Page 66

“I do,” Elizabeth confirmed. “While Caroline’s death was truly tragic, perhaps she did bring it upon herself through years of manipulation and cruelty.

Not that this justifies Bingley’s actions,” she added quickly, “but it provides context that a court of law would never consider. This way, Bingley faces consequences through exile and the loss of his position here, while those innocent of any wrongdoing are spared the pain and scandal of a public trial.”

“Those innocent of wrongdoing,” Jane repeated softly. “Like the Hursts. And me.”

“Yes,” Elizabeth agreed, relieved that Jane understood.

Jane returned to her seat, her composure gradually returning though her eyes remained troubled.

“I cannot pretend to understand how the man I believed him to be could be capable of such violence,” she said finally.

“Yet I cannot entirely condemn him either. To be pushed beyond one’s limits of endurance. .. it is a terrible thing.”

“Your compassion does you credit,” Elizabeth said gently.

“Though I am truly relieved you declined his proposal, for reasons beyond your affection for Colonel Fitzwilliam. Had you accepted his proposal in ignorance of these facts, you would have been drawn into his exile without understanding its true nature.”

“Indeed, I had a lucky escape,” Jane agreed. “Though I wonder now if I shall ever truly know a person’s heart. First Mr. Wickham, who presented himself as the epitome of amiability while concealing such wickedness. And now Mr. Bingley, whose gentle nature masked such capacity for anger.”

Elizabeth reached for her sister’s hand again. “Perhaps the fault lies not in our judgment but in the assumption that people are simple creatures, easily categorised as good or bad. The truth seems to be that most harbour complexities we can never fully discern.”

“A sobering thought,” Jane acknowledged with a faint smile. “Yet not entirely without hope. For if people are complex rather than simply good or bad, then perhaps those who have done wrong may also contain the capacity for redemption.”

“Perhaps,” Elizabeth agreed, once again struck by her sister’s inherent generosity of spirit. “Though I confess I am more interested at present in your happiness than in Bingley’s potential redemption.”

Jane’s smile grew a little warmer. “You need not worry on that account, Lizzy. While these revelations are distressing, they do not diminish my regard for Colonel Fitzwilliam.”

Elizabeth felt a weight lift from her heart at these words. Despite the shadows cast by recent events, Jane’s happiness remained a bright possibility, untarnished by Bingley’s actions.

The afternoon light had begun to soften when the sound of approaching hoofbeats drew Elizabeth’s attention from her conversation with Jane.

They had spent the hours since their morning discussion in the gentle rhythm of sisterly companionship, carefully avoiding further mention of Bingley while tacitly acknowledging the weight of what had been revealed.

Now, as the unmistakable cadence of a visitor approaching echoed through the quiet house, Elizabeth observed the subtle transformation in her sister: the straightening of her posture, the fleeting glance toward the window, the momentary pause in her needlework.

Such small tells would be invisible to most, but to Elizabeth, they spoke volumes about the visitor Jane anticipated.

“I believe there is a caller,” Elizabeth remarked, watching with interest as a flush of colour crept into Jane’s cheeks.

“I wonder who it might be,” Jane said, though the slight tremor in her voice suggested she might have an expectation of who approached.

Their speculation was resolved moments later when Hill appeared at the parlour door, her normally stoic countenance betraying a hint of approval. “Colonel Fitzwilliam to see you, Miss Bennet, Mrs. Darcy.”

The transformation in Jane was immediate and complete.

The pensive woman who had spent the morning processing revelations about Bingley vanished, replaced by a Jane whose quiet animation spoke of genuine pleasure.

She smoothed her skirts with hands that trembled slightly, the only outward sign of her inner agitation.

“Show him in, please, Hill,” Jane requested, her voice admirably steady despite the heightened colour in her cheeks.

Elizabeth watched this metamorphosis with a mixture of fascination and satisfaction.

Whatever her sister’s past feelings for Bingley might have been, there could be no doubt about the depth of her present regard for Colonel Fitzwilliam.

The contrast between Jane’s polite composure when discussing Bingley and her barely contained joy at the colonel’s arrival spoke more eloquently than any verbal declaration could have done.

