Page 17 of The Vanished Bennet Sister

Elizabeth returned to her book. On the page before her, an essayist of some authority was making a point about the nature of first impressions that she did not, at present, wish to read.

She turned the page.

Elizabeth set her volume of essays down by perhaps two inches, and watched, her heart full of pleasure.

Across the room, Jane said something that made Mr Bingley sit forward with a look of concentration. The afternoon February light, clear and low, lay across the carpet between them like a stripe of quiet approval.

Chapter Eight

Elizabeth

According to her mother, the relationship between Mrs Bennet and Mrs Bingley had begun with a fortunate meeting and an immediate declaration of mutual regard.

Mrs Lavinia Bingley had visited a second time, and by the end of that visit, she and Mrs Bennet had established that they shared opinions on the superiority of silk over muslin for evening wear, the inconvenience of London dressmakers who could not keep to an agreed date, and the general difficulty of seeing one's children advantageously settled in a world that did not always cooperate with maternal strategy.

The last subject had occupied the greater part of an hour, and when Mrs Bingley's carriage departed, Mrs Bennet had come to find Elizabeth in the library with a pleased expression. The look on her face communicated that she had discovered an unexpected friend and intended to hold onto her.

"She is an incredibly sensible woman," Mrs Bennet had announced. "Very refined, the sort of person one is glad to know in London."

Elizabeth had agreed that Mrs Bingley was refined and returned to her book.

Since then, the acquaintance had deepened with a speed that Elizabeth could not help noticing. The two attended a concert together at Lady Ashworth's. They took tea on alternate days, sometimes at the Bingley townhouse in Brook Street, sometimes at Portman Square. They exchanged opinions on the opera and on the relative merits of various milliners whose names circulated through the season's social intelligence.

Mrs Bennet declared, after yet another exchange of visits, that she was so fortunate in a new friendship, and that Lavinia was precisely the sort of woman she would have wished to know years ago.

Mrs Bingley was impeccably dressed. This was the first thing anyone would say of her, and it was both true and strategic. Elizabeth suspected that her kind of dressing was not about fashion but about authority, every detail considered, nothing accidental. It produced the impression of a woman who had never needed to think about how she appeared.

She was, on every surface and in every expressed sentiment, unobjectionable. She was amiable to everyone in the house, including Lydia, which was a feat that merited acknowledgement.

She was gracious without warmth, interested without investment, and possessed of deep social intelligence.

Something about her troubled Elizabeth. She had been trying to name it for over a week. Ultimately, she realised what it was. Mrs Bingley was always as cordial as the situation required, and never accidentally more so.

Even with Jane. She was amiable towards Jane. She complimented Jane's appearance when she was present; but committed to nothing that could be construed as having endorsed the match between her and Mr Bingley. There was no coldness, but there was a withholding of feeling that Elizabeth registered each time and could not dismiss. It was an accomplished performance of neutrality from a woman who had clearly already formed a view.

The probing was another thing.

When Mrs Bingley arrived one afternoon with a pelisse Elizabeth had not seen before, Mrs Bennet received her in the drawing room with delight. The tea things had been laid with care—better china, small cakes that their cook produced only when the occasion was considered to warrant it—and Mrs Bennet had worn her best cap, which was silver with purple trims.

Mary was in the library. Lydia and Kitty were out.

Jane was in the garden, tending to the flower ridges she had planted. Elizabeth remained present because she did not wish to retire to her room or any other place. Moreover, she was curious as to the inner details of the blossoming relationships between her mother and Mrs Bingley.

She took the armchair nearest the window, which gave her a clear view of both women and an excuse not to be drawn into extended conversation, and accepted her tea.

"You must tell me about the garden at Longbourn," Mrs Bingley was saying, "Does Mr Bennet keep one seriously? I find that a family's garden tells one a great deal about its character."

"He does not, I am afraid. Mr Bennet's interest runs entirely to his books. The garden is quite given over to the girls when they choose to attend to it."

"How charming. And the glasshouse?"

"We have none, I regret to say. The expense, you know…well, Mr Bennet was always more interested in his library."

Mrs Bingley nodded and moved on immediately to the subject of the latest fashions in morning dress, where she and Mrs Bennet found common ground with such ease that Elizabeth understood why they had been drawn to each other.

Some minutes later, when the conversation had navigated from morning dresses to the opera, Mrs Bingley turned her head briefly toward the window and said as if pursuing an idle thought: "Your husband, Mrs Bennet, I understand he preferred not to come to London for the season. Does he find the city fatiguing to his health?"

"Oh, his health is perfectly adequate," Mrs Bennet said, with a slight edge that suggested she had not entirely forgiven this preference. "He simply finds London inconvenient. He is a very fixed creature, my husband. Happiest at Longbourn with his books, and very determined to remain there."