Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The daughters of Mr. and Mrs. Bennet of Longbourn, Hertfordshire were, whether intentional or not, a fair representation of their parents, both in looks and temperament.  The youthful prettiness of Mrs. Bennet and juvenile curiosity of her husband had, at least in the eyes of the principals, been so well suited that the pair, at the ages of nineteen and four-and-twenty, respectively, stood before a parson and proclaimed theirs an undying love, the perfect blend of affection and advantage.  Only would later years reveal this declaration to be a euphemism for impulsivity and ignorance.  Had the pair produced their long-hoped for son, this would-be heir might not, perhaps, have worn so well the better—and worse—qualities of his parents.  For each of the female offspring of such a union could very well say they had been raised at someone’s knee, though perhaps not a beloved parent, or the parent most similar to themselves. 

His elder daughter, Jane, though sensible and kind, possessed all the ignorance of her mother, tempered with the good sense, logical mind, and reserve of her father.  The result was a simplicity of judgment that imputed right and wrong to good and bad motives—of which the latter was rarely noted—and attempted to reason out the best, most admirable qualities for everyone.  Miss Bennet was no simpleton, her understanding was substantial, though her education lacking, but her surveillance of the world at large was limited to that which she could understand, that which she desired to understand, and that which cast even the most dissolute of her acquaintances in the best light possible.  Perhaps because she expressed her reasoning with sweetness and gentleness her audience rarely questioned her, preferring to allow Miss Jane Bennet to view the world with as much beauty as others saw when they looked at her.

And so it came to pass that the beautiful, sweet-natured Miss Bennet was disappointed in love.  She still cherished a very tender affection for Mr. Bingley, her erstwhile suitor, who had been called on business to London in the fall and had not since returned. Having never even fancied herself in love before, Jane’s regard had all the warmth of first attachment, and, from her age and disposition, greater steadiness than most first attachments often boast; and so fervently did she value his remembrance, and prefer him to every other man, that all her good sense, and all her attention to the feelings of her friends, were requisite to check the indulgence of those regrets which must have been injurious to her own health and their tranquility. 

Miss Bennet had attempted to recover her spirits amongst the smiling faces and sincere love of her young cousins, and with her aunt to manage the children, serve as  confidante, and generally provide an example of good manners, Jane had felt some complacency; indeed, more than she had felt—or could feel—amidst the chaos and boisterousness of Longbourn.  However, the Gardiners, for all their other advantages, kept an address in so different a part of town, with such different connections and ventured out so little, that it was very improbable that Jane and her Mr. Bingley should meet at all, unless he came to see her. 

One disappointing visit to that gentleman’s house in Grosvenor Street, one brief cup of tea with Miss Caroline Bingley, and the knowledge that Mr. Bingley was much engaged with the Darcys—including the undoubtedly elegant, sophisticated, and beautiful Miss Darcy—dimmed Jane’s expectation that the gentleman himself would appear in Gracechurch Street.  Pinning those hopes on his sister and her friend, Miss Bennet waited, devised reasonable (and unreasonable) excuses, and renounced and renewed her hopes during the intervening four weeks between her sojourn into Mayfair and Miss Bingley’s expedition to Cheapside.

From a careful examination of Miss Bingley’s altered spirits and long-anticipated yet brief visit, Jane was able to discern that even were she to take up residence in the fashionable parlor of Mr. Bingley’s London home, she would only be there to witness the blossoming romance between the most amiable man of her acquaintance and his friend’s sister.  Deciding to forgo the misery inherent in observing the intimacy and affection that existed between her aunt and uncle, waiting for her own suitor, or imagining that gentleman’s courtship with a woman whom, though at present faceless, was the source of brutal self-comparison, Jane packed her trunk, sought permission from her relatives, and traveled with a manservant to Hunsford Parsonage in Kent.  For what better cure is there for a heart determined to dwell on all the domestic comforts marriage can provide than to confront such ideals with the reality of a union such as that subsisting between the Reverend and Mrs. Collins?  Miss Bennet vowed to either take comfort in the hope of following Charlotte’s lead to find security and fulfillment in a marriage made for practical reasons, or to rejoice in her separation from Mr. Bingley in the face of the unspeakable horrors found in the state of matrimony itself. 

Her arrival to Hunsford was in good time, but not time enough to spare her sister an unfortunate conversation with one Colonel Fitzwilliam, who happened to be visiting Rosings Park for Easter with his cousin, Mr. Darcy, a man Jane liked only a little for his own sake and more for the fact that he was respected and admired by a man she was attempting to forget.  It seemed that heartbreak was unwilling to settle itself in London for the spring, and would follow Jane wherever she laid her head.

The tears on Elizabeth’s face were assumed to be a consequence of her arrival, but were, in fact, only in part due to the happy reunion.  When the sisters were left to themselves, the story poured forth, and to Jane’s unalloyed surprise confirmed, nay exceeded, her expectation of Caroline Bingley’s feelings regarding a match between Miss Bennet and Mr. Bingley.  For Jane, who had never thought herself to be an object of any particular evil, discovered that she was held in some contempt by the friends of her former favorite.  Moreover, their opinion was formed not because of any qualities she could help, but due entirely to the whims of fortune and connections which so indiscriminately disburse favor amongst the populace as to always leave someone lacking who might naturally benefit more from its being present rather than absent.

“Oh, Jane! Is this not such a picture of Mr. Darcy?” were Elizabeth’s words as she recounted how the good Colonel had enlightened her in the course of their conversation.  Grasping her sister’s hand, she continued, “There could not exist in the world two men over whom Mr. Darcy could have such boundless influence!”

“No,” Jane whispered quietly, overcome by what had been related, “there could not.”

 Elizabeth continued to vent her feelings, rising and pacing the length of the room.  “That he has been concerned in the measures taken to separate you and Mr. Bingley, I have never doubted!  But I have always attributed to Miss Bingley the principal design and arrangement of them. If Mr. Darcy’s own vanity, however, did not mislead him, he was the cause, his pride and caprice were the cause, of all that you , dearest Jane, have suffered, and still continue to suffer!”

“And what of Miss Bingley? Has he duped her as well?” Jane’s eyes had filled with tears, “I had thought that Caroline was incapable of willfully deceiving anyone; and all that I can hope in this case is that she is deceiving herself, or that she has been deceived by Mr. Darcy.  You do not scruple to lay the blame at his feet.”

“Believe her to be deceived, by all means. You have now done your duty by her, and must fret no longer,” was Elizabeth’s impatient reply, before she went on, “He has ruined for a while every hope of happiness for the most affectionate, generous heart in the world; and no one could say how lasting an evil he might have inflicted.”

“Was there no reason for his interference? Did Colonel Fitzwilliam not explain why we must be separated?” Jane’s small voice asked, “I cannot believe Mr. Darcy so evil as to act without reason.”

“’There were some very strong objections against the lady,’ he said, and I can only believe he meant the situations of our uncles,” Elizabeth said somberly, “To you, however,” she exclaimed, “there could be no possibility of objection; all loveliness and goodness as you are!—your understanding excellent, your mind improved, and your manners captivating. Neither could anything be urged against my father, who, though with some peculiarities, has abilities Mr. Darcy himself need not disdain, and respectability which he will probably never reach.”

The girls said nothing of their mother, and even the thought of Mrs. Bennet caused their confidence to give way a little; but Elizabeth would not allow that any objections there had material weight with Mr. Darcy, whose pride, she was convinced, would receive a deeper wound from the want of importance in his friend's connections, than from their want of sense; and she was quite decided, at last, that he had been partly governed by this worst kind of pride, and partly by the wish of retaining Mr. Bingley for his sister.

“You must promise me, my dear, sweet, Jane,” Elizabeth spoke earnestly, “that when you meet with Mr. Darcy you will not present to him a face that is complacent with all of the atrocities he has committed.  You are a great deal too apt, you know, to like people in general. You never see a fault in anybody. All the world are good and agreeable in your eyes. I never heard you speak ill of a human being in your life.”

“I would not wish to be hasty in censuring anyone; but I always speak what I think,” was Miss Bennet’s careful reply to her sister. 

“And this is just what I should ask you to do when you meet Mr. Darcy; to speak what you think—and you will certainly not be hasty in censuring him.  To be sure, he deserves such a degree of censure as I think even Lady Catherine unable to deliver properly!  Oh! We are to dine with the great lady herself this evening, but I have such a headache,” Elizabeth put her hand to her forehead, inciting all the genuine concern of her sister, with the result that the younger woman spent the evening in her room, resting, while the elder remained in the parlor, kept company by her swirling thoughts, her melancholy, and not a little bit of righteous indignation.