Colonel Fitzwilliam entered the parlour with his usual confident bearing. His eyes immediately sought Jane, his expression softening in a way that left little doubt about his own sentiments.

“Miss Bennet, Mrs. Darcy,” he greeted them, bowing correctly though his gaze lingered on Jane. “I hope I find you well this afternoon.”

“Very well, thank you, Colonel,” Jane replied, her usual serenity barely containing the happiness that seemed to illuminate her from within. “Please, won’t you join us?”

“That would be my pleasure,” he agreed, taking the seat opposite Jane while acknowledging Elizabeth with a warm smile.

A look of understanding passed between them, the shared knowledge of what truly had occurred hanging unspoken in the air. The colonel nodded slightly, his expression sobering for a moment before returning to its former warmth as he regarded Jane.

“I had hoped to speak with you privately, Miss Bennet,” he said, his direct approach characteristic of a man accustomed to facing situations squarely rather than navigating social niceties. “That is, if you would permit it.”

Jane’s blush deepened, but she met his gaze with quiet dignity. “Of course, Colonel.”

Elizabeth rose immediately, recognizing that her presence was no longer required or desired. “I believe I shall take a turn in the garden,” she announced. “It is a dry, pleasant day for the time of year; I shall take advantage of the weather while I can.”

Neither Jane nor Colonel Fitzwilliam protested this transparent excuse, though Jane’s grateful glance conveyed her thanks for Elizabeth’s discretion.

As Elizabeth left the room, closing the door quietly behind her, she caught a glimpse of the colonel moving to sit beside Jane on the sofa, his expression one of earnest determination.

The garden was indeed lovely in the golden afternoon light, the few remaining flowers holding their colour against the encroaching winter.

Elizabeth walked slowly along the gravel paths, her thoughts turning to the man who now sat with her sister, declaring what she had no doubt were sincere feelings.

Colonel Fitzwilliam presented such a striking contrast to Bingley.

Where Bingley had been all amiability and eager compliance, the colonel possessed a steadiness of character that came from knowing his own mind.

His good humour was genuine but never effusive, his manners polished but not performative.

Most importantly, perhaps, was his direct honesty.

Elizabeth had never known the colonel to dissemble or to hide his true thoughts behind a facade of agreeability.

This reflection led her naturally to consider how thoroughly appearances could deceive.

The events of the past year had demonstrated this truth repeatedly, each revelation more disquieting than the last. She paced the familiar paths in silence, allowing her thoughts to wander through the gallery of misconceptions that had shaped recent events.

Wickham, of course, had been the first and perhaps most significant deception.

His handsome countenance and charming manners had concealed a character of remarkable depravity.

Even after Darcy’s letter had revealed Wickham’s attempted seduction of Georgiana, Elizabeth had not fully comprehended the depth of his moral bankruptcy.

She had been reckless, letting him know how much she held him in despite, and paid the price for it when he compromised her, forcing her to agree to marry him to save herself and her entire family from disgrace.

Darcy’s arrival had given her a glimmer of hope, and he had been in the process of proposing to her for a second time when they stumbled on Wickham’s body.

But it had taken Lydia’s terrible confession to complete the picture: Wickham, having seduced her fifteen-year-old sister and left her with child, had refused marriage with such cruel finality that Lydia, in desperate defence of her own life, had struck him down.

That Wickham’s death remained officially unsolved was a mercy for which Elizabeth remained deeply grateful.

From the pleasant, engaging officer who had first captured her own interest to the villain revealed by subsequent events, Wickham’s transformation in her understanding had been complete. Yet he himself had never changed; it was only her perception that had adjusted as the mask fell away.

And now Bingley. Elizabeth sighed, plucking a dead leaf from a nearby bush and turning it absently between her fingers.

If Wickham’s deception had been deliberate, crafted to achieve specific aims, Bingley’s had been of a different nature entirely.

His amiable character was not wholly false, she believed, but rather incomplete.

Behind the agreeable facade lay depths undisclosed: resentments nurtured through years of manipulation, anger suppressed beneath constant compliance, strength of feeling disguised by easy manners.