Chapter Text
Elizabeth had been acting strangely ever since she got back from Rosings Park. She thought she was hiding it from Jane, but Jane knew her sister better than anyone else in the world, and she knew Elizabeth was hiding something from her.
She watched Elizabeth carefully. Elizabeth watched Jane when she thought Jane wouldn't notice. She looked worried - Elizabeth always bit her lip when she worried - and Jane had seen her reading and re-reading a letter which she kept carefully folded and hidden away.
One day they were sewing together in the parlour. "Does something trouble you, Elizabeth?" Jane inquired tranquilly.
Elizabeth started and bent back to the sampler that she was embroidering. She plied her needle too vigourously and exclaimed as she poked herself.
"Drat it, now this is spoiled," she said, gesturing to the spots of blood on the otherwise pristine white fabric.
"Ask Martha to soak it in cold water for you; the stains should come right out," suggested Jane.
Elizabeth nodded and tossed the embroidery fretfully aside.
"Do you regret refusing Mr. Darcy's proposal?" Jane asked.
"Regret!" exclaimed Elizabeth. "No - no, of course not. Of course I don't regret refusing Mr. Darcy's proposal of marriage. The man was infuriating! If I regret anything, it was that I did not throw something at his head, the arrogant man!"
Jane nodded and continued working on her flowers. She sorted through her coloured silks, looking for the exact right shade of pink. Ah yes... this one. Perfect. She threaded the needle and set the first stitch.
Elizabeth fidgeted with her own sewing box. "Though I do, I suppose, regret defending Mr. Wickham so warmly. Yes, in light of the facts, I do regret that."
"Perhaps you did speak rather warmly in defense of a man who, really, we barely know," Jane agreed quietly.
Elizabeth looked sharply at her. Jane rarely voiced criticisms of her sister. She fidgeted and drew out that letter from her reticule.
"Nothing else troubles you?" probed Jane. "Nothing else that Mr. Darcy said?"
"No, of course not, what on earth else could Mr. Darcy have said to trouble me?" Elizabeth babbled. "Oh - it is beginning to rain and my linen is still on the line!" She rushed out of the room. In her haste, the pages of her letter fluttered to the floor.
Jane bit her lip, then used her foot to discretely push the letter under the sofa. She placed her feet firmly in front of it.
After some minutes, Elizabeth returned. "There!" she said, flopping down on the sofa. "It is all in, and just in time, for the rain is coming down heavily indeed."
Jane sat and sewed, and after a while, Elizabeth began muttering and turning over the sofa cushions.
"Have you misplaced something, Lizzy?" asked Jane. "I think your sewing box is just there - it fell when you left the room earlier."
Elizabeth started guiltily. "Oh! Yes. Thank you, Jane. I will just go and put it away." Elizabeth went out of the room, looking behind her furtively. Jane smiled serenely to herself. Once Elizabeth was safely out of the room, she retrieved the letter, tucked it into her sewing box under her embroidery, closed the box, and withdrew.
Elizabeth was agitated the rest of the day, but she didn't ask Jane if she knew where the letter was, so Jane was not required to prevaricate. That night, she lay in the bed she shared with her sister, waiting for the telltales snorts and twitches that would tell her Elizabeth was finally asleep.
Finally, Elizabeth slept. Jane slowly eased out of bed and crept to the stool in front of their dresser, taking care to avoid the floorboards that creaked. By feel, she lit a candle. She glanced over at the bed. Elizabeth snorted gently and rolled over in her sleep. Good. Jane slipped the letter out of her reticule and furtively began to read it.
She skimmed through the first pages... Wickham, blah blah blah, Georgiana, Colonel Fitzwilliam - there. Bingley. She glanced at the bed quickly to make sure Elizabeth was still asleep, and then bent to read the cramped writing carefully.
"I do not wish to deny that I separated Bingley from your sister..."
Jane felt her heart begin to pound. He had loved her.
Elizabeth mumbled in her sleep. Jane hastily shoved the letter into the drawer, taking care to leave one corner sticking out, blew out the candle, and slid back into the bed.
"Jane?" slurred Elizabeth.
"Hush, Lizzy," whispered Jane. "Just a dream."
"Mmmff."
Jane lay stiffly in the bed, staring into the dark, her mind whirling with everything she had just learned.
Bingley loved her. Darcy separated them. Elizabeth hid it from her.
Of all these, the words "He loves me!" resounded over and over again in her heart. She hadn't been mistaken. He really had loved her.
When Jane had met Bingley, she had immediately felt so relaxed and comfortable in his presence. Jane was beautiful. She knew this, because her mother kept repeating it over and over again, to her, to her sisters, to anyone who would listen, and many who wouldn't.
Her mother had taken her aside when she was eleven. Jane remembered the conversation with a queer, twisting pain in her chest.
"Now, Jane," her mother had said, nervously fidgeting. "Come here, child." She twitched Jane's dress this way and that, pulling the fabric against her body. "Yes. Hmm. Well, now. You are becoming a woman, Jane, and that means that you will attract some very undesirable attentions from men. Yes, hmm. You are very beautiful, you know, and men can be very, yes, well. It behooves you to keep a distance, Jane. Yes. Be a good girl, and keep a proper distance from men, and you will do very well."
Jane hadn't understood, not then. It wasn't until she began to notice men's gazes on her body that she remembered her mother's admonitions to keep a distance. Men on the street glanced covertly at her, and men of her acquaintance - she sensed them pushing at her, wanting something from her, something she didn't want to give. She developed a strong reserve, a coolness to her manner, always pleasant, but unattainable. Watching her sisters, she realized that their mother had not had the same talk with them. There was nothing inhibited about Lizzie, or Kitty, or Lydia.
Bingley was the only man she had ever met who had not pushed at her in that way. He looked at her face, not at her chest. He conversed with her and seemed interested in her thoughts and ideas. He took an interest in her embroidery, the books she read, the walks she took. He never made her feel stupid, the way her father did, or that her interest in feminine things was something to be looked down on. He was kind. She could be herself around him. She could be comfortable. She felt safe.
And Darcy had taken that away from her. A cold rage began to form in Jane's heart. Darcy had persuaded Bingley that she didn't love him. Her reserve, which had protected her for so long, had cost her the one man she wanted. And Lizzie had hidden it from her.
"Jane?" Lizzie asked sleepily. Jane realized she was clenching her fists in the covers, and forced herself to relax.
"Go back to sleep, Lizzie," she said harshly. She rolled onto her side and stared into the dark, waiting for morning.
She must have fallen asleep eventually, for she woke feeling thick, heavy and groggy. Elizabeth was muttering to herself. "There it is! Jane, do you know how my letter got in this drawer? I could have sworn..."
Jane, thick with sleep, looked at Lizzie blankly. By the time her sluggish thoughts started moving again, Lizzie's suspicions had been assuaged.
All throughout that day, a cold determination grew within Jane. She would get Bingley back.