Page 73 of Out of His Wits (Pride and Prejudice Variation)
Quince Jam.
Pare ripe quinces, cut them into thin slices, put them into a stewpan with a sufficient quantity of water to cover them, let them boil gently till tender close covered, and rub them through a large hair sieve; add to a pound of the pulp a pound and a half of sifted sugar and half a gill of syrup of cloves; then put them into a preserving pan, and let them simmer together till of a good strength.
T he garden had drawn them deeper into its stillness, away from the bright windows.
The air was dry and hushed, the day fading into a cool dusk.
They walked the narrow path softened by fallen leaves and dust, their footsteps barely disturbing the quiet.
Bingley cleared his throat—twice—and then, with a determination wholly unfamiliar in him, turned to Jane.
“I have come to the conclusion,” he began, eyes earnest and voice only a touch uneven, “that I am quite the worst suitor in all of England.”
Jane blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“I ought to have spoken long ago. I ought never to have listened to anyone but myself. I ought—well, I ought to be on my knees, really, but you must believe I am entirely serious even whilst upright, given the state of the path.”
Her lips parted, startled and smiling all at once.
He took her hand with gentle care, the soft warmth of her glove against his palm. “Miss Bennet—Jane—would you do me the extraordinary honour of being my wife?”
The answer, when it came, was soft and sure. “Yes.”
The reply hit him with surprising force, leaving him momentarily stunned. His shoulders dropped in palpable relief. He grinned, then blinked rapidly, as though her acceptance required confirmation from multiple angles.
“Yes?” he repeated. “You are quite certain?”
“I am,” she said, laughter dancing in her voice. “I cannot promise never to tease you, but on this matter I am entirely sincere..”
“I welcome teasing. In fact, I shall expect it. Demand it, even.” He beamed at her. “So long as I may kiss you.”
Jane raised a brow, half-arch and wholly mischievous. “Already so sure of your authority, Mr. Bingley?”
He took that for the encouragement it was. “Only in matters of the utmost consequence,” he murmured, and kissed her in a way that made it quite impossible to mistake him for a man undecided.
When she could speak again—and only just—Jane rested her forehead against his shoulder, breathing in his familiar warmth with a quiet laugh. “I do wonder what your sister will say.”
“It matters not. I have sent her away,” he said cheerfully. “She has her own establishment. You, my dearest, come first. You always have. I simply required several months, a good scolding, and thorough examination of conscience to realise it.”
She looked up at him with wide, affectionate eyes. “Well. Better late than—”
“Do not say ‘never,’” he groaned. “You have no idea how deeply I deserve it.”
“I was going to say, ‘better late than dithering forever,’” she said sweetly.
His eyes gleamed. “Ah. In that case, allow me to demonstrate my newfound commitment.”
And he kissed her again, with no trace of hesitation.
“Have you heard? Miss Bennet is to marry Mr. Bingley—Mr. Bennet formally announced it this morning.”
The whisper sliced through the hushed air of the milliner’s shop. Mrs. Long turned to her sister with a grave expression of satisfaction. “Well, that is settled. And a credit to her, truly. No one can say Miss Bennet encouraged him improperly.”
“No, indeed,” her sister agreed. “Though it does cast Miss Eliza’s conduct into a rather different light, does it not?”
A pause.
“It is one thing to be courted in daylight. Quite another to be found alone in a gentleman’s company at nightfall. But if Mr. Bingley sees nothing to object to, well, perhaps it was a misunderstanding.”
“Quite so.”
They turned, skirts rustling, just as Elizabeth passed within earshot. She did not falter, but her colour rose, and she fixed her gaze upon the far lane as though it contained some profound truth.
Jane had come in from her walk, her face radiant, a letter in hand and a flush in her cheeks that owed nothing to the chilly air.
“They are to dine with us on Thursday,” she said, eyes shining.
“Mrs. Hurst sends her compliments and says she must take great care these days, but that she would not miss it. And Mr. Hurst has been seen walking three miles each morning before breakfast, after his fencing practice. Can you imagine?”
Elizabeth gave a low laugh. “I begin to think he will make a worshipful father.”
“She says he will not allow her to carry anything heavier than a candlestick for fear she will strain herself,” Jane added, barely suppressing a grin.
“I always knew he had hidden depths,” said Elizabeth, amused in spite of herself.
Jane sobered and reached for her hand. “Charles says he has not heard from Mr. Darcy. Not since he left for Town. I do not think he knows all that passed between you.”
Elizabeth’s smile faltered. “I imagine he prefers not to dwell on it.”
