Page 13 of The Happiness of a Most Beloved Sister (Pride and Prejudice Variation)

CHAPTER TWELVE

A fter a much-needed walk, Elizabeth approached Longbourn with significant wariness. It was far more peaceful than she had left it an hour before, but initial impressions, as she had recently learnt, could be deceiving.

Oh, why could Mr Collins not accept my rejection the first time I offered it? Or, better yet, keep his unwanted proposals to himself?

It had been Elizabeth’s intention to graciously thank her cousin for his offer and politely refuse him, but Mr Collins would not be satisfied with that.

He would not even believe her serious when she declared no aspiration of marrying him, or anyone, in the foreseeable future, assuming her rejection the result of ‘feminine delicacy’.

“Fie on that,” Elizabeth muttered to herself as she reached for the door latch and cautiously let herself into the house.

She might not be of a romantic inclination, having learnt better after witnessing Jane’s tribulations, but nor was she prepared to throw herself away on her fatuous cousin simply because he deigned to have her.

Whatever her future held, it would not include tying herself irrevocably to Mr Collins.

Inside, the house was just as quiet as foretold from without; almost unsettlingly so.

It was unusual for a household that was frequently boisterous with the squabbling of sisters, the out-of-tune practice of the pianoforte, and the mistress’s agitated exclamations to be so bereft of noise.

She could account for the absence of Mr Collins, who had been swept away by Charlotte prior to her own escape, but where was the rest of her family? They could not all be out, could they?

Elizabeth, oddly intimidated by the oppressive silence, removed her spencer and bonnet before repairing to her mother’s favourite parlour at the back of the manor. As she approached, quiet murmuring reached her ears. Her relief was swift at this proof that she was not, in fact, entirely alone.

Their usual party was greatly diminished, however. Inside the parlour sat Elizabeth’s three youngest sisters, collected together in a ring. When she entered, the trio immediately ceased their whispering and turned to stare at her.

“Is aught the matter?” Elizabeth asked, looking about the room. “Where are Mama and Jane?”

Lydia and Kitty exchanged a glance before breaking into giggles.

Mary, after casting them a censuring glare, replied, “While you were out, a note arrived from Miss Bingley announcing that the Netherfield party has left for London without any intention of coming back again. Mama suffered an immediate attack of nerves, and Jane nearly swooned. Both of them are upstairs resting.”

Elizabeth received this news like a blow to the chest. All her fears for Jane, her suspicion of Mr Bingley’s fickle nature, had come to pass, and she had never been so horrified to be proved right.

But no, surely there was some mistake, or exaggeration. Perhaps her sisters were wrong. “Impossible! They left for town the day after hosting a ball? Are you certain?”

It was Lydia who spoke up this time. “We saw the note ourselves. Miss Bingley was very clear that her brother was abandoning Jane for Mr Darcy’s sister. La, Jane has the worst luck with lovers!”

Kitty coughed into her fist before asking, a note of worry in her voice, “Do you think she will fall ill again?”

“Let us hope not, else Mama will shower her with more attention than ever. It is already intolerable.”

“Lydia! That is most unkind. We ought to offer Jane our sisterly consolation, not harbour envy over…”

Elizabeth left her younger sisters to their bickering and raced for the stairs, intent upon seeing Jane’s condition for herself. Reaching their shared bedchamber, she opened the door slowly, careful not to disturb her sister within. “Jane?”

Jane lay prostrate upon the bed, her face buried within the fold of her arms and her shoulders heaving with sobs.

Elizabeth rushed to her side and gathered her sister into her arms. Her embrace was returned with fervency, Jane clinging to her neck with almost painful force as she unleased a miserable torrent.

Panic began to well within Elizabeth’s breast at this uncharacteristic outburst from Jane.

Her mind hearkened back to those dark days of Jane’s first disappointment, when the physician cautioned them that they ought to prepare themselves for the worst. That illness had begun much like this, with wild despondency that devolved into a refusal to eat or rest. A fever had soon followed, taking advantage of Jane’s weakened state, and Elizabeth had sat by her bedside for days without resting herself for fear of missing her beloved sister’s final moments.

Miraculously, Jane had recovered, but would she be so fortunate a second time?

Swallowing down her terror, Elizabeth forced herself to focus upon Jane and take stock of her condition.

She was upset, of course, but was she unusually warm?

Faint? The room did not reek of sick, so presumably she had not cast up her accounts.

Although she could not allow herself to become complacent in the coming days, she breathed a shuddering sigh of relief; it seemed that her sister was in no immediate danger.

At length, Jane’s tears gave way to pitiful sniffling, and she withdrew to sit up under her own power.

Elizabeth reluctantly released her, but not without assuring herself that her sister was steady and not inclined to collapse.

Jane’s face was mottled red, and her hair was a tangled nest, but she did not otherwise appear unwell.

Elizabeth fumbled for the handkerchief in her pocket and began dabbing the wetness from Jane’s cheeks. “My dear sister, I am so terribly sorry for what you have endured. Is it certain, absolutely certain, that all hope is lost?”

Jane snatched the handkerchief from Elizabeth’s hands and buried her face within it. After loudly blowing her nose, she replied, “You may see for yourself. The letter is there, on the dressing table.”

