like a loyal dog. “Darcy! I hope I am not intruding?”

“You are.”

Bingley blinked, then smiled more cautiously. “Oh. Shall I come another time?”

Darcy set the rest of the post down and gestured vaguely toward a chair. “As you please.”

Bingley sat. “You are in a mood.”

“I am occupied.”

“So I see. Solicitors?”

Darcy only grunted.

Bingley leaned back. “You should have joined us last night. Lady Frances brought out a set of antique riddles from her father’s library. Only two people solved more than five. I was not one of them.”

“I am not surprised.”

Bingley grinned. “Nor am I. But I did find that cavalry major you wanted to meet—Willard. The one with the Greek nose and the scandalous sister. He’s dull as a sermon and twice as long-winded.

Cannot for the life of me think why you would be interested in either him or his sister, but I promised an introduction the next time I can manage it. ”

Darcy said nothing.

Bingley shifted. “I do not suppose this mood is related to the art gathering two nights ago?”

Darcy’s eyes lifted. “Why would you think that?”

Bingley took that as encouragement. “Only—I seem to have missed a great deal. Lady Matlock said you were looking for me half the evening.”

“You were difficult to find.”

“Well—yes. I went to the back rooms to see the puppies Sir Frances had mentioned. Charming little things. There was a black spaniel with a crooked ear, and then afterward I found myself in a discussion about horse breeding with that fellow from Wiltshire—what is his name? With the waistcoat? Anyway, time rather ran away with me.”

“Indeed.”

Bingley frowned slightly. “I hope no one thought I was being rude. I do recall a crush near the conservatory... a great many ladies, I believe. Did I miss anyone worth missing?”

Darcy did not answer immediately. “Your absence was noticed.”

Bingley’s brow furrowed. “I had not meant to be absent. Only—well, there was rather a great deal to see. I daresay I missed half the room entirely.”

Darcy drummed his fingers on the desk and sighed.

Bingley waited, then shrugged lightly. “I see. No matter. These things come round again, do they not?”

Darcy’s gaze returned to the post. “One hopes.”

Bingley studied him for another beat, then rose. “You know, Darcy, sometimes your silence is more withering than any speech.”

“Then I am saving us both time.”

Bingley gave a short laugh. “Indeed. Well, perhaps I will call again when you’ve less on your mind. Good day, Darcy.” Bingley stood and let himself out like a colt scurrying away from a thunderstorm.

Darcy waited until the latch clicked shut before turning back to his desk.

Atop the day’s correspondence sat a pale blue pamphlet—again.