by Iris Lim
“May I join you?” Elizabeth pleaded when Bingley moved to leave the table. He looked her way, surprised. The dark circles and disorderly hair hardly recommended her. Good-humored though he was, Bingley nearly wondered why the ever-exacting Darcy had never complained about this lady.
“You speak nonsense, Eliza,” Caroline scoffed behind her. The fanning persisted. “Women have little use in the study. We are created for much more idyllic tasks – that is, gentlewomen are. If you hadn't been born gentry, I dare say you'd be scrubbing the floor now!”
“Miss Bingley!” Elizabeth flew up and around, nearly pouncing on his sister. Bingley watched, helpless. “I understand that you have no desire to have me in your home – and I assure you the sentiments are mutual. Fate has drawn its cards, however, and I would request that we at least respect the other person.”
“Respect a woman who looks the way you do?” Caroline laughed. Bingley felt the tension rising like a brewing storm. “At least your sister had the good looks to make her tolerable, idle though she was.”
“Do not insult my sister!” Elizabeth lunged forward, fists barely missing the china and silverware. “Jane is the kindest soul on the planet, and I grieve that she had to bear with such a hateful sister as she entered into married life.”
“I don't disagree at all!” Caroline huffed. “I pity her for having lived a life with you as a sister.”
“You –”
“Caroline,” Bingley said then, halting what must be beyond hateful words from Elizabeth. He swallowed as the women watched him. If his first bride had caused such ruckus in his home, then he would have become a man of much less faith in the institution. As it was, his experience with Jane compelled him to, at least, consider all possibilities. “I believe you have Miss Dartmouth coming to call later. Are we much prepared for her arrival?”
Caroline's exasperated look offered hope that she no longer wished to fight.
“I shall prepare,” she said at last. Bingley sighed in relief. “Take your bride – or whatever she is. Teach her some manners.”
Caroline marched out the room before Elizabeth could refute – and Bingley quickly slipped out the other way. Down the hall, around the corner, he imagined seeing wisps of golden hair and pale blue skirts. It was unfortunate that his imagination was now the only place she belonged.
• • •
Dear Jane,
I write to you today from chambers that still echo with your presence. Brigham Park is lovely, and I blame you not for having enjoyed your time here.
Elizabeth paused her pen with a frown. She sighed. It was almost ludicrous for the two sisters to be writing each other, when the small distance between their estates promised more calls than letters. It was a fact, however, that her heart could not bear a visit to Pemberley, with her groom now her sister's.
She gritted her teeth, braving it on.
I am personally acquainted with the joys of Pemberley, and I wish you the very best.
Words for her sister had never proven this difficult before. How was one to tread the line between affected sincerity and genuine distress? Elizabeth inhaled deeply, and then exhaled.
Your (former) groom confounds me, I must admit. The man you had described as amiable and buoyant strikes me only as one who tries very hard to be so. Perhaps he, as is often the case with men, improves with time and age.
Vivid memories of Jane praising Aunt Gardiner in her letters a mere half month ago silenced any further complaints Elizabeth had towards her current husband-to-be. Jane had waxed almost poetic in all her descriptions of Mr. Bingley as her prize.
It seemed rather ungrateful to portray him as anything less.
Elizabeth racked her brains for more to share, only to have her vibrant mind yield nothing at all. She closed her eyes. Brigham Park would be the death of her yet. The servants were too slow, the structures too sprawling, and the atmosphere stifling. Caroline – she did not even dare to mention.
If you enjoy Pemberley and the company of its masters half as much as I did – you would already be the happiest woman in Derbyshire.
There was little else Elizabeth could bring herself to say.
Your devoted sister,
Elizabeth
Her letter – barely a missive – soon produced an equally short reply.
My Dear Elizabeth,
I am happy to hear of you settled at Brigham Park. I also find myself content in Pemberley. Mr. Darcy is stately and noble. He is everything Papa and Mama could have asked for. Be happy with Mr. Bingley. He is a wonderful man. Be happy, as I am happy.