Chapter Text

Until the moment the parlor maid opened the door to usher him into the room where Miss Bennet was waiting to receive him, it can be conjectured that Mr. Darcy, had, from his previous visits to the parsonage, been certain he would encounter Miss Elizabeth Bennet.  His surprise, then, on finding Miss Jane Bennet standing near the window must have been acute.  With a swift bow and a gentle curtsey, the typical civilities were exchanged, refreshment was offered and subsequently refused, and the two parties were seated with all the awkwardness one might expect when two minor acquaintances meet again after five months separation.

 “I have come to ask after your younger sister, Miss Elizabeth.  We were told she is unwell, and I had hoped to hear that she was recovered.”  He tried to disguise the embarrassment he felt in coming, all alone, so late in the evening.  Had Elizabeth—Miss Elizabeth, that is—been well enough to receive him, the admission of his purpose would have been revealed later in the conversation.

“She is indisposed at present.  Thank you for your concern, Mr. Darcy.”  Miss Bennet offered him a polite smile and a nod as an additional acknowledgment of his considerate behavior. 

“Is it likely that she will recover this evening?” he inquired politely, if rather brusquely. 

“I cannot say, Mr. Darcy.  As you might imagine, the medical science required to ascertain the duration or discomfort of a headache is beyond my capabilities.  My father, as you might be aware, never provided a governess to teach us such things.”  If Miss Bennet’s customary serenity and sweetness slipped a little here, Mr. Darcy was too polite to mention it, and if Miss Bennet’s intent was to wound, she was far too kind for it to be anything less than circumspect.

The mantle clock’s gentle ticking was the only sound for a moment.  Though the two people now seated in Mrs. Collins’ personal parlor were not friends, they were also not adversaries, at least not in the traditional sense.  Mr. Darcy, a man of sense and education, was of a difficult disposition, haughty, fastidious, and reserved, and though by no means discontent with his own temperament, was continually giving offense to those less satisfied by it.  Thus, while certainly capable of carrying on a conversation, Mr. Darcy’s natural inclination did not tend toward lengthy discourse with those outside of his more intimate acquaintance.  His interactions with Miss Bennet during their time in Hertfordshire had hardly placed her into this inner circle, and their previous tête-à-têtes had focused mainly on generally polite conversation, had always occurred in the presence of others, and had rarely ventured into the treacherous waters of personal feelings.  Mr. Darcy was not in the habit of acting to please others, even those as easy to humor as Miss Bennet, and having had his plans for the evening foiled, would most definitely not trouble himself to be obliging. 

Beyond these factors, which must necessarily limit the comfort and ease of a naturally aloof individual, could be added an additional complication.  The state of Miss Bennet’s mind was troubled, though her countenance did not betray her, and having promised her sister to act in a fashion most unlike her usual behavior, was fortifying her resolve with the intention of confronting Mr. Darcy—if anyone such as Miss Bennet can ever truly act in such a manner.  With such oppositions to friendly discourse, it is no wonder that Mr. Darcy, who might have intended that their exchange carry on in a civil manner, was unwittingly setting himself up for disappointment.

“You cannot give me some idea of whether the headache will pass this evening or in the morning?” He sighed, perhaps in exasperation, and might have checked himself if he had known that this poor choice of topic would have a disastrous impact on his future happiness.

“I am not in the habit of speculating on the feelings of other people, Mr. Darcy,” Jane answered calmly, “No matter how much others may desire my opinion.”

“Yes, of course, but your knowledge of your sister might have exposed you to previous illnesses of this nature.  As such, you could offer some indication of whether or not she will soon be well.”

“Mr. Darcy, I appreciate your eagerness for my sister’s recovery, but I cannot fathom why you think I would be able to generalize from her previous behavior to make a judgment regarding the current situation.” 

Miss Bennet had taken up her embroidery as they conversed, and her even stitches on the white fabric provided a metronome for their conversation.  As she pulled the needle up, keeping tension on the periwinkle thread, she began again, “You see, Mr. Darcy, I would not want to make an ill-judged assumption.” And the needle pushed back through the fabric with some degree of violence.

“Miss Bennet, I do not follow your thinking.” His voice carried the harsh and unyielding tone of a young man accustomed to receiving that which he set his mind to have. “In cases such as these, I believe that an opinion of this nature cannot be ill-judged, as you say.  In fact, a person’s health, like their general disposition, is usually quite constant, and when afflicted with a particular malady, it seems pertinent, if not wise, to rely upon previous ailments to provide some indication of the period of recovery necessary.”  He paused, and crossed his legs.  Miss Bennet kept her eyes firmly on the fabric she held, exuding no effusive warmth, kindness, or even good will, yet as demure, genteel and serene as any of the fashionable women to be encountered in London’s drawing rooms.

“What would you say, Mr. Darcy, if the affliction were love rather than a headache?  Would you be so willing to make a judgment on the recovery time for such a malady?”  Her eyes fixed firmly on the carpets, Miss Jane Bennet’s voice pierced Mr. Darcy’s customary reserve, along with his greatest hopes, and had she looked at him, would have perceived that his countenance was overspread with a deep blush.

“I am not sure that I would equate love with some affliction to be suffered,” Mr. Darcy managed to reply. 

“Perhaps you would if you found yourself in love with someone who did not return the sentiment.” This matter-of-fact answer, from such a lovely young woman, who had never appeared to suffer anything beyond the fawning attention of the gentlemen (and tradesmen, and farmers) of her small country neighborhood was no less striking than the steel in her dark eyes as she lifted them to meet his.

Mr. Darcy seemed to catch her words with no less resentment than surprise.  He recovered his normal sedate countenance and in a voice typically reserved only to rebut Caroline Bingley’s most caustic remarks, replied, “I cannot see that particular fate befalling either of us, Miss Bennet.”

“Can you not?” she asked, her inquisitive tone pinching a nerve somewhere in the vicinity of Mr. Darcy’s abdomen, “Are we both such admirable creatures as to inspire devotion and tender feelings amongst anyone who might cross our respective paths?”

“You misunderstand me, Miss Bennet,” he replied brusquely, “I merely implied that neither you nor I are strangers to admiration from the opposite sex, and should either of us desire to do so, we might be assured of success in exchanging admiration for love.”

“You make me sound very mercenary, Mr. Darcy, as though I had designed to woo the males of Meryton only to carelessly throw their affection away.”  If Miss Bennet’s voice had not carried certain fleeting hostile undercurrents, he might have thought she was teasing him, or that he was speaking to her sister.

“And I make myself sound quite the rake; you know that is not my intention, Miss Bennet.” 

“Nevertheless, you must think me capable of mercenary action, to make such a statement,” Miss Bennet’s well-timed needle continued its journey across the landscape of white cotton, though her voice never wavered from its customary volume, just loud enough to be heard over the crackling fireplace and ticking clock. 

“I certainly do not think you—or your sister—,“ here Mr. Darcy flushed a little, “motivated by the sort of pecuniary concerns that the word mercenary implies.”  He stood, his hand on the mantle, his face obscured as he stared into the fire.

“And my family, Mr. Darcy? What of them?”  Jane paused here, and two pair of eyes met in the candlelit space, one placid, the other narrowed in confusion.  She continued, “After all, connections such as mine must materially lessen my chances of marrying anyone of consideration in this world.  In this situation, I would be bound to honor my family by accepting any gentleman who could maintain my mother and sisters, would I not?”

“It would certainly be prudent of you to marry someone who would keep your family’s interest in mind,” conceded the gentleman, a little taken aback at the repetition of words he had spoken so long ago and believed unheard by the object of that conversation.

“And if such a man were also of sound mind, of compatible temperament, in general well-suited to someone of my own disposition, the match would be an excellent one, do you not agree?”  Though her voice held no notes of urgency, passion, or rage, her eyes held a peculiar fire, a spark of some deep emotion that was more than the gentleman believed he would ever see from this woman with such a cool demeanor.  Being a clever man, Mr. Darcy had determined that Miss Bennet had a particular instance in mind, and indeed, could not but think of Mr. Bingley as he considered the woman his friend had once claimed to love.

“Perhaps,” Mr. Darcy replied dismissively, “but a man has a duty to consider his own family—both present and future—and to enter a marriage with an eye toward bettering his circumstances and guaranteeing his felicity for many years to come.  Men cannot afford to be taken in by a pretty face and a few smiles.”  He had turned to speak to her, not in an animated tone, but as a schoolmaster lectures an errant pupil who never seems to grasp foundational elements of his teaching. 

“What is the role, then, of a man’s friends in helping him to make a wise choice in marriage?  Is he to make such an important decision on his own, or must he solicit the advice of his friends and family to reach a conclusion about what is best for him?”  The tilt of her head, the purse of her lips, were so reminiscent of another Bennet sister that Mr. Darcy briefly wondered if Jane and Elizabeth were not more alike than he had initially thought.

