Page 43 of Moments Frozen in Time (Pride and Prejudice Variation)

JANE

T he morning after the ill-fated ball, I was surprised to receive a note from Mrs. Hurst requesting my presence at Netherfield. Although I had little desire to return to that house so soon after all that had unfolded, her message was earnest, and I could not help but answer it in the affirmative.

Upon my arrival, I spoke with Mrs. Hurst, and she asked if I might assist in sitting with Miss Bingley from time to time. The lady had regained consciousness this morning but had yet to speak a single word.

I found Miss Bingley lying pale and still in her bed.

Her eyes opened when I entered, but there was no flicker of recognition—no spark, no hint of the haughtiness that had once coloured every glance she cast in my direction.

Although she appeared aware of her surroundings, she gave no sign of acknowledgement, nor did she attempt to speak.

For a moment, I wondered if she disapproved of my presence, but I could not fathom why. Perhaps she felt some sense of shame for how she had treated Elizabeth—but that was only conjecture. I could not be certain whether the impression was real or merely a reflection of my own wishful thinking .

Mr. Jones, the local apothecary, attended her faithfully and reported—through Mrs. Hurst—that he remained perplexed by her condition.

She had not struck her head when she collapsed, nor did she suffer from fever or any obvious ailment that might explain her muteness.

A physician from London was brought in several days later, but he too departed with no clear diagnosis, baffled by the absence of a physical cause for her continued silence.

“She appears well in body,” he told us, “but the mind is another matter entirely.”

When he handed her a pencil to attempt communication, her fingers barely managed to hold it, and the marks she made on the paper were indecipherable.

After several unsuccessful attempts, both he and Mr. Jones concluded that she had suffered an apoplexy—one that had taken her voice and the steadiness of her hand—although her faculties remained otherwise intact.

I could not say I still liked Miss Bingley—perhaps I had once but no longer.

But after learning of her scheming with my mother, any kind feelings towards her had vanished, particularly when I learnt what they had conspired to do regarding my sister.

Yet watching her now, so diminished and silent, stirred a pity I could not deny.

And more than pity, there was a quiet, simmering anger.

If she had indeed played a part in Lizzy’s disappearance—and it seemed increasingly likely that she had—then her silence held the truth captive, as effectively as any locked door.

At Mrs. Hurst’s urging, I visited daily.

I would read aloud, bring in small clippings from the garden, or simply sit by her side and speak gently, hoping the sound of a familiar voice might stir some part of her.

She never responded, but I often imagined she was listening.

Still, each visit brought a faint tension.

She appeared slightly agitated whenever I entered the room, and more than once, I caught what I thought might be a smirk—barely perceptible and quickly gone—as though she were amused by some private joke I could not share .

Still, I almost preferred being at Netherfield, where it was quiet, to remaining at home.

Mama complained endlessly—about Mr. Bingley’s failure to propose, Mr. Collins leaving without offering for any of my sisters, Mr. Darcy whisking all her daughters away, and my supposed neglect of her in favour of tending to Miss Bingley.

Every day brought new grievances: how my time at Netherfield was wasted, how I had nothing to show for it, how I had failed in securing an engagement.

Her constant litany of dissatisfaction wore on me, and Papa did nothing to intervene.

Mr. Bingley departed for London a fortnight after the ball.

Although reluctant to leave, he was overwhelmed and uncertain how to help his sister.

He returned just before Christmas, his arms laden with gifts—sweetmeats, spiced biscuits, and even a beautiful new gown, all chosen in the hope of coaxing her back to herself.

“I thought bringing her favourite things might draw her out,” he confessed one afternoon as we sat together in her sitting room.

By that time, she had begun rising from bed for a few hours each morning and again in the afternoon.

Although still unable to write, sew, or read unaided, she appeared to find some quiet contentment simply in leaving her room.

Yet her silence remained unchanged—whether from inability or unwillingness, I could not say.