Elizabeth crossed the room and retrieved Miss Bingley’s missive. It was written in an elegant, flowing hand upon a single sheet of hot-pressed paper. It read:

My dear friend,

I write to you this morning with sad tidings, I am afraid.

By the time you receive this note, I shall be gone from the country and on my way to town.

I had hoped to render my farewells in person, of course, but alas we are determined to make it to Grosvenor Street, where Mr Hurst has taken a house, by dinner, and so I must bid you adieu from afar.

I do not pretend to regret anything I shall leave in Hertfordshire, except your society, my dearest friend…

Elizabeth skimmed through Miss Bingley’s false professions of regard for Jane, seeking more pertinent information on the Netherfield party’s sudden abdication. Midway down the page, she found an explanation that knotted her stomach.

Over breakfast this morning, my brother charged me with the onerous task of closing up the house for the winter.

Such a request was unexpected, but then Charles has ever been a spontaneous sort.

One day he proclaims himself satisfied with what he has, the very next he is in search of some new fascination.

It seems that Netherfield is no different from his previous enterprises; no doubt some shiny new bauble will capture his interest soon enough.

The paper shook between her fingers as her worst suspicions were confirmed.

Just as he had proclaimed less than a fortnight ago, Mr Bingley had taken himself off to town with barely any notice and no apparent intent to return.

He had said it himself when he declared that, should he resolve to quit Netherfield, it would be done in five minutes.

Why did I not heed him? I ought to have pressed Jane more strongly to guard her heart.

The letter continued in yet another direction that caused Elizabeth distress, this time in relation to Mr Darcy, of whom she had only just begun to think well.

By Miss Bingley’s report, he had left the area along with his friend, and without so much as a simple goodbye.

It seems we are not to make a new beginning after all.

How foolish of me to believe him sincere.

Duped as she felt by the Derbyshire gentleman, it was mention of his sister that brought her material pain.

Mr Darcy is impatient to see his sister, and to confess the truth, we are scarcely less eager to meet her again.

I really do not think Georgiana Darcy has her equal for beauty, elegance, and accomplishments.

She is such a robust, healthy girl, a great beauty, and so very accomplished; she will make some gentleman—perhaps someone we all know—a fine wife.

The affection she inspires in Louisa and myself is heightened into something still more interesting from the hope we dare to entertain of her being hereafter our sister.

I do not know whether I ever before mentioned to you my feelings on this subject, but I will not leave the country without confiding them, and I trust you will not esteem them unreasonable.

My brother admires her greatly already, and he will have frequent opportunity now of seeing her on the most intimate footing.

Her relations all wish the connexion as much as his own, and a sister’s partiality is not misleading me, I think, when I call Charles most capable of engaging any woman’s heart.

With these circumstances to favour an attachment and nothing to prevent it, am I wrong, my dearest Jane, in indulging the hope of an event which will secure the happiness of so many?

Do look after yourself, my dear. I hope to receive word of your good health ere long.

Miss Bingley closed with as much insincerity as she had begun, wishing Jane a happy Christmas filled with numerous beaux, and signed her name with a cheerful flourish. Hateful cow.

After rereading it several times, more hopeful than expectant that she had missed some critical information, she lowered it back to the table with shaking hands. It was a miracle that she had not torn the blasted paper to shreds—a just punishment for all the suffering it had inflicted.

Curse them all! Curse Mr Bingley and his fickle lovemaking.

Curse Miss Bingley and her false friendship.

Curse the Hursts for colluding to spirit their brother away from Hertfordshire.

Curse Mr Darcy for…for…she could not exactly say, but resentment burned in her chest. Perhaps for inspiring better feelings only to immediately dash any hope of a more friendly connexion.

It seemed Charlotte was, as she had expected, mistaken about his ‘admiration’ if he was ready to flee the area without notice.

Elizabeth shook herself, banishing all thought of Mr Darcy to the recesses of her mind. He owed her nothing, she expected the same, and their association was immaterial to the matter at hand. It was Jane who deserved compassion, Jane who had been betrayed.

Possibly even…by me.

As angry as she was with the Bingleys for Jane’s heartache, Elizabeth reserved the greatest part of the blame for herself.

Charlotte’s caution that Mr Bingley would not wish to court an invalid rang in her ears like a series of death knells.

The emphasis Miss Bingley had placed upon Miss Darcy’s vigour had not eluded her notice, nor had her hopes for Jane’s ‘good health’, leaving Elizabeth to worry that her comments to Mr Bingley regarding her sister’s ‘ delicacy’ might have been taken amiss.

She had not intended to imply that Jane was physically deficient, only that her feelings were easily bruised.

Perhaps, in mentioning Jane’s previous illness, in combination with her recent convalescence at Netherfield, she had done her sister a disservice in her suitor’s eyes.

Far from protecting her as she had sworn to do all those years ago, she might have unintentionally hurt Jane.

Her own eyes welled with stinging tears, but she would not allow them to fall.

Jane required her strength more than ever if she was to persevere beyond this horrible ordeal.

She would keep her own counsel regarding the guilt she carried on her own behalf, at least until Jane was ready to hear her contrition.

In these early days, such a shock might injure her sister further, and Elizabeth would not compound her sins by doing more harm.

Returning to Jane, who stared blankly out of the window at the overcast sky, Elizabeth took up her hand. Her sister did not stir as Elizabeth said, “Do not despair, dearest. In time, he will be forgot, and we shall all be as we were before.”