“Some men see fit to make such a decision on their own, others find it prudent to consult others.  It is, as you might expect, Miss Bennet, a matter of disposition and inclination.”  His faint emphasis on the ‘Miss’ would have put a lesser woman on her guard, but Jane was firm where she felt herself to be right, and had promised Elizabeth to be more candid than usual.  In addition to these inducements toward frankness, the pleasure she felt at finally having an outlet for her long-borne feelings of abandonment and regret was more than she had anticipated.

“And can friends always be trusted to help men make their decisions? Might there be other motivations that guide the advice they provide, is it possible that they could be less than impartial?” 

“No man can be completely impartial, Miss Bennet,” Mr. Darcy’s condescending grin here would have incited her younger sister into a fit of rage, but Jane simply held her chin aloft and replied,

“Then you admit that when you advised Mr. Bingley to leave Hertfordshire you might have motivated by your feelings, rather than strictly by impartial judgment?”  Having finally accused him, Miss Bennet felt her spirits lift and felt her mouth curve into a sweet smile as she beheld the look of affected incredulity on Mr. Darcy’s face.  “Can you deny that you advised him in such a way?”

With assumed tranquility he then replied: “I have no wish of denying that I did everything in my power to separate my friend from you, Miss Bennet.  I am sorry to have occasioned pain to anyone. It has been most unconsciously done, however, and I hope will be of short duration.”

“You will not explain yourself, sir?  You will provide no reason for your cruel division of Mr. Bingley and myself?” The gentleman remained silent, and, seeing that these questions were futile, Miss Bennet sought the answer to a question that had been plaguing her since November 27^th.  “Will you not at least tell me if my own expectations of his affection were unfounded?  Was I wrong to hope for his love and his addresses?  Was I mistaken when I chose to return those sentiments?” 

While Miss Bennet certainly did not belong to that class of females who simpered and fawned, who affected emotions for the sympathy of others, she could not now avoid demonstrating a very little bit of the pique which she felt at having to ask a man such as Mr. Darcy these very personal questions.  Her eyes watered a bit more than normal and her chin quivered for a moment, but the gentleman chose not to notice, and Miss Bennet turned her head to hide this untimely display of feminine frailty.  Roused to defend himself, Mr. Darcy cleared his throat and pursued a course of action that he would later come to regret most heartily.

“Allow me to use another example, Miss Bennet, to demonstrate why I acted in the way that I did, and then let us see if your sentiments are the same.”  At her silent nod of acquiescence, he continued, “Imagine that I came here this evening to propose marriage to your younger sister, Miss Elizabeth.”  He paused, as though he wished to allow Miss Bennet time to consider this notion.  “If your sister were to consult you on the benefits of such a match, on the wisdom of accepting me, what would you say to her?”

He waited a moment, but seeing a look of confusion cross Miss Bennet’s lovely countenance, carried on, “Would you encourage her to consider the family concerns which must undoubtedly accompany such a match; would you ask her to think about the degree of affection I might feel for her—would you consult your own observations of my feelings?  After all, Miss Bennet, have we not been in company together many times, and have you not had the opportunity to witness my behavior toward your sister?  Would you desire that she contemplate my character and temperament, to determine whether we would suit?  And finally, would you ask that she take into account the strength of her own feelings, her own attachment to me, and base her decision on whether that affection might persist, might even grow with time, before you advised your sister on her acceptance of my proposal?”

Though suspicion was very far from Miss Bennet's general habits, she was absolutely incredulous here.   That Mr. Darcy should speak so frankly, and on such a subject was almost too much to bear.  She had almost resolved that he had broached such a topic because it would not arouse suspicion, but she recalled that he was here, in the evening, to visit her sister, remembered the flush on his cheek when he mentioned Elizabeth’s name, and she was quite overcome with one solitary conclusion: Mr. Darcy was in love with her sister. So much in love as to wish to marry Elizabeth in spite of all the objections which had made him prevent his friend's marrying Jane, and which must appear at least with equal force in his own case!

Miss Bennet’s astonishment was soon lessened by the strong sisterly partiality which made any admiration of Elizabeth appear perfectly natural; and all surprise was shortly lost in other feelings.

“I asked Mr. Bingley these very questions, Miss Bennet,” he added, a bit more forcefully, “and he could not give a satisfactory answer.  What would you say to Miss Elizabeth if the situation were reversed?”

Yet she had promised her sister to be candid, and in paining Mr. Darcy, she might spare Elizabeth.  With this thought in mind, she looked squarely at the gentleman, and in a firm voice spoke fateful words.

“She will not have you, sir.  And I will not allow you to ask.”

Chapter Text

The vexatious events of the previous evening would not be easy to withhold from a sister as curious as Elizabeth Bennet.  Fortunately for her older sister, Elizabeth was given to morning walks, particularly after suffering from a headache and remaining indoors the night before. Thus, Jane Bennet was left to prepare for the day—and the conversations that would undoubtedly take place—in solitude, contemplating not only what Mr. Darcy had revealed so unexpectedly last night, but also his face as she had dealt a crushing blow to his hopes.  Jane Bennet was not in the habit of giving pain, indeed she strove to wield her beauty and goodness in such a manner as to bring as much of happiness and joy to those around her as possible.  The results of her conversation had been most unsatisfying, as they had left her with the knowledge that Mr. Bingley believed her indifferent and provided Mr. Darcy with the unwelcome news that her sister was not, in short, one of his ardent admirers.

The bond of sisterly confidence had initially prevented Jane’s admission of anything beyond vague reasons for why Elizabeth might wish Mr. Darcy’s affections to be directed elsewhere.  The gentleman did not find such evasive answers satisfactory, and had demanded more detail.  Miss Bennet had hesitantly mentioned that Elizabeth had long perceived his manners to be less than civil, wincing at his incredulous look, hastily adding that she had not been as offended as her sister.  He had not allowed this objection to be requisite to spurn what he—before arriving-- had believed to be a desired, even expected, proposal.  Miss Bennet was then compelled to mention a circumstance which she would rather not, namely that Miss Elizabeth had been the recipient of information regarding Mr. Darcy’s less-than-honorable behavior toward Mr. Wickham.  When Miss Bennet took note of the fury that had spread over Mr. Darcy’s normally sedate features, she had reluctantly conceded that the source of this communication was Mr. Wickham himself, and Elizabeth had not credited any other person as being a reliable source of intelligence on the matter. 

In turn, Jane had asked whether Mr. Bingley was aware that she had been in London so recently; he was not, and judging from the look on Mr. Darcy’s face, that gentleman figured prominently in the reason why.  This question had briefly allowed Mr. Darcy to provide more explanation of the rationale for his interference in their affairs.  Jane was by no means content with the particulars he related, but could not fault his motive—certainly someone as kind as herself, who was acting in the same fashion for a beloved sister, could find it within her to understand his purpose rather better than anyone else concerned in the matter might.  They had parted not long after, Mr. Darcy’s visit lasting barely an hour, and though both were undoubtedly more displeased by the termination of the interview than by its auspicious beginning, the unfailing adherence to propriety on the part of the gentleman, and abiding sweetness of the lady destined the two for an amicable, if awkward, farewell.

Elizabeth remained out of doors longer than Jane anticipated that morning, but there was no time to worry over her whereabouts.  Colonel Fitzwilliam called to take his leave, and upon his introduction to Miss Bennet, presented such a remarkable resemblance—in character, not appearance—to Mr. Bingley, that Jane once again fought the urge to succumb to melancholy.  Fortunately, the Colonel’s happy manners and easy conversation prevented any dismay, and Jane was able to clutch to herself a remembrance of Mr. Bingley’s good qualities, and to once again chase away regret over a man she had resolved to forget.

Mr. Darcy arrived to offer his farewells as Mrs. Collins was pouring tea.  He appeared very out of sorts—even more than he had the evening before, though Jane could certainly not mention that in company—and his brow furrowed as he watched Miss Bennet’s interaction with his cousin.  He refused all refreshment, and seemed to have come only to hurry the Colonel, who had determined to wait for Miss Elizabeth’s anticipated return.  Denied the opportunity to leave immediately, Mr. Darcy stationed himself near the window, peering into the garden, and, Jane thought, watching for her sister’s approach.  When the Colonel decided that Miss Elizabeth had transformed into a fairy queen and declared her lost among the oaks in the park, the two rose to go.  The Colonel’s good-byes, like their relationship, were brief.  Mr. Darcy, however, bestowed an eloquent look upon Miss Bennet as he bowed over her hand, saying simply, “Renewing our acquaintance has been most enlightening, Miss Bennet.  Please accept my best wishes for your health and happiness.”

When Elizabeth returned, the source of Mr. Darcy’s discomposure was clear—the two had met in the grove and had carried on a discussion quite unlike the one the gentleman had experienced with Miss Bennet in the parlor.

