Page 32 of The Happiness of a Most Beloved Sister (Pride and Prejudice Variation)
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
E lizabeth woke to a drizzly morning that perfectly suited her mood.
She had lain awake much of the night turning various concerns over in her mind, trying to make sense of her new understanding of Jane, the true nature of their relationship, and her own wilful blindness.
I never knew myself or Jane , was a constant refrain and one that was irrefutable.
Elizabeth had always believed Jane to be one sort of person—sweet, kind, gentle—only to discover that she was a different sort entirely.
Frustrated with herself for resuming a train of thought she had promised herself she would avoid, Elizabeth kicked off her covers and climbed out of bed. She made the effort to be quiet, for this guest room was closer to her aunt and uncle’s quarters than the one she usually shared with?—
“Stop it, Lizzy!” she commanded herself with a low growl. She would not be drawn into thinking of Jane, for it only made the wound of her betrayal expand. It was already tender, but poking at it intensified the pain and fired her blood .
And oh, Elizabeth was angry. Angry with Jane. Angry with herself. Angry with her parents and all the gentlemen who had puffed up Jane’s sense of self-importance. Angry that she was, apparently, as na?ve at twenty as she had been at thirteen. Angry .
The clenching of her empty fists made Elizabeth long for the flower stone Darcy had given her, so she turned back to the bedside table where she had placed it just before blowing out her candle the night before.
It sat within easy reach, seemingly unfolding into a perfect bloom that would never wither.
She took it up and stroked the smooth centre with her thumb.
The tranquilising effect was almost immediate; the stone cooled her outrage from a boil to a more manageable simmer, granting Elizabeth a measure of calm.
From its firm presence she drew the comfort of the gentleman who had gifted it to her, and it occurred to Elizabeth that Darcy was much like his token.
Once, she would have made a slighting jibe about how he was hard and cold, but now she had a different interpretation.
Darcy was stalwart, strong, not easily changeable the way his friend was.
He was as sturdy and reliable as the grand house he inhabited.
As she clutched the stone to her heart, she could feel his protection and support suffuse her being.
Elizabeth made quick work of getting dressed and left her bedchamber, moving towards the stairs.
The flower stone bumped against her leg as she walked, reminding her of its dependable presence.
When she passed the room she used to share with Jane—the one her sister had resolutely refused her entry to when Elizabeth had arrived in London—she shot it a withering scowl before descending to the main floor.
Her habit of rising early meant that Elizabeth had the parlour to herself for the better part of an hour.
The servants bustled about their business, but otherwise she was left to her own contemplations, which had turned melancholy.
The indignation was still there, but it was muffled by a blanket of sadness that overwhelmed her.
It was less that she was sad over the revelation of Jane’s real character, and more that she mourned the closeness she had once believed they shared.
She almost wished she were still uninformed of Jane’s treachery so she might remain blissfully ignorant, but then she reminded herself that such was no better.
She was hurting after learning the truth, but she had been hurting before that too.
She would not easily forget the confusion and stinging pain of Jane’s categorical rejection after Mr Bingley’s flight from Netherfield.
Why had Elizabeth ever believed that Jane was anything but a conniving deceiver? It all seemed so obvious now. It was instinctual to blame herself for being unwary and stupid, but she made the effort to think back to a time when she had considered Jane her dearest confidante.
Prior to Mr Bingley’s arrival in Hertfordshire, they had spent much of their time together, and nothing had seemed amiss then.
Certainly, Elizabeth could recall small instances of Jane ordering her about, but in the moment, those commands had sounded like pitiful requests for assistance, and she had been happy to comply.
She did wonder whether all of Jane’s headaches and weaknesses had been faked—they reminded her suspiciously of Mrs Bennet’s nerves, now that she compared them—but being her sister’s companion had not been a hardship.
Jane was not particularly accomplished or knowledgeable, but nor was she a dullard, and they had enjoyed discussing novels together.
And they had been a united front against the silliness of their mother and sisters, trading exasperated eye rolls and scolding the younger girls into better behaviour in tandem.
In short, not all her recollections of Jane were painful.
Most of them, in fact, were quite the opposite.
So what had changed? Elizabeth considered Mrs Gardiner’s contention from the day before, that Jane was a fair-weather friend to her.
There was some truth to that accusation, she thought, for had their closeness not immediately altered upon Mr Bingley’s arrival in the neighbourhood?
Before him, had Jane not set her aside for the attentions of Mr Wilbur?
There were other lesser flirtations in between that had led to nothing serious—John Lucas, for example, had been deemed unsuitable by their mother due to his lack of fortune, as had Henry Goulding and a clerk of Mr Gardiner’s—but Elizabeth had been cast off each time.
When the romance ended, Jane would welcome her back to her side, seeking adulation and sympathy.
It was clear to her now that Elizabeth was only valuable to Jane in the absence of the more preferred company of men.
Elizabeth squeezed the flower stone in her lap, folding both her hands around it. She was so silly, so simpleminded, so…so…
Elizabeth, you take far too much upon yourself.
Darcy’s gentle chiding echoed in Elizabeth’s brain, halting her self-flagellation.
He was right, both then and now. She might have been too credulous, but she could not bear the full responsibility of her split from Jane.
Her sister had played the most significant role there by taking advantage of her trust, by actively seeking to trick her.
If Elizabeth were to be blamed for any part of the conflict, it was only that she had wrongly believed in the goodness of a dearly beloved sister.
She would learn from this situation, but she need not take all the weight upon her own shoulders.
Feeling more at peace, Elizabeth settled back in her chair and watched the rain dribble down the glass. Her mind wandered to Darcy and what he was doing, wondering whether he was thinking of her as well.