The longer it continued, the more I began to suspect that Miss Bingley’s affliction was not entirely genuine.

There was something in her expression, a glimmer of satisfaction too pronounced at times to ignore, that made me wonder if she took some secret pleasure in deceiving us all.

Mr. Darcy wrote to Mr. Bingley often, telling of his progress, or lack thereof, in the search for Lizzy or for the servants who had disappeared along with her.

He had spent several weeks searching in Scotland but had been unable to locate any word regarding where she might have gone.

She had stopped for the night at an inn near Dumfries, northwest of Gretna Green, but after that, the trail had gone completely cold .

After a few weeks of searching, he had been obligated to return home for a fortnight, but he journeyed back to Scotland just after the new year and was continuing to search the area all around Dumfries.

When he returned, he had taken a number of men with him, all of whom had been hired to search for my sister.

Late in January, Mr. Bingley informed me that he had received a letter from Mr. Darcy the previous day.

In it, Mr. Darcy detailed the many challenges he continued to face in his search.

Many of the people he tried to question were unwilling to speak to a Sassenach, even when offered coin in exchange for information.

He allowed me to read the letter, and I did so eagerly.

“The offer of gold or silver does soften them somewhat,” he wrote, “but almost as soon as they see it, their faces fall again when they realise they do not possess the information I seek.”

The letter continued:

“It is as if she has vanished entirely. I have visited large houses and humble crofters’ cottages alike.

Most are wary at first—some openly hostile—and even those in finer homes seem to instinctively distrust the English.

A few flinch at the mention of the name Dunbar, yet none will speak plainly about the brother and sister.

I suspect they know something of the pair, but they will not speak of them in front of me.

I can only pray that I discover something soon. ”

“When I enquire after Elizabeth, there is often a flicker of sympathy, but still no useful knowledge. I cannot understand how she could have disappeared so thoroughly or why no one seems to know—nor will say—where she might have gone.

“I can only pray that she is well. The winter has been bitter, and there have been several days when I could not go out at all. I miss her, and the longer I go without finding her, the more worried I become.”

The letter ended there. Knowing Mr. Darcy to be a deeply private man, I could only imagine the effort it took for him to write even those few vulnerable lines, even to someone as trusted as Mr. Bingley.

Mr. Bingley had kindly allowed me to read the letter in solitude, and as I sat with it in hand, my heart ached—for Lizzy, who was lost to us, and for Mr. Darcy, whose devotion to her was laid bare in every carefully chosen word.

He had been tireless in his search, but how long could it continue?

As winter slowly gave way to spring, surely he would soon be obliged to return to Pemberley to attend to his estate.

The thought of him abandoning the search out of necessity—not desire—made my stomach twist.

My frustration grew as I recalled a quiet conversation I had overheard between two of the housemaids.

They had spoken in low tones of letters they had been asked to post—letters given to them by Miss Bingley’s maid who claimed they were written by Mrs. Hurst, but in handwriting they recognised as Miss Bingley’s.

On its own, it might have seemed unremarkable.

But paired with her prolonged, suspicious silence, it only confirmed what I had begun to suspect: Miss Bingley was not as incapacitated as she pretended.

Whatever pity I had once felt for her, which had already stretched thin over the last weeks and months, now curdled into something far less charitable.

A slow-burning anger stirred within me. That she might hide behind a veil of false frailty, keeping the truth locked away when Lizzy remained lost to us—it was appalling.

That she should sit in comfort, surrounded by her family, whilst my sister endured whatever she was forced to endure alone?

That was something I could never forgive.

When I went up to sit with her that day, I could no longer restrain myself as the anger burnt.

“Miss Bingley,” I said, my voice steady but firm, “I have had enough of this charade. Where is my sister? Do not pretend you cannot speak or understand me—I know that it is not the truth. Tell me now, where is Elizabeth? ”

She said nothing, of course. I had not truly expected her to. But what I had not expected either was the faint, unmistakable curl of her lips—a smirk. Not confusion, not frustration, not the blank look of someone trapped within her own mind, but a deliberate, knowing smirk.