“Jane!” was the hushed exclamation that sister received after following Elizabeth into her room.  “You did not tell me that Mr. Darcy visited here yesterday!”  When Elizabeth turned after finally removing her bonnet, Jane was startled to see that her sister had been crying.  “We met this morning and he gave me a letter.  He endeavored to explain to me the history of his relationship with Mr. Wickham.  The things I said to him!”  Miss Bennet saw that her sister was near to tears, and offered a comforting embrace to soothe her distress, but it was quickly broken as Elizabeth began to speak again.

“How despicably I have acted!” she cried, “I, who have prided myself on my discernment! I, who have valued myself on my abilities! How humiliating is this discovery! Yet, how just a humiliation! Had I been in love, I could not have been more wretchedly blind! But vanity, not love, has been my folly.”

Jane watched as her sister paced the floor, not unlike the anxious suitor who had come to call the evening before.  Elizabeth was spirited in her personal chastisement, and Jane could only look on helplessly as Elizabeth continued to harangue her own lack of insight.

 “Pleased with the preference of one, and offended by the neglect of the other, on the very beginning of our acquaintance, I have courted prepossession and ignorance, and driven reason away, where either were concerned. Till this moment I never knew myself.”

This outburst was followed by a recitation of Mr. Darcy’s past with Mr. Wickham, including the latter’s perfidy and the shocking tale of Mr. Wickham’s near-elopement with Mr. Darcy’s young sister.  Although Miss Bennet had suspected that all the blame could not be laid at the feet of Mr. Darcy, the disparity in guilt between the two young men was more than even she might have expected.

“I do not know when I have been more shocked,” said Jane. “Wickham so very bad! It is almost past belief. And poor Mr. Darcy! Dear Lizzy, only consider what he must have suffered. Such a disappointment! And having to relate such a thing of his sister! It is really too distressing. I am sure you must feel it so.”

The sisters sat upon Elizabeth’s bed, and though each felt keenly the other’s misery, neither was able to disclose the full extent of what had occurred.  For Miss Bennet had truths of her own to conceal about Mr. Darcy’s feelings for her sister—which it appeared he had not revealed—and the particulars of his interference in her relationship with Mr. Bingley, which Elizabeth had not mentioned.  Their clasped hands provided some solace in reminding the other that they were not alone in their bewildered pain, but as Jane watched Elizabeth finger the edges of Mr. Darcy’s letter, saw how she traced her own name, Miss Bennet felt somehow left out of the circle of trust that had unexpectedly formed around her sister and this enigmatic man from Derbyshire.

And so Jane Bennet slipped quietly from the room and went to assist Mrs. Collins with some activities elsewhere in the parsonage.  When she next saw Elizabeth for dinner, the red around her eyes had faded, and though she was out of spirits, all of Maria and Charlotte’s attempts to cajole her into revealing the source of her discomfort were unable to persuade Elizabeth to admit to anything other than a slight headache.  Over the next few days, if Jane happened to find Elizabeth perusing her letter at odd hours, staring out of windows, or distracted in conversation, she merely offered a smile and gently steered her sister into some other activity.

The Bennet sisters bade farewell to Mrs. Collins a week later, leaving her to all the comforts of her poultry and housekeeping, and journeyed to Hertfordshire with Maria Lucas.  By mutual, if silent agreement, they had not discussed their strange interludes with Mr. Darcy while in Kent.  Miss Bennet was left to puzzle over her sister’s thoughts on the gentleman, wondering if she had done the right thing in silencing his suit, but ultimately unable to regret protecting Elizabeth.  As the women crossed into London, at least one Bennet sister was resolved to forget two gentlemen of their acquaintance residing somewhere in that metropolis and to look only toward the future, however lonely or uncertain it might be.

Chapter Text

The peculiar events of April had not foreshadowed a dramatic May, June, or July, and Jane Bennet returned to a life of remarkable sameness.  Each day marched by with little deviation from the patterns that had existed at Longbourn before any gentlemen of significant income had entered the neighborhood; the departure of the militia provided an unusual spike in her youngest sisters’ petulance, but for Jane it represented only the removal of a few would-be suitors whom she had never looked on with interest. 

As it seemed that the perfidious, yet affable, Mr. Wickham was to journey with his fellow soldiers, Jane and Elizabeth had one conversation about him, in which they determined that revealing the particulars of his character was ill-advised.  When Jane saw her sister’s dismissal of the man, she could not but wonder at how often Elizabeth continued to think on another gentleman from Derbyshire, but such thoughts were fleeting in the face of her mother’s nervous complaints and Lydia and Kitty’s constant attempts at manipulation.   Upon hearing of their youngest sisters’ scheme to travel with the militia regiment to Brighton, both Jane and Elizabeth endeavored to persuade their father to keep the young girls at home.  Their arguments were to no avail, as their father, determined to have peace in his library, decided that the reproachful looks of his older daughters outweighed the vocal consequences of upsetting Lydia. 

For as much as the elder Bennet sisters resembled their mismatched parents, their younger siblings carried their fair share of the genetic inheritance as well.  Lydia, outwardly the picture of her mother’s good humor, high spirits, and vulgarity, was no less her father’s daughter, despite that man’s neglect, as evidenced by her impertinent disregard for the censure of society, most obviously in her belief that while propriety might be relevant for others, that was certainly no reason to give it any sway over her.  And so the youngest Bennet was sent to Brighton under the care of Colonel and Mrs. Forster, with many promises on her side to write, a trifling admonition to behave with sense followed by a sigh of relief from her father, and very noisy tears on the part of her sister Catherine.

Elizabeth was to venture north with the Gardiners in August, and Jane noted that with every week the journey drew closer, Elizabeth’s anticipation grew as well.  When the Gardiner’s were forced to alter their plan to spend time traveling through Derbyshire, rather than the Lake District, Jane felt an all-too familiar prick of her conscious.  The information she withheld was a surviving and tangible reminder that their life had at one time been interrupted by the vicissitudes of courtship and heartache, and had remained carefully guarded. 

They were in the garden, selecting some pretty summer roses for the drawing room when Jane heard Elizabeth sigh—not for the first time that day—and knew it was time to unburden herself of the secret she had carried for the past three months.

“Elizabeth,” she began, snapping off a particularly lovely blossom and beginning to prune the thorns, “I must beg your forgiveness for something that happened while we were visiting Charlotte in Kent.”

“Dear Jane,” replied her sister, Elizabeth’s bonnet shading her face as she bent over to pull an aphid from a leaf, “of course I can forgive you anything.  You would never do anything to harm me!”

Jane paused and watched her sister.  Elizabeth had been more reflective of late, more prone to staring out of windows and quiet reflection than the teasing, lively banter she had preferred only a few months ago.  “Nevertheless, Lizzy, I fear you might not be pleased with what I have done, but I must say that I believed it to be in your best interest at the time.”

At this, Elizabeth finally turned her head in Jane’s direction, a quizzical look upon her face. “What could possibly have happened that might displease me?”

The clicking of her pruning shears helped Jane to maintain a sense of calm as the words she had longed and hoped never to share poured forth.  “You already know that Mr. Darcy came to see me the evening before he departed from Kent.”  Elizabeth was now standing straight and staring at Jane with an open mouth. This was clearly not what she had believed would be the subject of Miss Bennet’s strange confession.

“Yes, you told me as much the next day,” Elizabeth replied quietly.

“But I did not tell you the subject of our conversation,” Jane said, now walking across the row to another rosebush and beginning to prune some of the dead blossoms.  Elizabeth turned to watch as Jane knelt on the grass and looked up to her. “Mr. Darcy revealed something to me, and I kept it hidden from you.”

“Jane?” Elizabeth asked suspiciously.

“You must understand!” Miss Bennet pleaded, “I love you, and did not want you to regret what might happen with Mr. Darcy. I did not want you to be hurt by what he told me, by what I know.”

“Jane!” Elizabeth intervened, “What did Mr. Darcy say to you?”

“Well we were discussing Mr. Bingley, you know, and he told me that Mr. Bingley did not know that I had been in London during the winter.”

“As I expected,” Elizabeth stated. “Did he give a reason for that?”

“He told me that Mr. Bingley could not give a satisfactory answer when Mr. Darcy asked if he believed I returned his regard.  He thought me indifferent, Lizzy, and I can only assume that he wanted to save his friend from a marriage unequal as to affection.”

“Indifferent? He could not see how you felt about Mr. Bingley? Your obvious affection for him?” Elizabeth was not loud, as their mother was sitting in the drawing room with the windows open and would undoubtedly be able to hear any bit of conversation that remotely indicated there was gossip to be had. 

“He could not, or would not. I am not sure—“

“But you told him,” Elizabeth interrupted, speaking earnestly, “what you felt for Mr. Bingley, and he will speak to him, will he not?  I admit that I used to think him a dishonest man, but I know him to be just and fair. He will do the right thing, now that he has better information.”