“I am not so sure. He is not the sort to make light of anything he considers serious.”
“No,” said Elizabeth quietly. “That much I understand.”
“I begin to wonder if I misjudged the matter, and Mr. Darcy in particular,” Elizabeth said at last. “It may have truly been honour, not pride. And I—well—I thought I saw insult, but it may have been something else entirely.”
“You had already refused him,” Jane said calmly. “But you were distressed. I am sure he must know that.”
Elizabeth was silent a moment. Then: “He ought to have come to me. Not my father.”
Jane gave a small smile. “That is rather like him.”
“When he offered, I could not believe he did so freely. I still thought—he believed it a sacrifice. A duty he could not refuse. I cannot bear to be wed from duty.”
Jane’s brow creased. “But now?”
“Might I have been wrong?” Elizabeth’s voice was low, and very unsteady.
“I begin to see how he might have thought it honourable … that he saw a danger to me and acted as he believed a gentleman ought. It was not pity—at least, I do not think it was. Perhaps … perhaps he did believe it was the proper thing.”
Jane squeezed her hand.
“I should have known it. He could trust me to say no if I chose. As I did. But I wonder if he ever thought I might—might come to see it differently.”
“Then perhaps he must be told now,” said Jane.
Elizabeth said nothing. She slowly shook her head, but her gaze drifted toward the hedge at the back of the garden, as though she might see some answer there. Only the bees replied.
Tea had gone lukewarm in the drawing room at Lucas Lodge, but the gossip steamed on.
“I daresay we must revise our opinions,” said Lady Lucas, settling herself more firmly into her best chair. “Miss Bennet’s engagement is now quite secure, and Mr. Bingley has always been very amiable. He will hold a dinner party. No one can fault Jane Bennet’s conduct—always modest, always proper.”
Mrs. Long gave a huff of agreement. “Unlike some.”
“Oh, I do not name names,” Lady Lucas said with great delicacy, her eyes flicked toward Charlotte. “However unfounded, supposed improprieties would be much remarked upon.” A few heads nodded with slow satisfaction.
“It is the way with talk among neighbours. But now that Miss Bennet is engaged,” she continued with a lofty sniff, “there is no call to create difficulty. One sister well married is credit enough. Time passes and tales may prove themselves naught but idle invention. Miss Elizabeth’s composure is proof of her spotless conduct. I will hear no more against her.”
Mrs. Long pursed her lips, but the other ladies nodded, some with relief, some with chagrin.
Mrs. Gould leant forward. “But do you think he will come back, that Mr. Darcy? There was so much talk before…”
“No one can say,” murmured Mrs. Long. “He went to Town quite suddenly, did he not?”
“I suppose,” said Miss Pope, lowering her voice, “that whatever was said about that night at Netherfield—well, perhaps it was a wicked falsehood.”
There was a silence, the collective sort where no one quite dares retract what they once so heartily believed.
From the corner, Charlotte looked up from her needlework but said nothing. Her gaze rested briefly on the closed door, then dropped back to her thread.
Charlotte arrived under the usual pretext of delivering a pot of quince jam, though it was neither the season for quinces nor the first jar she had brought that month.
Mrs. Bennet had excused herself with a meaningful glance at the note Jane had just received from Mrs. Hurst, and Kitty and Lydia had wandered off to search for a shawl they had not lost. Thus, it was Elizabeth who poured the tea.
Charlotte did not sit until she had placed the jam with great deliberation on the sideboard. “I come bearing jam and intelligence,” she said, settling herself with familiar ease near the hearth. “You may guess which is sweeter.”
Elizabeth raised a brow. “If it is more village gossip, I warn you I am thoroughly pickled in it.”
“Then you will be pleased to know the brine is thinning.” Charlotte leant forward. “Miss Pope has decided you could not possibly have sat on Mr. Darcy’s lap —as was originally claimed—because no girl of sense would wrinkle her petticoats so.”
Elizabeth blinked. “My honour now rests on the wrinkling of petticoats?”
Charlotte offered a placid smile. “It is progress. A week ago, it passed unquestioned. Today, it is debated. By next Tuesday, it shall be discreetly forgotten.”
Elizabeth gave a hollow laugh. “How very convenient for them.”
“Jane’s engagement has readjusted the balance,” Charlotte said. “With one sister successfully matched, your family is no longer quite so amusing a target. Mr. Bingley’s regard covers a multitude of sins—or imagined sins, as the case may be.”
Elizabeth glanced toward the window. “It is astonishing how swiftly civility returns once a fortune is secured.”