Page 45 of Moments of Truth

Mr. Gardiner, perceiving that Mr. Bingley was too little acquainted with the neighbourhood to contribute anything of weight, deftly turned the conversation towards business and travel—subjects in which both gentlemen might engage without awkwardness.

Mr. Bingley replied with his usual readiness, yet it was plain that his thoughts, even as he spoke, continually returned to Jane: to the serenity of her smile, and the gentle radiance of her eyes.

When at length they were seated at table, he found himself placed between Mrs. Gardiner and Jane; but the excellence of the soup was entirely lost upon him.

“I am greatly obliged for the kindness with which you have received me, having announced my call beforehand,” he said with a courteous inclination to their hostess, before lowering his voice for Jane alone. “And—if you will allow me the liberty—for your own gracious manner in welcoming me.”

Jane’s lashes fluttered. “There was no kindness to be asked, sir.”

Elizabeth, attending more than she seemed, felt her heart lift. Oh, Jane, if he is himself again—if constancy is indeed his true nature. She poured wine for Maria, who looked on wide-eyed, like a child at a play whose ending she already adored.

Mr. Gardiner, carving the roast sirloin set before him with practised ease, addressed their guest with genial humour.

“I understand you passed some of the winter months in London, Mr. Bingley. A pity we did not contrive to meet.”

Bingley inclined his head readily. “I was staying with the Hursts—my elder sister and her husband—for a short while, but soon withdrew to Derby. London has its diversions, yet I own I tire quickly of its bustle.”

Mr. Gardiner smiled. “Indeed, the noise and press of town life can weary even the most ardent spirit. One must know when to escape it. I hope the bustle does not weary you.”

“Weary me? Not in the least,” he replied, grateful for a question he might answer without betraying his heart.

“Activity everywhere—one cannot but catch some of the spirit. But I confess,” he added, glancing at Jane with a frankness that would have been bold in any man less transparently good, “I have missed the country. Spring belongs to the hedgerows.”

“To the hedgerows—and to Hertfordshire?” Elizabeth teased.

He laughed. “Yes. To Hertfordshire—very much.”

Mrs. Gardiner, who loved her nieces and had seen them too long unhappy, served the roast and then set a plate before Mr. Bingley herself. “I shall be glad, sir, when the hedgerows recover their most faithful admirer.”

“If I am fortunate,” he said, suddenly earnest, “I will soon be in a position to admire them daily. I decided to return to Netherfield.”

Silence would have fallen, had not Mr. Gardiner—bless him—entered with a light observation on the fishing he intended next week upon the Lea.

Mr. Bingley seized it, promising himself a trial of the sport, praising the morning air along the banks, engaging their uncle so amiably that Elizabeth could have kissed him for it. But when he turned back to Jane, it was with a humility wholly new.

“Miss Bennet, I hope you have been well,” he asked, as if the question might pardon months of absence.

“Very well, thank you,” she answered softly; and then, with a steadier courage than she knew she possessed, “I hope you have been—happy.”

“Happy?” He coloured, then spoke simply. “I have been sensible—too sensible—of mistakes that were all my own. But if happiness may be tried again, I—well, I am resolved to deserve it better.”

Elizabeth, swallowing a too-swift lump in her throat, fixed her attention on the boiled potatoes as if they held the secrets of the heart. Here is candour, here is the right humility, she thought. How could Jane not forgive such a penitent?

Mrs. Gardiner, delicate as only a truly kind woman can be, turned the talk to travel and exhibitions, to the children’s mischiefs, to any topic that would spare both lovers and onlookers unnecessary confusion.

Through it all, Bingley’s attentions grew steadier, and Jane’s serenity, once shadowed by uncertainty, began to shine.

There were no declarations at table—proper feeling does not rush where it ought to kneel—but the current between them deepened with every exchange.

By the cheese, Mr. Gardiner leaned back with satisfaction. “You will join us above, Mr. Bingley? We are seldom rigid in our habits here. Five minutes’ port will do; fifteen is tyranny.”

“Tyranny I shall defy,” Bingley said, rising at once with a smile that made even the footman grin.

Elizabeth followed the ladies out, her hand on Jane’s arm. “Well?” she whispered, once the door had closed.

Jane tried to speak, laughed instead, and pressed Elizabeth’s fingers. “Do not ask me anything yet, dearest. If I answer, I shall cry.”