“Mr. Darcy is aware of how I feel, but we did not discuss if he would inform Mr. Bingley,” Jane admitted reluctantly.

“Perhaps Mr. Bingley’s schedule does not allow him to come back, but he will come, Jane.”  Elizabeth had taken on an air of absolute certainty, and she squeezed Jane’s hands in comfort.  “But I do not understand why you could not share this with me.”

“I could not, then.  I am not so courageous as you, Elizabeth.”

The sisters were quiet for a moment, one considering all she had learned, the other summoning the courage she admittedly lacked for what must still be revealed.  Elizabeth spoke first, “I must say again that now that Mr. Darcy has examined his behavior with Mr. Bingley, I believe he will see his error and act to correct it.  He cannot be comfortable until he has righted this wrong.”

“Was he so wrong?” Jane whispered, and Elizabeth watched her sister’s beautiful face pale despite the afternoon sunshine.

“How can you say such a thing?” Elizabeth asked incredulously.

“Did Mr. Darcy act any differently than I have?  He wanted to spare his friend any pain, he wanted to promote a marriage that would make his friend happy.  How is this different than what I have done?”

“I do not understand, Jane.  What have you done?” Elizabeth brow furrowed as she stared at her sister’s face.

“There is more, Lizzy,” Jane spoke quietly.

“More? What more could there be?”

“It is something that I did not want to tell you at first, because I was not sure how you would react.”  Jane took a deep breath, and forced her dark eyes to stare into Elizabeth’s curious ones, “Mr. Darcy loves you, Lizzy.  He wanted to marry you, and he came to the parsonage that evening to propose to you; he did not expect to find me there waiting, and he was shocked when I told him that you would refuse him.”

Although only a moment before, Jane’s face had been ghostlike in its pallor, now it was Elizabeth whose countenance paled as she registered this news.

Elizabeth’s voice was very quiet as she responded, “He wanted to propose?”

“Yes, we were discussing Mr. Bingley and being in love, and you had told me, Lizzy, to be very candid with him, and so I tried, I wanted him to know how painful it was, but then he was so logical, so calm, but he asked if he had come to propose to you what would I have done and I could not help myself, Lizzy, I just said that he could not ask, that you would refuse him, and that you did not like him.”

Miss Bennet rose from her place on the soft earth during this interlude, and clasped Elizabeth’s hand.  Her sister had turned away, gazing distantly at some aspect of Longbourn’s garden.  Elizabeth now looked back to Jane and with clear eyes and in a near-whisper said, “He loves me and you told him not to propose?”

“Have I acted wrongly, Elizabeth? I did not think you would accept him, you had said such things about him that same afternoon, and he seemed so certain that you would agree.  Lizzy, can you forgive me?  Lizzy?” For her sister had looked away again, at that same indistinct spot on the lawn, and Jane could hear her murmur, as though repeating something she had heard once.

“I had hoped to ask you a question…” she whispered, closing her eyes briefly, and when Elizabeth turned back, she had the look of someone returning from a long journey, observing the changes to all the familiar things that had shifted in her absence.  “He loved me.”

“Yes, Lizzy.  Are you very angry with me?” Jane was near to tears as she waited for her sister to grant absolution.

“Jane, I could never be angry with you.  You are far too good!  But I cannot understand why you did not let him ask?  Why did you not tell me?”  Elizabeth now squeezed Jane’s hands and sank to the grass herself.

Jane sighed in response, seating herself next to her sister.  “I knew how much you disliked him.” 

“I did not like him,” Elizabeth stated frankly, “but you took it upon yourself to keep me from telling him that? Oh, Jane, why?”

“You were so upset at what he did, Lizzy, and I knew you would say those things to him if he asked.  I wanted to spare you that pain, and I did not want Mr. Darcy to hear such things. He would have been so hurt.  You did not see his face when I told him.  He was very surprised, and quite injured.”

“You really are too good, Jane,” Elizabeth smiled ruefully, looking away again for a moment and, shaking her head, spoke again, “to feel such sympathy for a man who was the means of destroying your future happiness.”

 “Oh, Lizzy, no!  Mr. Darcy did advise his friend wrongly, to be sure, but I cannot believe it was malicious.  He meant to spare his friend the same pain I hoped to spare you!”

“Do you really think so?” Elizabeth asked, “Do you think it was only that? Mr. Darcy objected to more than just your indifference toward Mr. Bingley. Remember what Colonel Fitzwilliam said, about our family?”  Jane had turned away as she recalled those sentiments, and barely heard the next words that Elizabeth whispered, carried only by a slight breeze to Jane’s ear, “Not that I disagree with him.”

“I think,” Jane began hesitantly, “that all of Mr. Darcy’s objections to our situation made him caution Mr. Bingley about his intentions.  But when he thought me indifferent, that must have added force to his desire to keep Mr. Bingley from being hurt.  A marriage of so much disparity—in practicalities and in affection—would be difficult to commend.”

“How can you say that, Jane?” Elizabeth asked fervently, “Are you certain that his belief that you were indifferent was not simply an excuse to extricate Mr. Bingley from what he must have thought was an unequal match?”

“Not, certain, no,” Jane said softly, “but if he thought Mr. Bingley and I could truly be happy, if he knew of my affection for his friend, I believe Mr. Darcy would have acted differently.”

“Jane, I think you give him too much credit.  My opinion of Mr. Darcy has changed, yes, but I do not believe he would be able to put aside such practicalities as fortune and connections for something as sentimental and romantic as love.”  Elizabeth shook her head again and picked at a piece of grass that had fallen on her skirt.

Jane was pensive for a moment, until she turned and met her sister’s gaze.  “Lizzy, what you say might be true, but you are forgetting something important.”

Elizabeth’s quizzical look nearly silenced Miss Bennet, but she had come this far in her confessions, had already challenged her sister’s logic to this extent, and she must go on.  With a sad smile, Jane clasped Elizabeth’s small hand once more and said:

“Mr. Darcy was willing to overlook those same objections because of his love for you.”

Chapter Text

Jane and her cousins bid au revoir to the happy group of travelers as they departed for Derbyshire, and while the children of course missed their parents, their elder cousin felt mostly relief.  Although Elizabeth had bestowed her forgiveness over Jane’s secret-keeping, the past weeks had lacked the sisterly camaraderie that usually characterized their relationship.  Jane did not doubt that Elizabeth harbored no anger or mean feelings, and in fact believed herself forgiven.  Elizabeth, however, had spent even more time in solitude of late than she had before Jane’s disclosure.  When they were together, each had endeavored to portray a countenance so unaffected by all that had passed that neither could challenge such an obvious display of falseness for fear of her own behavior being scrutinized.  Fortunately, the only person who could detect such a façade on either of their parts—but especially Lizzy’s—was Mr. Bennet, and his observation of these feigned good spirits would only be a consequence of his actually caring to look.  Thus, as Mr. Bennet preferred to spend his time away from his family, his two eldest daughters were safe to nourish their disquiet privately and publicly display every sort of cheerfulness.

As she spent the week soothing the children’s bumps and bruises, Jane attempted to muffle the small voice reminding her that, had things progressed differently, she might have been happily ensconced at Netherfield , expecting her own son or daughter by this time.   Unaccustomed to unyielding regret and melancholy, Jane Bennet knew not what to do with these startling emotions other than to avoid or hide them.  Certainly she could not indulge such unusual feelings while under her family’s watch.  Instead, she read Elizabeth’s letters with pleasure, giggled with Sophia, cuddled little Edward, and placated her mother when the children’s antics grated on Mrs. Bennet’s easily-frayed nerves.

Jane was replying to a letter from Elizabeth early one morning when she heard the children’s voices float through the parlor window.  Quietly turning over the note, she went to stop the quarreling, and was engaged throughout the whole of the day in the business of upholding the tenuous détente between opposing Gardiner factions.  When she was finally able to return to the epistle, it was in a different frame of mind, her pen scratching across the parchment furiously, small blots forming as she wrote carelessly—and Jane Bennet’s writing was rarely described as careless—even as she inscribed the direction.  Thrusting it into Hill’s hands, Jane ran to attend her mother, briefly charging Elinor with the care her siblings and pursing her lips at the sight of the children, who had discerned that all at Longbourn was not quite right, and were huddled in the nursery corner, looking over a colorful picture book.  She could recall a time when Lydia had been cheered by those same drawings; it seemed a lifetime ago, long before officers and elopements. 

The days blended together in a mélange of smelling salts; hushed inquiries to her father; and quiet storytelling.  Jane liked best the hours she spent with the children.  Despite the degree of Lydia’s folly, Jane found that surrounding herself with the smiles of the young Gardiners, their innocent questions, and wide-eyed curiosity was a welcome distraction, a calm port in the midst of a storm she had yet to fully understand.  She hated to see Mr. Bennet’s face, drawn and old beyond his years as he boarded the carriage bound for London.  And Miss Bennet, whose patience and kindness were revered throughout their part of the county would have shocked her neighbors when, on the day of her father’s departure, in the space of an hour, she censured her sister Mary-- in the midst of some moral platitude-- and her mother’s loose tongue.  The strain produced by these two incidents was such that the ever-composed Miss Bennet spent a half-hour crying in her room, before settling herself and writing to hurry her uncle’s return and assistance.