Your sister and friend,
Jane
The simple words, most certainly meant to soothe and encourage, struck Elizabeth's heart with hurt and anger. The letter burnt, the words stung. She thanked heavens that Caroline was not in her company – lest she pick upon the way her new sister crumpled paper.
Be happy, Jane said.
Be happy – as she was happy.
Never in her entire life had Elizabeth Bennet begrudged her Jane for her eternal contentment.
Today was the day Elizabeth broke her streak – the day she cursed the fact that she or Jane had ever been born.
Blood boiling, Elizabeth stood from her chaise and marched towards the fireplace. The library, unfrequented by the owners of Brigham Park, had become her refuge of late – and a quick toss of the letter into the flames would quite easily be overlooked. Her footsteps echoed loudly, unladylike and quick. The letter toasted her hand as if it were a glowing ember.
Her hand stayed itself voluntarily when it neared the actual fire. Pemberley's stationary stuck as if sewn into her palm. The tears in her eyes refused to spur the movement of her hands. Elizabeth sniffed.
Jane – wonderful Jane, dear Jane – could she truly be blamed for enjoying the blessing that is Pemberley?
Elizabeth's hand shivered, still halfway to the flames. She had wished Jane her best with utmost sincerity. She had truly believed her sister capable of finding great joy with a family as attentive as the Darcys. She had –
She thought she had meant every word. In fact, in her own way, she firmly did.
She merely hadn’t understood the cost at which their fruition would come.
Overcome, Elizabeth backed away from the fire. The dismaying missive lay crushed under her fingers as she dropped upon the nearest chair.
Jane deserved him – the heartless realization assaulted her then. Kind, angelic, perfect Jane deserved the perfect man.
And that man was Fitzwilliam Darcy.
Unable to resign herself to such thorough, eternal loss – unable also to rejoice for her sister without thought of selfish pain – a drowsy Elizabeth fell asleep upon the uncomfortable chair.
• • •
The gentle aria, adapted masterfully for the pianoforte, neared perfection under Miss Darcy's fingers. The lush curtains, rugs, and furniture yielded a sense of formal serenity – a far cry from Brigham Park's airy leisure.
Jane bowed her head towards her netting, shamed by her own thoughts.
When Elizabeth's letter had arrived yesterday, laden with assurance and good wishes, she simply had not the heart to reply with lamentations. Mama would exclaim that only a woman committed to foolishness would prefer Brigham Park to Pemberley.
And yet, in her heart of hearts, Jane Bennet did.
“Miss Jane,” Georgiana's address compelled her to look up. The slender Miss Darcy looked almost wispy beside the grand instrument. “Ought I to play more?”
Jane frowned at the question, uncomprehending. Was she to govern what the young lady said or did?
“I fail to understand you,” Jane replied honestly. Her voice felt tiny beneath the expansive ceiling. Her hands clung more tightly around her tools.
“Was it not pleasing?” Miss Darcy looked stricken, forlorn. Jane felt panic rising within her.
“Yes, it was – your playing was,” Jane assured quietly. “I – I simply fail to see what I ought to do.”
Miss Darcy's brimming eyes indicated that her words brought little comfort – but Jane knew little else to do. Her own sisters had always been pleased to do whatever they wished, with or without affirmation. Faced with a creature as beautiful and timid as Georgiana, Jane felt almost crippled.
She had a brother, did she not? Where was the man when his sister needed him?
Ever kind, Jane disgusted herself with such selfish thoughts – and she quickly averted her eyes in shame.
Miss Darcy did not speak again before removing herself from the room. They exchanged the most minimal of excuses before parting. Seated all alone, dressed in colors more suited to Brigham Park than Pemberley, Jane wound her empty hands around her waist. The air thickened itself like a boiling stew, drowning life incrementally.
“Mrs. Darcy,” Mrs. Reynolds called when she did not lift her face for two full minutes. “Mrs. Darcy, are you well?”
The bubbling certainty inside Jane's heart brought her little comfort. It had taken her mere hours to become accustomed to being 'Mrs. Bingley.' It had been almost a fortnight since that fateful first Meeting – and she was still certain she would never be 'Mrs. Darcy.'
