Page 27

The arrival of Miss Bingley’s letter the following morning put an end to what little doubt remained regarding Mr. Bingley’s return.

The envelope was thick, the seal ostentatious, and Jane’s expression turned faintly melancholy even before she broke the wax.

Elizabeth, seated nearby with a volume in her lap she had not turned a page of in some time, watched with quiet resignation.

The letter began with a flourish, offering every assurance that the entire Netherfield party had settled in London for the winter.

Its tone was brisk, unfeeling, and calculated.

Miss Bingley conveyed her brother’s regrets at not having had the opportunity to pay his respects to his Hertfordshire acquaintances prior to his departure.

There was no explanation, no hint of return.

In its entirety, the letter carried the chill of finality.

Elizabeth noticed only one difference—one deviation from the letter she recalled from before.

Miss Bingley mentioned that Mr. Darcy had gone north for the winter season, a fact which struck Elizabeth as both unexpected and oddly significant.

In the past, Fitzwilliam had remained in London through the Little Season, frequenting balls and assemblies in a failed attempt to forget her.

That he had not done so now, that he had gone instead to the remote north, where no fortune-hunters might follow, could only mean one of two things.

Either he no longer needed the distraction—or he no longer wished to resist remembering .

Elizabeth clung to the latter possibility, though doubt whispered faintly at the back of her mind.

Could it be that he had decided their odd acquaintance, their strange connection, was too much to contend with?

That he now sought distance, both in miles and memory, to spare himself further confusion?

But no—she silenced the thought. She believed in their love. She must.

Jane, having finished reading, folded the letter with care and set it in her lap. Her face was composed, but Elizabeth knew her sister too well to be fooled.

"There is nothing in it to give you concern," Elizabeth said gently, breaking the silence.

Jane smiled faintly. “She writes with kindness, but I fear… there is finality in her tone.”

“She does not speak for her brother,” Elizabeth replied. “You must remember that. Mr. Bingley is not so easily swayed, not when he knows his own mind.”

Jane did not respond.

“Nor,” Elizabeth added softly, “is Miss Bingley above seeking her own advantage. There is no mention of a return, but that is not the same as a refusal. I do not believe he left of his own will.”

“You think Mr. Darcy compelled him?” Jane asked.

Elizabeth paused. “No. I know he did not. He gave me his word he would not interfere.”

Mary, who had entered some moments earlier and taken a seat by the fire, glanced up from her book. “Then you believe it is the sisters?”

Elizabeth nodded. “It must be. He is modest, perhaps too much so. And easily swayed by those he loves.”

Mrs. Bennet, bustling into the room at that moment with Lydia in tow, was not of the same mind. She wasted no time lamenting the contents of the letter once she had prised the details from Jane.

“Well, what an ungrateful young man he must be!” she cried. “After all our hospitality! And to leave without so much as a word to Jane—deplorable!”

Elizabeth bit her tongue. What good would it do to argue? Her mother’s understanding was limited, and her father’s involvement, when pressed, amounted to no more than a dry quip or lifted brow. It would fall to her—and perhaps to Mary—to preserve what could still be saved.

At that very moment, Mr. Bennet entered the room, no doubt lured by the commotion.

He had, as ever, the glint of mischief in his eye and seemed on the verge of launching into some witticism about young ladies and crossed affections.

But his gaze shifted from Jane’s composed sorrow to Elizabeth’s strained silence, and something in her countenance—a weariness of spirit or perhaps the barely concealed hope that flickered in her eyes—gave him pause.

The jest died on his lips. He simply shook his head and withdrew without a word, leaving his daughters to their own devices.

Lydia, meanwhile, had launched into her usual flurry of chatter, heedless of the tension about her.

“Oh, I saw Mr. Wickham again this morning!” she declared, casting herself into the nearest chair.

“He is such a charming man. He says he only stayed away from the ball to avoid that horrid Mr. Darcy. Did you ever hear anything so gallant? He said he would rather miss a hundred dances than be in the same room as that man!”

“He said that, did he?” Elizabeth asked, her voice carefully level.

“Yes! And he looked quite pained as he said it, too. He told me how he has been grievously wronged, how he was promised a living and denied it unjustly. Poor, poor man. I think it is dreadful how he has been treated.”

Mrs. Bennet, nodding along, interjected with enthusiasm. “Indeed, Lydia. Such a fine young man, and so genteel in his manner! It is a wonder to me how Mr. Darcy could be so very proud and disagreeable. I never liked that man, never!”

Elizabeth exchanged a glance with Mary, who had thus far remained quiet.

“Mama, Lydia,” Elizabeth began, “you must be cautious. A pretty face and a sad story are not sufficient grounds upon which to hang one’s judgment.”

“But Lizzy,” Jane added gently, “we cannot say for certain that Mr. Wickham’s account is false. It may be a misunderstanding.”

Mary, setting aside her book, turned to them with a more serious air.

“Jane, a misunderstanding does not breed such vehement opposition. And I would remind you both that virtue is seldom loud in its own defense. Mr. Wickham’s eagerness to speak ill of another—particularly one so respected—is cause enough for suspicion. ”

“He only told us what we asked,” Lydia pouted. “And besides, he is dreadfully handsome. It would be a shame not to dance with him again!”

Elizabeth drew a steadying breath. “And what will you do, Lydia, when he turns his charms upon another lady? When he is no longer interested in telling you his woes but seeking advantage elsewhere?”

“He would not! ”

“He would,” Mary said bluntly. “And has.”

“I suppose,” Elizabeth said with a touch more strategy, “it does not signify. For you must know that he is not a man of fortune, and the pay of a lieutenant is hardly enough to support himself, let alone a wife. If he seeks a marriage of wealth, he will need to look beyond Hertfordshire.”

Lydia wrinkled her nose. “Marriage? Who said anything about marriage?”

Their mother, however, seemed to miss the nuance entirely. “Well, I say if the man has charm, it is more than most can boast! And there is no harm in a little attention. Why, if Lizzy had not been so high and mighty with Mr. Collins—”

“Mama,” Elizabeth interrupted firmly. “Mr. Wickham is not the man you suppose him to be.”

Mrs. Bennet looked affronted, but said no more. Jane’s brows were drawn with concern, and even Lydia now seemed mildly unsettled. Elizabeth leaned back in her chair, her thoughts heavy. Finally Mrs. Bennet, Lydia and Jane left the room.

It was then that Mary, her voice low and contemplative, asked, “And what of Mr. Darcy?”

Elizabeth’s expression softened. “He has gone north. For what reason, I cannot say. But I trust he will think of me. As I do of him. We know him not to be the villian.”

Mary did not press her further. The two sisters sat in silence for a time, each turning over her thoughts. Outside, the grey sky hung low, matching the heaviness in Elizabeth’s chest. She would not give in to despair. Not now. Not when she still had time.

She rose and crossed to the window, her fingers grazing the cold glass. North. Somewhere in that direction, Fitzwilliam Darcy rode alone, his thoughts as tumultuous as her own.

She would not doubt him. Not today. Not ever.