The days between posting her letter and embracing Elizabeth on Longbourn’s drive were not very different from those first torturous days, although they did carry the added uncertainty stemming from having less news rather than the more Jane desired.  Perhaps what was most difficult and most necessary to hide was the shame Miss Bennet felt upon hearing of Lydia’s flight from Brighton in the company of Mr. Wickham.  Certainly there was the disgrace of a sister’s frailty and susceptibility to persuasion of the worst kind.  There was humiliation over the treatment Jane and her sisters received from their scandal-averse community, and embarrassment each time the servants raised their brows at Mrs. Bennet’s tantrums.

Beyond these causes for mortification, however, was the bitter feeling of having been usurped by a younger sister.  Jane Bennet had expected to marry first, had been told from a young age that she was the most beautiful—in face and in spirit—of Longbourn’s ladies.  Her mother had pinned the family’s hopes on Jane’s ability to woo a husband with merely a glance, and, if necessary, a smile.  Yet Miss Jane Bennet, the beauty of Longbourn, sat nursing a broken heart while her sixteen-year-old sister intended to exchange marriage vows with a man unknown to them 11 months before, whose true nature had served to astonish them all.  Miss Bennet’s shame, in part, grew up from the anger and jealousy she had repressed at Lydia’s heedless behavior, emotions unable to be completely suppressed or ignored.  The embarrassment caused by harboring such uncharitable thoughts was surpassed only by the humiliation of wishing that, at some point last fall, she had embraced some of Lydia’s forthright behavior for the purpose of demonstrating her feelings to Mr. Bingley.  Had she only dared, then the events of the past year might have ended quite differently.

And so Miss Bennet relegated the expression of these less-refined emotions to moments of solitude and publicly shared her belief that the two must be already married—or at least intending it.  To allow such usurpation by a much younger sister was upsetting enough without considering any other outcomes or scandalous results.  Summoning all of her conviction in the inherent good of mankind, and particularly her relations, she declared to her sisters, her mother, her aunt, and all who asked that she was quite certain that this moment of distress would have a joyous conclusion. 

When Elizabeth frowned at such proclamations, Jane was forced to content herself with less vocal, but no less tenacious faith.  Elizabeth, endowed with her mother’s stubbornness and her father’s cynical perspective—sans misanthropy—was almost certain that Lydia must be lost forever, unless her uncle could somehow intervene.  Meanwhile, Jane, in possession of Mr. Bennet’s propensity to interpret situations as it suited him, coupled with Mrs. Bennet’s life-long training in the pursuit of an advantageous marriage, felt the outcome must be in favor of matrimony.  Such entrenched thinking could hardly make either very persuadable, and each sister, accustomed to the attitude of the other, consoled themselves instead with remarks on the best way to deal with the crisis at home, rather than the one in London.

In the few days that her aunt remained with them, the eldest Miss Bennet had time for a brief but illuminating discussion with Mrs. Gardiner.  They were seated with the youngest children in the nursery, Edward’s warm cheek resting heavily on Jane’s shoulder as she rocked him, cherishing the feel of his soft hair against her jaw.  Mrs. Gardiner had just finished a story for Sophia and the girl was now sleepy eyed and cuddled against her mother.  As Sophia’s eyes finally closed, Mrs. Gardiner spoke to her niece.

“You have asked very little about our trip, Jane.”  Mrs. Gardiner remarked.

“I suppose I have. I was too busy thinking of everything that must be done here.”  Jane smiled softly and leaned her head on Edward’s, enjoying the feel of his soft, regular breath on her neck.

“Yes, there is a great deal to think on.  But there is one bit of our trip—the very end, in fact—that I think would most interest you.”  Jane looked at her aunt, who was now smiling conspiratorially.

“Shall I ask you now, then, aunt?” Miss Bennet grinned in response.

“I shall tell you, whether you deign to ask or not. But first, I must ask you a question:  how much has your sister told you of what passed at Pemberley?”  This was completely unexpected, as Jane, though aware that their itinerary must take them through that part of the country where Pemberley was happily situated, had not expected that the travelers would set foot on the estate.

“Not a thing.” Jane replied honestly, if a bit confused.

“Elizabeth is very sly,” Mrs. Gardiner shook her head, “Your uncle and I did not know what to think! She blushed and stammered, and he! Mr. Darcy was nearly as inarticulate at first, and then he was charming and affable, and Lizzy quiet and overcome.  It was very unlike her, you know, and to me seemed almost a reversal of what I had heard about him before we met.”

“I believe you might have been misinformed. Mr. Wickham, as we have so painfully discovered, cannot be trusted, and even Lizzy had other information to alter her opinion of Mr. Darcy before you departed.” Jane was willing to share only so much in this impromptu discussion.

“Indeed,” Mrs. Gardiner replied wryly. “Anyhow, they met quite unexpectedly upon the lawn and though I knew them to be acquainted, even I was surprised by the depth of their friendship.  Has she confided in you, Jane?”

Here there could be nothing to say other than a slight falsehood, after all, Elizabeth had not said anything specifically about Mr. Darcy since her return, and even before had kept much of her feelings regarding the man to herself.   “Not at all,” was what Jane could admit without divulging more than she felt able to without revealing the entirety of her past with Mr. Darcy.

“It really was most unlike Lizzy.  I have never seen her look at a man in such a manner.  Her behavior at Christmas toward Mr. Wickham was nothing to this.”  From anyone else, such a statement would have been gossip or slander, but Mrs. Gardiner was clearly trying to determine what had occurred during their trip to make her niece behave so oddly.

“How did she look at him, precisely?” Jane inquired, unable to keep from asking, despite her reluctance to continue the subject.

Mrs. Gardiner paused, considering. “It is difficult to say.  Almost as she looks when receiving a gift or opening a long-awaited letter, you know that peculiar lift of her brow and the tilt of her lip.  A measure of curiosity, some form of excitement, and beyond that, an awareness of the thing she is looking at, or in this case, the person.”  Mrs. Gardiner chuckled at her disjointed description.

“That sounds rather strange, almost calculating,” Jane replied quietly, as close to a rebuke as she had ever made to her aunt.

“I suppose, but that is not what I meant,” Mrs. Gardiner smiled kindly, “She seemed always to be watching him, or studying him, as if looking for some sign of something.  It was a warm look, but rather different than the lively perusal she often gives to those she is determined to tease.”

“And Mr. Darcy? What was his response to such close inspection?”

“He, at least, knows what it is to love,” was the unexpected reply from her aunt, “He could scarcely keep from looking at her, why it almost reminded me of how Edward used to look at me before we were married.”  Mrs. Gardiner’s look grew momentarily distant, as she reminisced over her own courtship.

Jane blushed at hearing such a personal disclosure, but her aunt went on without mentioning it.

“Your uncle and I were almost certain there was some understanding between them.  But she said nothing to you?” 

“When she left Longbourn, I know she was not engaged, if that is what you are asking,” was as much as Jane dared to reply.

The two women were quiet for a moment, the creaking of their chairs upon the wooden floor and the breeze through the windows the only sounds in the hushed nursery.  Mrs. Gardiner opened a new subject.

“We did see someone else while at Lambton,” her aunt spoke softly. “He was, of course, of great interest to your uncle and me, but I met him for a scant fifteen minutes, and so my curiosity is still unsatisfied.”

Jane looked up hesitantly, almost certain she knew the name that would follow such a statement.  The year had been too full of serendipitous meetings and revelations for it to be any other than him.

“Mr. Bingley is quite an amiable man,” Mrs. Gardiner continued, “We liked him a great deal when he came with Mr. and Miss Darcy to call on us, and he greeted your sister very warmly.  Your uncle, I believe, wanted to speak with him further, but Mr. Bingley was too involved in obtaining the latest news regarding the neighborhood from Elizabeth.  I believe they met again while fishing, and your uncle thought him very affable.”

Jane wanted to ask more, was desperate to know, and felt her questions burning on her tongue.  Only a lifetime of lessons on elegance, propriety and decorum taught by a mother who exemplified none of these qualities quelled her impertinence.

“He did not mention returning to Netherfield,” Mrs. Gardiner went on, apparently content to have this one-sided conversation, and, Jane suspected, perfectly aware of what she was revealing to her niece. “But he did recall the very day he last saw you all, and seemed to look upon that event with pleasure.  Though he only joined us after Mr. and Miss Darcy had home in, so there was not much he could say in their presence, I believe.  To her, he was very attentive, as much a brother to her as Mr. Darcy, I think.”

