Chapter 45

Elizabeth lay curled at the foot of Jane’s bed, listening to her breathe. She had dismissed Mabel after finally finishing her letter to her uncle, one she probably ought to have sent sooner—but for her hope that saying anything at all about Jane’s illness would prove unnecessary. She would send it express in the morning, but in the dark of midnight, a certain hopelessness filled her.

Was she to lose everything, then? Mama, Papa, Jane and Mr Darcy, all?

You never had Mr Darcy, her brain reminded her.

But I could have, she answered back the inner voice. Had everything not gone so wrong in my life; had he helped Mr Bingley lease Netherfield, as was his plan; had I met him from Longbourn and never seen Pemberley, never known his estate and his bluest blood, I might have had the temerity to accept him. She smiled at the thought of her past self, accepting his offer as if her due, discovering later just who he was.

Of course had it all worked that way, she might have found herself struggling within an unequal match and spurned by his haughty relations.

None of it would matter if we loved one another enough to work through our difficulties and our differences. I am not less of a person because I lack a fortune.

Lifting herself from the bed, she straightened Jane’s covers and went to the window, where she had an excellent view of the night sky. As was her habit, she pushed aside self-pity in favour of counting her blessings.

I am intelligent and determined to be happy. The words Mr Pennywithers writes, attracting all of London and half the countryside, are my words. I will earn enough to have a home no one can ever take from me, a life I could never have planned for—but a good life, nonetheless.

Most importantly, Jane yet lives. Please, dear Father, let her live.

And if she found herself, sometime within that murky future she planned for, dreaming of Mr Darcy’s kisses, his strong arms about her—well, at least she had experienced love once, if only for a few weeks, in the most beautiful place in the world.

“Lizzy?”

Jane’s voice, soft and weak, broke through her thoughts.

She hurried at once to her sister’s side. “I am right here.”

“I-I am so thirsty.”

“I will bring you a cup.” Elizabeth lit a candle from the fire so she could see to pour water from the pitcher.

To her surprise, her sister sat up and drank deeply from it, instead of the tiny sips that were all she had managed the day before.

“Are you feeling better?” she dared to ask, taking the nearly empty cup back and setting it aside.

“I think…I think I am.”

Elizabeth gently placed her hand on Jane’s forehead, finding it cool to the touch. “Thank God, oh, thank God, Janey. I have been praying and hoping, but I feared—” She could not finish the sentence. Too many times, her prayers had been answered—with a firm, implacable ‘No’. A single tear cascaded down her cheek.

Jane smiled slightly, sighing softly. “Love you.”

“I love you too. Sleep now, sweet sister.” She brushed the hair back from Jane’s face as her eyelids fluttered closed. “I am right here. I will not leave.”

Much to Elizabeth’s relief,Jane’s recovery began almost immediately.

Elizabeth joyfully sent her aunt and uncle a very different letter than the gloomy prognosis of the evening before, explaining about Jane’s illness, and her great improvement—and why their stay at Pemberley must be extended for an unknown period of time. The doctor, while pleased with Jane’s progress, charged that it would be several days before he could permit her to travel. Sarah had kindly declared that she would wait as long as was necessary—which extension, Elizabeth discovered, was not exactly a hardship. She was thrilled at Sarah’s quiet admission that she and Mr Fitzwilliam were to be betrothed as soon as he had spoken to her father.

And a bit envious, as well, I can admit.

Of course, if the Bennet sisters and Miss Bentley were staying, no one else would leave either. After the melancholy of Jane’s illness, plans were enthusiastically entered into for the all-important treasure hunt, a week hence. Elizabeth determined, however, what her true hunt would be: to search out memories, as many as she could for the time remaining, gather them like souvenirs, to be treasured always—memories of Mr Darcy. She had no idea how much more time they would have together, and there were so many of them still to seek—the sweetness of his happiness when Mr Fitzwilliam began joining them for the evening meal, his pride and enthusiasm whenever Georgiana agreed to play for the company, even his public reprimands of Lady Catherine when she criticised either his cousin or sister. There were private smiles exchanged, ones of shared amusement and affection as they watched Mr Bingley flutter around and wait upon Jane, and Jane’s own efforts to break through her natural reserve to show warmth and regard towards his friend.

There could be no real hope that Miss Bingley had failed to tell her brother about their connexion to Mr Pennywithers. He must have decided it did not matter; if he had gone to Mr Darcy for advice, it was obvious their host would present no real impediment to the match—his approval another gift to her, she knew. These were the real treasures, having nothing to do with means and money, a wealth of memories she would cherish for the rest of her life.

She would bury any less welcome feelings as best she could; regret and sorrow, she had found, could always be put off for another day.

Anne receivedan unexpected treat a few days before the childish treasure hunt everyone else seemed so excited over: Mama had another of her headaches. Those were the best days, when she stayed abed and only wanted Dawson, her woman, to wait upon her.