“No,” she answered the housekeeper's question honestly, eyes firm on her lap.
“If you prefer for a tray to be prepared tonight, we can arrange it so.”
The consideration surprised Jane, teaching her heart to hope and raising her countenance. “Truly?”
“Mr. Darcy said so himself, ma’am. He shall share supper with you and Miss Darcy on Sundays. The meals for all other days would be served according to your discretion.” Mrs. Reynolds spoke calmly, though her eyes belied her pose.
“He does not – did he –” Jane paused to choose her words. To dine without his sober presence was a generous offer – one she would do well to accept. “Has he always preferred it so?”
Mrs. Reynolds did not speak – until she first sighed. “No, he does not. Yet the young master does as he pleases – and often with good reason.”
Jane nodded quickly, anxious not to disagree. Suppers with Mr. and Miss Bingley had always been filled with good cheer and good victuals. Here at Pemberley, the soup proved to be the greatest point of interest night after night.
Yet she could not bear the thought of declining the opportunity to avoid such awkward meals.
“Thank you, Mrs. Reynolds. I would much prefer a tray in my room,” Jane requested. The older woman nodded, bowed, and departed.
Left to her solitude once more, Jane struggled in her heart to find joy in her circumstance. Shameful as it was to admit, she truly preferred Brigham Park's gardens to Pemberley's halls – the former's constant luminance over the latter's austere walls. Even Caroline, however grim, baffled her less than Georgiana's quiet moods.
Jane frowned with despair. Could she ever reply to Elizabeth's letters with utter sincerity? Could she ever be glad that Aunt Gardiner had switched them?
Angry at her grumbling stomach, she sighed as she stood. If her first fortnight of married life had arrested her soul so thoroughly, then surely it must charm the lively Elizabeth more. Her dearest sister was Mrs. Bingley, mistress of the brightest home in Derbyshire.
With that, Jane decided with tears in her eyes, she ought to content herself.
Chapter 5
Lambton, with its cobbled streets and large shop windows, hinted at the possibility of happiness. The grunting blacksmith, the groggy brewer, and the frolicking children, at least, indicated life.
Bingley scoffed, a desperate man. It was not life that he needed today; Elizabeth and Caroline had unfortunately reminded him sufficiently of his state of being today. It was not life that he longed for – but rather a peaceful iteration of it.
“Sir!” The loud cry that accompanied a swerving horse had Bingley ducking unceremoniously under a swinging wooden sign. The hooves barely missed him, and he did not remember to nod his apologies until the rider had stridden away.
Stray villagers – he almost caught a glimpse of Mrs. Gregory – looked his way with pity. The blatant recollection that the story of Brigham Park and Pemberley switching mistresses was common knowledge struck him to the core.
The people knew, the people judged. There was simply no way about it.
He had marched straight towards Lambton this morning, fiercely searching for relief – longing, for the first time in his young life, to be away from Brigham Park. One simple word from Caroline had flamed Elizabeth's temper at breakfast today – leading to loudly exchanged insults – which, in turn, led to hair pulling and screeching and avowals of eternal damnation.
Panting, Bingley braced himself upon a rotting post.
“Mr. Bingley?”
He looked up, foolishly shocked to be addressed. His eyes catalogued the town's faces for his housekeeper, or perhaps Miss Darcy's companion. He watched the faces flowing into and out of the shop.
“Mr. Bingley?”
The voice said again, sending bullets of joy into his battered heart. He turned towards the source, towards the lane that led towards the draper's – and cast his eyes upon a slender, dainty, beautiful Jane Bennet.
“Jane,” the named escaped him instantly as he moved to stand with her. Her gentle smile shone as benevolently as sunbeams in winter. “You – I – what an honor. What an honor it is to see you – madam.”
His breathlessness of spirit quickly turned to one of awe. The wisps of hair she sported beneath her bonnet, the small hands she folded before her lithe body – every detail in her countenance exceeded his brightest memories. She was an angel from heaven, the most striking of them all.