As Jane Bennet sat, her cousin gathered close to her in the quiet of the afternoon, a slow feeling spread through her.  It had been some time since she had allowed this particular emotion such free rein, choosing instead to employ it in the interest of others, certain that it could no longer apply to her situation.  But at her aunt’s words, spoken so calmly, as to barely betray the significance of the communication, Miss Bennet felt a singular sensation.  It was as though someone had reignited a wick that had once been abruptly snuffed out, plunging her world into lingering darkness.  At the first bare flickers of this new flame, she felt overwhelmed with light, emerging from the shadows and able to see clearly once more.  Before she could recall the desperate situation of her family, the uncertainty that shrouded them all, Jane Bennet embraced a long-forgotten feeling: hope.

Chapter Text

Jane Bennet was accustomed to being an object of close perusal.  Some of her earliest memories featured her mother’s face, pinched with the effort of scrutiny, as Jane performed for her approval.  As she grew older, the eldest Miss Bennet became more comfortable under the gaze of her neighbors, as her mother paraded her before them, and as they whispered about her beauty and her manners.  When she was 15, Mr. Wilkins had composed several sonnets to that beauty, and Jane recalled the look in his eye—he was an aesthetic connoisseur, an artist, a critic.  He had studied her, and the lines he wrote had as much to do with demonstrating his cleverness and understanding of that beauty as they did with attempting to win her hand. 

At seventeen, Mr. Farnsworth had stumbled out of the pub when Miss Bennet passed by, and his drunken leer had introduced her to another type of looking altogether.  In London, soon after her eighteenth birthday, a Lord Henry had dared to both look and touch, casting a seductive stare over her satin-draped figure as he kissed her hand.  Her nineteenth year had been devoted to avoiding Jacob the stablehand, whose puppy-dog eyes had followed her whenever she stepped out of doors.  Twenty had been the year of Mr. Geoffrey Hancock, who spent University holidays sipping tea in Longbourn’s drawing room and casting furtive glances in the direction of Miss Bennet. 

Finally, as her twenty-first year had drawn to a close, Mr. Bingley had arrived in the neighborhood, with his green eyes and bright smile.  Of all of these suitors and observers, only Mr. Bingley’s gaze and Miss Bennet’s feelings had ever matched, and she could even name the quality they shared—warmth.  It was, she had reflected over the past difficult months, the only look she had ever missed when it was gone.

Jane had only recently become comfortable again with the scrutiny of the neighborhood; the shopkeepers and genteel families had finally given up on disapproving stares and unconcealed whispers after the appearance of Mr. and Mrs. Wickham in town.  So it was that upon entering the parlor to greet her Aunt Phillips, Miss Bennet was taken aback at the appraisal she received from that woman and Mrs. Bennet as they discussed the recently discovered fact that Mr. Bingley would be returning to Netherfield.   It was at this point that Miss Jane Bennet realized the only thing worse than the looks of her neighbors, was their speculation.  Even her sister Elizabeth could not help but turn her eyes toward Jane when this topic was discussed, and Miss Bennet could not keep her cheeks from blushing each time the gentleman’s name was mentioned. 

It was enough that, upon finally being alone with Elizabeth, she remarked, “I saw you look at me today, Lizzy, when my aunt told us of the present report; and I know I appeared distressed. But don't imagine it was from any silly cause. I was only confused for the moment, because I felt that I should be looked at. I do assure you that the news does not affect me either with pleasure or pain. I am glad of one thing, that he comes alone; because we shall see the less of him. Not that I am afraid of myself, but I dread other people's remarks.”

Elizabeth had consoled her with a smile and pat on the hand, and they had turned to other subjects.  All of Jane’s defensiveness could not erase Lizzy’s doubt, and Jane was compelled to concede with her silence that perhaps Elizabeth’s evaluation of her true feelings was fairly accurate.  She had cherished her new hope, but every day following that conversation with her aunt, Jane had been forced—despite her predilection to at least attempt to believe in the impossible—to remember that Netherfield continued to remain vacant, and each comment carelessly directed her way, first by Lydia, then her mother, and now her Aunt served to reduce that once-bright flame to a smoldering wick. 

Jane could not determine exactly how her sister regarded one of the gentlemen implicated in the re-opening of Netherfield.  When the Wickhams had visited, only a single mention of Mr. Darcy’s name had been enough to throw Elizabeth back into the preoccupation she had exhibited prior to her northern tour.  Jane's delicate sense of honor would not allow her to speak to Elizabeth privately of what Lydia had let fall during her visit, a slip which pertained directly to the gentleman and to his presence in London at their sister’s marriage.  It seemed the man was forever willing to interfere in other people’s affairs, although Jane could still not determine how he had discovered the situation.  She could not believe that her aunt and uncle might be indiscreet in this matter, and though Elizabeth was clearly on better terms with him than previously, if her aunt’s information was correct (as Elizabeth had not breathed a word of what took place at Pemberley), it was hardly prudent to reveal Lydia’s shameful behavior to Mr. Darcy, when so much would have been ruined by his knowledge of their plight. 

When Jane witnessed Elizabeth penning a letter one morning, and inquired as to its intended recipient, she received an unexpected answer.  “It is to my aunt.  I have… a question,” was all that her sister would remark, allowing no room for further interrogation, and reinforcing Jane’s belief that her sister was much more adept at the art of insouciance than she.  There was, however, when Jane thought more on the subject, little doubt as to what such a reply could mean, coming as it did from a girl as curious as Lizzy Bennet and on the heels of something so compelling as Lydia’s partial disclosure.  Coupled with her aunt’s revelations, it was enough for Jane to conclude that Elizabeth had abandoned her dislike, and, quite possibly, forsaken her misgivings over Mr. Darcy’s character to instead embrace him as, at the very least, a potential spouse and the bearer of her future happiness.  As she sometimes saw her sister unfolding the missive containing her aunt’s reply, only to stare into the distance after reading it, Jane Bennet’s conjectures were somewhat confirmed, if impossible to act upon.

When Mr. Bingley did return to the neighborhood, not long after her aunt had announced his intention to do so, he called first upon Longbourn, shattering all the careful resolve Miss Bennet had contrived.  At her mother’s first cry that he had arrived, her demand that they crowd round the widow to watch his approach like spectators at an exhibition, Jane felt her knees go weak.  Thankful to be seated at the breakfast table during the exact moments of her body’s betrayal, Jane once again determined not to act in the manner of one of those silly girls from Kitty’s novels.  Upon that sister’s exclamation that Mr. Darcy joined Mr. Bingley and was now riding up the drive, Jane could only look to Elizabeth, sparing a brief moment of concern, but too absorbed in quiet panic to do much else, save noticing that her sister’s face was flushed and her eyes wide with some mixture of longing and fear.

The visit passed quickly—all too quickly, as Jane had not finished cataloguing the changes in Mr. Bingley’s person: a green coat, shorter hair, brown boots, a new style of cravat.  She felt him looking at her, not because she felt watched, but that warmth and comfort she had missed was there again, increasing at every moment, and though she attempted to converse as she did amongst any other company—and believed herself successful—Miss Bennet was quite consumed with trying not to cry at the return of such welcome and pleasant feelings after such a long and unjust absence.

The other gentleman in the room did look at her a good deal and she knew she must be the object of some study for Mr. Darcy.  When she raised her eyes to his face, she as often found him looking at Elizabeth as at herself, and frequently on no object but the ground.  He was every bit the same as he had been when previously in Hertfordshire, and only a pensive expression on her sister’s face could convince Jane that he was capable of more amiability.  She recalled his words in Kent, the manner of their parting, and wondered at his silence.

Despite the vulgarity of their mother, the gentlemen were engaged to dine on Tuesday, and Jane both hoped and feared that they would meet before hand.  They did meet, in fact, only two days later, when Mr. Bingley returned with his friend to call on the family, and requested the honor of walking out with Miss Bennet and her sister, in the company of Mr. Darcy and Kitty, of course.  As she donned her pelisse, avoiding her sisters’ eyes, Jane felt very little hesitation in what must happen next.  To own the truth, she had been prepared for such a moment from a young age, and her mother’s instructions even now hinted at what Jane should expect during this private interlude with the gentleman.  Whereas with previous suitors she had always felt shamed by her mother’s words, she now cherished them, hoping that, in this case, her mother’s vigilant, if offensive, study of the patterns and rules of courtship might benefit her daughter, rather than thwart her prospects.  Jane was suddenly certain that in returning, in bringing his friend, that all the heartache and indecision of the past months must draw to a close.  The encouraging look on Mr. Bingley’s face as he had requested the pleasure of her company added force to these beliefs, and as Miss Bennet set out to meet her suitor, she dared to anticipate the love and eloquence that might await her outside.