She could not look forward to returning to Rosings; her mother would be in a fury the entire journey—possibly even working up to one of her dreaded rages—because Darcy would fail, again, to propose. Mama had practically choked upon her wrath at the lemonade prank, at her inability to punish Miss Elizabeth or any other person for the humiliating incident. Mrs Jenkinson must have added the liqueur to the wrong pitcher, although she swore it was not so. They had only escaped penance, she knew, because keeping up appearances meant Lady Catherine must pretend it had never happened.

Anne had been sick, sore-headed, forced by Mama to race in the harsh sunlight when she only wanted to die in her own bed. She had lashed out in fear and anger at Sarah’s ponies in the dust and confusion of Miss Lushington’s stupid manoeuvring of her team. In her humiliation before Darcy and the others, she had given way to panic and temper. But now Darcy would not allow Anne to use any of his ponies to ride about the estate—her single amusement curtailed.

Miss Bingley had suggested that after breakfast they speak ‘privately’, obviously excluding Miss Elizabeth and her little band of followers. It was thrilling, to be singled out for her company above all others. Even though Papa had only ranked a knight, he was from an old and distinguished family, Mama said, and she was an earl’s daughter, which meant they were quite a bit better than anyone else in the area. But it was lonely.

However, the next words out of Miss Bingley’s mouth ruined happy thoughts of cosy tête-à-têtes. “Miss Darcy, Miss Lushington, why do not you join us? I have the latest La Belle Assemblée, and you would not believe how fashionable the new sleeves.”

For a moment, Anne was hopeful that they would refuse—both appeared reluctant, obviously wishing to remain with the Bennet sisters. But then her young cousin surrendered to politeness.

“Yes,” she said. “I will go with you.”

“I would not mind seeing the latest La Belle Assemblée,” Miss Lushington agreed.

Anne’s disappointment was complete.

Miss Bingley openedthe La Belle Assemblée to Miss Lushington, showing her a plate featuring an elegant ball gown. “Is not that the most stylish dress you have seen? Such a remarkable lace.”

“A beautiful lace,” Anne repeated.

“’Tis a bit high-necked, though. Ton balls are so crowded and airless. I require more ventilation than that, I fear,” Miss Lushington replied. It was the fourth plate Miss Bingley had admired, and Miss Lushington hated.

Miss Bingley made a not-very-good effort at hiding a sneer, and Anne smirked outright.

Georgiana sighed internally, wishing she was upstairs in the breakfast parlour with her friends. Miss Lushington was fond of low-necked apparel, but then, she had the figure for it. Miss Bingley flipped to a page displaying a different ball gown.

“I shall bring this plate to my modiste and have her copy it. I think it so tasteful.”

To Georgiana’s relief, this one was worthy of admiration, and before Miss Lushington could insert another criticism, she was first to praise it.

“I think it is very pretty. Miss Bennet has a gown of a similar style and with the same trim. I have admired it greatly.”

Miss Bingley snatched back the magazine. “I did not mean that one.” She pointed to another. “This is the one that is worth copying. That other is the one I dislike most of all—I am certain it is an outdated imitation of something I saw last year.”

“A shoddy imitation,” Anne parroted. “That one is much better.”

At their obvious about-face, Georgiana found her own annoyance. “The Bennet sisters are always fashionably dressed.”

Miss Bingley looked pityingly at her. “Darling, you are so liberal in your friendships. I admire you for it, truly I do. It is plain, however, that Miss Elizabeth’s family is on a downward spiral. They exult in their connexion to a reporter! They live in Cheapside! You must be careful. Such associations can only hurt your own prospects.”

“Very careful,” Anne echoed.

This—from the low person who had plottedagainst and struck another guest—was the outside of enough, and for the first time, Georgiana found the courage to confront Miss Bingley.

“Everyone knows that the neighbourhood called ‘Cheapside’ is anything except ‘cheap’. Should Elizabeth be ashamed, because her uncle is hard-working, intelligent, and will always be able to support his family in wonderful style? Why ever would she be?” Georgiana did her best to speak evenly, to control her trembling anger.

Miss Bingley affected her haughtiest stare. “Obviously she has been assuming airs to impress you. I understand why she does it—she herself has nothing. What else can you expect from the impoverished relation of a penny scribbler? Another word of caution, my dear—it is not done. It is kind of you to spend time with her, but do not adopt her poor conduct.”

Georgiana stood, furious. “Poor conduct! You are one to talk! I know how you schemed to send her a false letter, claiming a member of her family had been harmed! Yes, you were overheard! And then you plotted to inebriate her!” Hands on her hips, she looked both her cousin Anne and Miss Bingley in the eye. “I warn you now, if either of you do another thing to embarrass, hurt, or injure her—or any of my guests, in any way—I will inform Fitzwilliam and use every bit of influence I have to see that he never invites you to Pemberley again! Do not suppose that he will fail to listen! He tolerates you, but he loves me!”

To her surprise, Miss Lushington stood too. “Oh, bad form, Miss Bingley. Bad form.”

With a surprisingly maternal air, she took Georgiana’s arm. “Come dear,” she said. “Shall we join the others?” Together, they left the room.