“Then do not answer,” Elizabeth murmured, kissing her cheek. Thank Heaven , she added inwardly, thank Heaven that some stories are allowed a second chapter .

***

The drawing room wore the intimate ease of family: a sofa placed at a friendly angle to the hearth; a small table with pamphlets and a bowl of keys; the pianoforte standing ready with a neat stack of sonatas.

Mrs. Gardiner took her usual chair by the fire; Maria, who had eaten more than she knew, sank into cushions with a sigh of contentment.

Elizabeth, intent upon giving Jane the best chance of a quiet word, drew out her workbasket—though in truth she threaded the needle twice without success.

The Gardiner children, having supped earlier in the nursery, had long since been carried off to bed by their nurse, their laughter still faintly echoing from the upper storey. Without their presence, the drawing room settled into the comfortable silence that only comes with family.

Mr. Bingley did not keep them waiting; his step on the stair was unmistakable.

He entered with a look that begged indulgence and went directly—not precipitately, but with conviction—to Jane.

Mrs. Gardiner rose at once. “Maria, my love, let us see whether the new waltz is within our powers.” They contrived a gentle relocation towards the instrument which left the hearth-rug, by some happy accident, almost entirely to Jane and her admirer.

“Miss Bennet,” he began, low and a little breathless, “I hardly know how to proceed, save by laying my heart where it has been these many months—at your feet.”

Jane, startled, lifted her eyes to his. “Mr. Bingley—”

“I will not distress you by speaking too much of what is past,” he hurried on, “except to tell you that if I departed Hertfordshire too hastily, I have accused no one more severely than myself. I allowed my spirits to be managed by others, when a man—any true man—should manage them himself. It is a fault I have determined shall not govern me again.”

Jane’s hand trembled upon the back of the chair. “You are too harsh with yourself.”

“No,” he said, with sudden steadiness. “I am only just. For I have come to understand what it was I left behind—what I nearly threw away. If there is any hope that I might recover your good opinion—if there is any—I will spend the rest of my days proving I deserve it.”

Jane’s smile was as soft as morning light. “My opinion of you, sir, was better than you believed. I—” She faltered, then finished with brave simplicity, “I have not been easy in myself without you.”

Bingley’s breath escaped him in a half laugh, half prayer.

He reached for her hand, checked himself, and instead clasped the chair-rail as though he must hold something or be overcome altogether.

“Then I am not wholly undone. Miss Bennet—Jane—may I venture to call again tomorrow? And the next day? And—if your aunt and uncle do not forbid me—every day until we have done with doubts?”

The colour in her cheek deepened most deliciously. “If my aunt and uncle approve, I shall not oppose them.”

At the pianoforte Mrs. Gardiner, who played well enough to give privacy but not so well as to command attention, turned a page with unfeigned satisfaction.

Elizabeth, pretending an urgent interest in the hem of a handkerchief, felt tears prick.

This, at least, is set aright. And then, as joy often does, it made room for a gentler pain.

If he were here—if Mr. Darcy — She stopped herself, aware that longing is a poor counsellor.

Yet his letter, so grave and unadorned, had altered something within her.

If I am to be worthy of anyone’s love, I must learn to be just.

“Miss Elizabeth,” Mr. Bingley called, suddenly conscious that a sister must be made a party to his hopes, “may I steal you for a moment? I wish to thank you—for your kindness to your sister—and, if I may be permitted, to speak with Mr. Gardiner.”

Elizabeth rose at once. “With all my heart, sir.” So open—so honourable —she thought, and he will not proceed a step without it . She brought him to her uncle, who had been fortifying his benevolence with a small glass of madeira, and then discreetly drew back.

“Mr. Gardiner,” Bingley said, the words tumbling lest they be frightened from him, “I am—well—very much attached to your niece. If I am allowed the privilege of calling frequently while she remains under your roof, I shall consider it the greatest obligation of my life. And—if her regard could, by steady attentions, be won—if I might one day ask Mr. Bennet’s sanction—” He stopped, astonished at his own courage, and blushed like a boy.

Mr. Gardiner, whose sense and kindness were equal, regarded him with grave kindness.

“Sir, you honour us. My niece’s happiness is the first object with us.

If her judgment approves, mine will not oppose.

Call when you please—at reasonable hours, mind you,” he added, smiling, “and we shall see what comes of constancy.”