“The honor is mine, sir,” she whispered softly, curtsying at last.
Bingley bowed quickly, anxious to expel with formal courtesy. He stepped closer, hands itching to reach for hers. “You – you are to town.”
The nonsensical substance of his words did not seem to deter either, and he stood entranced before her presence.
Jane did not smile immediately in reply. She pursed her lips, lowered her eyes as if thinking. Bingley stepped closed. “Madam, I –”
“You are to town too – sir,” she said then, looking up with smile anew.
Bingley nodded mutely. His throat refused to unlock its sudden barricade.
“I – I came to visit my aunt. Uncle Gardiner had received new materials. They prove perfect for new – dresses.”
For the first time since encountering Jane, Bingley noticed the maid behind her. The full hands and satchels indicated a shopping visit well done.
With a sigh, Bingley drew back. “Pardon me, madam, I mean no disturbance.”
“No, please – do not say so.” Her hopeful voice was music to his ears. Perhaps surprised by her own response, Jane lowered her face slightly, smiling. “It is I who chose to come to town so early.”
Bingley nodded, satisfied, with a much broader smile. “It seems we both rose with the birds today. Their song must have been sweet.”
Jane's smile relaxed at his words, her limbs loosened. The radiance of her beauty, despite the dark circles beneath her eyes, rendered him speechless. Her elegance and charm, her serenity and kindness – each trait she possessed burst like starlight into his heart's dark night.
It had been a long, dark fortnight without her beside him.
One could hardly fault him for his unwillingness to relinquish her company now.
She was everything he could ever have wanted – and a woman he should have kissed upon the lips much sooner than he had.
“Jane.” He moved forward, determined. No one else within the world mattered then.
“Mr. Bingley, I apologize.” She pulled back timidly. Bingley stopped himself, surprised. Had he truly been about to kiss her on the busiest street in town? What had she made of him?
“Jane,” he muttered then. His mind refused to consider her as having any other name. “You – apologize? But, why?”
“Forgive my interruption,” she replied, smiling shyly. “Perh
aps I ought not to have called you. You appeared quite contemplative, sir.”
Contemplative of her – he would have loved to admit.
Bingley stepped back, nearing a distance that propriety would have been happier to approve. He bowed slightly. “I apologize if you find our discourse unsatisfactory, madam.”
“No – not at all,” she answered quickly. Bingley looked up, hopeful – for what, he did not know. “I must simply acknowledge, sir, that if anything in our conversation was amiss – the fault must have been mine entirely.”
“No, why would it –”
“I was awake before dawn, sir,” she continued calmly. Then her smiled fell. “Mr. Darcy, he – he wakes early often and moves about the sitting room. I – I slumber not afterwards. Please, pardon any inconvenience my fickle actions may have caused.”
The mention of his friend's name compelled reality to crash upon Bingley. He blinked rapidly, lungs tight. Of course, Jane was here as Mrs. Darcy. His agreement with Darcy regarding completion had no promise to last past the first meeting. As he himself shared a suite with Elizabeth, his looming friend shared one with Jane.
There was no reason to believe her not to be Mrs. Darcy in truth.
The thought had Bingley clenching his fists, desperately hoping that he could hit Darcy then and there.
• • •
Her heavy breaths matched in indignation her stinging eyes. Hands flailing, Elizabeth could not care less how unladylike her demeanor came across. There were, thank God, no people to judge her in the woods of Brigham Park – and her dunce of a groom had been kind enough to take off towards town.
His sister, she could make no kind comment about.
“Ah,” she skirted a fall with a groan. While beautiful, Derbyshire's rocky, jagged landscape was by no means comforting to her feet. Her short breaths seemed also to rob her of her natural balance.
Swallowing her anger at herself, Elizabeth re-mustered her ill will towards Caroline Bingley – and marched resolutely forward.
“A dirty country maid indeed,” Elizabeth spat, echoing Caroline's insults. “A loose woman flying from one groom to another – a jealous sister to the best woman in the world. Ha! If I truly wished to be jealous, I would already have –”
