Page 58 of The Same Noble Line
Mamma’s excitement was almost tangible, her voice rising and falling with each suggestion.
“It is such a shame that Mr. and Mrs. Collins had no wedding breakfast,” she said loudly, not sounding in the least sorry.
“It is, Mamma,” Jane said, ever serene. “But I suppose Mr. Collins has been traveling a great deal these past months. His congregation needed him home.”
Elizabeth thought Mr. Collins might have allowed Charlotte to farewell all her friends before leaving for Kent, but her friend had been anxious to begin her life as mistress of her own home and had said she did not mind the lack of celebration.
Jane would also have been content with a simpler affair.
Across the room, Kitty worked on trimming Jane’s wedding bonnet, her needle moving with deliberation and purpose. She was gratified to have been asked, and Lydia was pouting because of it. Elizabeth watched them all as she worked on the embroidery for Jane’s wedding gown. Her fingers carefully pulled the thread in and out.
Mr. Bingley had visited yesterday, two days after she last saw Mr. Darcy—but he had come alone.
At that moment, Mr. Bingley entered the room, his usual warm smile firmly in place, Miss Darcy and Mrs. Annesley behind him. “Good morning, ladies,” he greeted, bowing slightly.
Mamma immediately drew him into their plans. “Mr. Bingley! We were just discussing the arrangements for the breakfast. You must have your say, of course.”
Mr. Bingley chuckled good-naturedly, his eyes crinkling with affection as he glanced at Jane. “I have every confidence in Miss Bennet’s choices, madam. Whatever she desires, I am sure it will be perfect.”
Mrs. Bennet practically glowed, clasping her hands together. “Oh, Mr. Bingley, you are too good! Too good indeed!”
Elizabeth’s smile faltered as Kitty looked up from her bonnet and said, “Good day, Mrs. Annesley, Miss Darcy.”
“Where are your brother and cousin this morning?” Lydia called from her corner.
Miss Darcy hesitated, though only briefly, and replied, “They had pressing business to attend, but will return before the ceremony, of course.”
Return?
Elizabeth had not realized until this moment how very much she had been hoping that he would choose her despite it all, that he would break through whatever it was that was holding him back. A cold ache spread throughout her body, numbing what moments before had been a warm anticipation. Mr. Darcyhad given his answer, and to linger upon this injury would serve no purpose but to make a spectacle of herself. And yet, as the murmur of conversation swirled about her, and she offered a civil smile to his sister, she could not suppress the quiet, bitter truth that settled in her heart: she had hoped, and she had been wrong.
She forced herself to say playfully, “I trust London’s allure proved more compelling than Netherfield’s charms?”
Mr. Bingley laughed easily. “It is not for lack of fondness for Hertfordshire, I assure you, Miss Elizabeth. Business has a way of intruding, most particularly when one least wishes to be pulled away.”
She nodded, maintaining her outward composure, though her thoughts churned. The timing of this business was certainly fortuitous if he meant to have as little contact with her as possible from now on.
Later, after their visitors returned to Netherfield and dinner was complete, Elizabeth found herself alone in the family parlour. She took a calming breath. Jane was happy. Radiantly, overwhelmingly happy. That was what mattered most. Elizabeth resolved to carry on as she always had. Whatever her own heart suffered, she would not let it show. She had no right to mourn something—someone—that had never been hers.
Her shoulders slumped. She could not blame Mr. Darcy for leaving. To align himself with her family, with all its eccentricities and flaws, was no small sacrifice, and add to that her own history with an earl who did not wish to acknowledge her and who possibly yet held her a grudge—it would be too much for a man of Mr. Darcy’s stature to overlook. She had dared to hope he might be different, but she had left the choice to him, and she had her answer.
She pressed her palm flat against the glass, its chill seeping into her skin, and closed her eyes briefly. There would be onemore meeting, of course, at Jane’s wedding. A brief, polite farewell, after which he would likely retreat to his world, and she to hers. He would distance himself from the Bingleys after their marriage, and thus, from her.
A lump rose in her throat, but she swallowed it down resolutely. She would smile at the wedding and wish him well.
The small stone church stood stoic against the wind, its white, weathered façade a testament to years of stalwart service. Darcy and Fitzwilliam were shown into the vicar’s study, a modest room lined with three shelves of well-thumbed books and lit by a fire crackling merrily in the hearth. The pastor, a sprightly man with a tuft of white hair on either side of his head, a thoughtful gaze, and a deeply lined countenance, greeted them warmly.
“Mr. Darcy, Colonel Fitzwilliam,” he said, his voice rich with the slow cadence of someone used to offering sermons. “I am Reverend Compton. It is a rare pleasure to host visitors from outside our little parish. How may I assist you?”
Darcy glanced at Fitzwilliam before beginning. “Reverend, I wonder if you might help us with a matter of some historical family interest. I understand that a man named James Bennet lived here for a short time around 1758 and was connected to the church.”
The vicar tipped his head to one side. “Ah, I recall your letter. Darcy, was it?”
“Yes.”
“I am rather old-fashioned. Eccentric, some say. I like to look a man in the eye when I speak to him, and I neither see nor write so well as I once did. I hope you do not mind that I asked you to visit me.”
“Not at all,” Darcy replied, though he had minded very much when he was too cold to feel his feet and had stumbled out of his carriage at the last post-inn.