“So you can hear me,” I said, my hands clenched tightly in my lap.

“You can smirk, at least—and write your letters for your maid to post, pretending that they are from your sister. You may think yourself clever, but you will not win, Miss Bingley. You will not keep her hidden forever. Mr. Darcy is searching for her even now, and one day, he will uncover the truth.”

I leant forward slightly, my voice low but steady. “Do not think he will forget what you have done. And neither will you. You will live with the knowledge that whatever victory you believe you have achieved is nothing. My sister will be Mrs. Darcy, no matter what you have tried to do.”

That earned the faintest response—a flicker of something behind Miss Bingley’s eyes—but the smirk remained. Perhaps it wavered, ever so slightly, but it did not disappear.

I stood then, unwilling to sit another moment in her presence. “You may think yourself clever in what you are doing. You may think that your silence gives you power. But I promise you this: when the truth comes to light—and it will—you will be held to account for all you have done.”

As I left the room, I felt a flush rise in my cheeks—not from embarrassment, but from the sharp sting of fury.

For so long, I had tried to give Miss Bingley the benefit of the doubt.

I had assumed illness, misfortune, or perhaps even guilt had kept her silent.

But now I saw the truth for what it was: cruelty, calculated and cold.

And I would no longer meet it with kindness.

When I returned downstairs, I sought out Mr. Bingley and demanded a private word. He looked startled by the urgency in my tone but followed me without question .

“Your sister is writing letters?” I asked, fixing him with a steady gaze as I stood in front of him, not willing to sit down in his house again.

“Louisa?” he said, blinking in confusion. “Why would that surprise you?”

“Not Mrs. Hurst,” I said firmly. “Miss Bingley. The maids say the letters they have been instructed to post—supposedly from your elder sister—are in fact written in your younger sister’s hand.

Mrs. Hurst may be complicit in whatever scheme this is, although I cannot say so unequivocally, but I am certain Miss Bingley is not nearly so helpless as she pretends. ”

“I cannot believe it, Miss Bennet,” Mr. Bingley replied, shaking his head.

“What reason would either of them have to keep silent? Everyone already knows of my sister’s involvement in Miss Elizabeth’s disappearance—what good does it do to continue the deception?

And why do you suppose Louisa would aid Caroline in this if it is true? ”

“Are you certain everyone knows?” I asked.

“Meryton may know. Perhaps Mr. Darcy has informed his aunt. But are you so sure your sister has not continued her efforts in London and is quietly undermining my sister’s reputation even now?

Who is to say that those letters being sneaked out of Netherfield are not going to London to spread false stories about my sister? ”

“She would not dare,” he said, visibly distressed.

“Then I suggest you read any letters in the future before they are sent,” I said sharply.

“And whilst you are at it, know that I confronted your sister moments ago. She smirked at me—smirked. It is clear she hears, understands, and is perfectly aware of everything that is happening around her. She is choosing to remain silent. She is choosing to keep Elizabeth’s whereabouts hidden. ”

Mr. Bingley opened his mouth to protest, but I did not give him the chance to say another word .

“I do not doubt Mr. Darcy will find my sister—whether your sister helps or not. But it would be far easier if he had the truth.” I paused, steadying my voice.

“Perhaps your disbelief is part of the problem. Perhaps it is why we are in this mess at all. If you had been less blindly trusting of someone so willing to do harm, my sister might never have been taken away from here. And, if you had been less blind to your sister’s faults, she might never have tried to barter your future for hers.

If you had made it clear that such behaviour would not be tolerated in your home, perhaps she would not have become the miserable, spiteful creature she is now. ”

He flinched, and I felt a brief pang of guilt—but only brief. There was too much at stake for soft words.