As she moved through the hallway, she saw Mr. Darcy standing alone, waiting for his friend, clutching his hat, and staring through the window opposite him into the garden.  Although she was distracted by what must take place with her own gentleman, she knew that she must seize this chance to act on her sister’s behalf—and somehow also knew that the man before her had done the same for his friend.  They had all lost their way sometime in the last year, overcome by love and duty, honor and affection.  Summoning the courage she could find amidst the nerves she otherwise felt, Miss Bennet stopped before him and endeavored, without preamble, to make things right.

“Mr. Darcy, you once told me that you hoped to ask my sister a question.” There was no doubt which sister she meant.

He cleared his throat and spoke quietly. “I had hoped to, yes, but was advised that the answer would be decidedly negative.”

Jane smiled—not the smile she had worn at countless assembly dances or in drawing rooms across the country, not a smile of tepid politeness and mild hospitality—a bright, cheerful grin, full of satisfaction and happiness, and she could not know that, at that moment, Mr. Darcy finally understood why Mr. Bingley called her an angel.

“I think,” she spoke slowly, “you would be assured of a more favorable answer this time.”

He seemed startled at this candor, though he must have known her capable of such frankness, but bowed, gave a little smile, and when her sisters appeared and Mr. Bingley joined them, walked out with a lightness in his step she had not noticed before.

They began with those trifling pleasantries and banal inquiries designed to put those at ease who are least capable of being so. Miss Bennet, suddenly in close proximity to a man who, until only a few days ago, had seemed as distant as the moon, was flushed with some mix of anticipation, anxiety, hopefulness and elation.  The gentleman’s manner was as happy and unaffected as ever, which brought little comfort to his outwardly composed and inwardly trembling companion.  They did not touch; he had not offered his arm to her, but she felt his steady gaze on her as much as any caress.  Jane could not quite meet his eyes so fully, resolved to the last to be as demure as she knew she ought to be; but, in a flash, she recalled Lydia, her demeaning comments and her pathetic situation, and, in a moment of daring, serenely turned her eyes to meet Mr. Bingley’s stare.  He smiled, then, took one deep breath, and abruptly stopped.

“Miss Bennet, please, may I speak to you for a moment?” They were still in the garden, near the very rosebushes where, only a few months prior, Jane had unburdened herself to Elizabeth.  Despite the encroaching autumn, the trellis still held several blooms, a testament to the rainy spring, mild summer, and tenacity of Longbourn’s gardener.  Jane could only nod and seat herself on a nearby bench as Mr. Bingley stood before her.  He removed his hat and passed a hand through his hair. 

“Miss Bennet, it has been many months since I met you, and many since I first knew I loved you beyond anything I had felt before.  Though I have been absent, my feelings have never wavered.”  He paused, and for a moment, she was able to look into his eyes, to note the plea and the wish that dwelt therein. 

“Dare I hope,” he whispered, “that I have not returned in vain? That you retain some feelings for me?  It is too much to think that you could match what I feel for you, but--“

“Mr. Bingley,” Jane hardly knew what she did, but felt she must give him some assurance, some indication of her own sentiments. “While I cannot fathom the depth of your regard without hearing more, please know that my own feelings are not at all shallow or fleeting.”

Then, quite unexpectedly, he was kissing her hands and uttering words of incoherent devotion.  Jane blushed and even giggled, so delighted she knew not what to do or where to look, but could not pull away.

“You know, you must know, that I would not have stayed away so long if I was not so frightfully mistaken about your feelings?” Mr. Bingley admitted earnestly, clasping her hand in his own more calmly and thrilling her with his touch. “Only the assurance of your complete indifference left me with no hope of winning your hand.”

“I understand,” Jane replied softly, “and have only to wish that I had been more bold with you in the fall—what a thing to say!” she gasped and turned her eyes to the grass and spoke again, “I wish that we had not had to be so long apart,” she whispered, overcome with their conversation and her happiness.

“That, I fear, was inevitable,” Mr. Bingley shook his head. “For even when I wished desperately to return to Netherfield—and for most of the spring desired to at least look in on the place—I was kept away by so many obligations as to make it impossible.  First in London, and then farther north; it was not until we visited Darcy at Pemberley that I could see my way clear to come.”

“Obligations?” Miss Bennet asked quietly, fearing the answer.

His hand tightened around hers, and it called her eyes to meet his own, “Despite my self-proclaimed impulsiveness, I am attentive to my duties.  First my sister could not leave London without experiencing a full season, and then we were to visit my mother’s family, as we do every year, and then to my father’s people as there was some business to see to, and finally to Pemberley.  The happiest miles of road I have traveled since November were the ones that finally brought me from London to Hertfordshire.” He paused and gave her such a sweet, loving smile, it took her breath away, “I am, perhaps, not the most attentive suitor, but I hope you will forgive me that, as I desire to be quite a conscientious husband.”

Jane looked away for a moment, overcome by his looks and his words. 

“That is,” he continued solemnly, “if you will accept my hand and my heart, Miss Bennet.”

She could only offer a gasping “Yes!” as he leaned in and brushed his lips against her cheek.  She turned her head and his handsome face had remained so close to hers that it was impossible to deny him when he uttered a barely audible, “Jane?” and then she felt the warmth of his mouth on hers and it was startling, and strange, and wonderful. 

He pulled away, whispered a hoarse, “Come, we should find the others,” and took her arm, pulling her down the garden path they thought Darcy and Elizabeth might have taken.

They walked for some time, enjoying their closeness and the murmured confessions and promises of new lovers.  Mr. Bingley took her hand in his, and uttered a soft, “I love you,” which caused Jane to blush and look away from his besotted gaze.  As she did, her sister’s spencer, a rich blue color, caught her eye.  Elizabeth stood off to the side of the path, some distance ahead of them, her face angled up to Mr. Darcy, who was speaking earnestly and urgently to her, with a look of such intensity, it caused Jane to gasp.  Jane continued to watch, they were inconspicuously situated; Mr. Bingley was momentarily intent on inspecting some foliage on the other side of the road.  

Mr. Darcy’s hand caressed her sister’s cheek, and Elizabeth took a half-step closer to him, her fingers just brushing the cuff of Mr. Darcy’s great coat.  Lizzy said something quietly, her head briefly tilting down and Jane could imagine the hesitant expression Lizzy wore when she stood thus.  Jane’s astonishment was renewed as a radiant smile spread across Mr. Darcy’s solemn face and he lifted her sister’s chin and stared into her eyes.  Awash with guilt for spying on such an intimate moment, Jane turned back to her own fiancé, and taking his arm, boldly laid her head on his shoulder.  She felt Mr. Bingley’s smile in the straightening of his posture and the tightening of his grip on her gloved hand.

At this there was nothing to do but smile and sigh, and stare at his beloved face for a moment, before realizing that the weather was frightfully warm for September and that they were quite alone. 

A few days later, Mr. Darcy and Miss Bennet found themselves awaiting their respective fiancés at Longbourn’s front entrance.  Jane had spent the evenings among their family and wider acquaintance quietly observing her sister’s betrothed.  They had not been really alone since that fateful night in April, and she had thankfully not seen any of the anger or heartache in him that she had witnessed that evening.  However, she had realized that this man, soon to be her brother, was just the sort of man she could admire.  Their temperaments were similar, though not alike, their care for those they loved was equally fierce despite the unique expression of it—his was cold and haughty defense, a high-handed managing, and hers soothing, placating, removing agitation and rearranging situations.  He was not the kind of man she wanted for herself; his intensity would frighten her into silence, her placid good humor would always be at odds with his cynicism.  As they studied each other silently, she was not surprised when he spoke first.

“Miss Bennet, I do not believe I have expressed how sincerely happy it makes me to know you will marry my friend,” his tone was sedate, and it was a very proper expression of his feelings, but from a man who never said anything he did not mean, she knew such an admission signified a great deal.

Jane smiled warmly at him, replying, “Thank you, Mr. Darcy, and I do not recall sharing how overjoyed I am to see my sister so happy.  My own happiness is so great, I wanted only my sister’s joy to complete it.  I am very glad we are to be brother and sister.”

He looked away for a moment, studying some shrubbery, then turned with a look of penitence, “You have not always felt such.”

“That is all in the past, I assure you, and I know you are heartily sorry.  As am I, for my harsh words.”

“I am sure you could never be harsh, Miss Bennet, but I will apologize all the same.  Dare I hope that you might hold me in some esteem now?” 

“I always had a value for you,” Miss Bennet replied sincerely. “Were it for nothing but your love of my sister, I must always have esteemed you; but now, as Mr. Bingley's friend and my own brother, there can be only Mr. Bingley and Elizabeth more dear to me.”

“Please,” he said, bestowing one of his rare, brilliant smiles upon her, “my name is Fitzwilliam.”

“And you must call me Jane,” she replied. 

Finis