Page 101 of Dear Friend

And she had loved him for it.

That was the thought which still had the power to bring tears to her eyes. Darcy had not merely invaded her privacy. He had left her questioning some of the happiest weeks she could remember, and Elizabeth was not yet certain whether she was angrier with him for deceiving her or with herself for continuing to love him after discovering it.

Elizabeth’s eyes darted towards the door as Jane entered carrying her needlework and settled into the chair opposite her. Mary was napping upstairs, while Kitty and Lydia had gone to their aunt Phillips’s in the hope of learning more about the truth of Mr. Wickham’s arrest. Elizabeth returned her attention to her book, though she was conscious of Jane watching her over the top of it. For several minutes Jane said nothing, and Elizabeth was grateful for the silence until she noticed that her sister had not taken a single stitch.

“You are staring at me,” she lowered the book and focused on Jane out of frustration.

Jane's expression remained innocent. “Am I?”

“Yes.”

“I was wondering whether you intended to turn another page before reading that one.”

Elizabeth looked down at the book. “It is not particularly engaging.”

“You said yesterday that you liked it.”

“I have altered my opinion.”

Jane lowered her needlework into her lap. “Lizzy.”

Something in her tone made Elizabeth close the book. “What?”

Jane had simply asked what was wrong when they returned from the ball, and Elizabeth had given her the same answer she had given her father. She was fine. Her mother and most of her sisters had accepted the explanation and soon moved on, but Elizabeth suspected that Jane, like her father, had never quite believed her.

“I have tried not to ask.”

“Ask what?”

Jane gave her a look which made pretending ignorance impossible. “What happened at Netherfield?”

“Nothing happened. I was unwell.”

“So you have said.”

“And yet you continue asking.”

“Because I do not believe you.” Jane leaned forward slightly while Elizabeth stared at her, surprised by so uncharacteristically direct a declaration. “Two evenings ago you arrived at Netherfield happier than I had seen you in weeks. Before the first dance had even begun, you found Papa and asked to return home.”

“I had a headache.”

“Papa said your eyes were red.”

Elizabeth looked away, and Jane's voice softened. “I asked him yesterday whether you had seemed ill before we arrived. He said you had plainly been crying, but that he respected you too much to demand an explanation you did not wish to give. You have scarcely spoken since Saturday unless someone speaks to you first, and whenever I ask whether something troubles you, you insist that everything is well.”

“It will be.”

“That is not the same thing.”

Elizabeth rose and crossed towards the window. Outside, the November morning was grey and still, the lawn damp from rain during the night. She folded her arms and fixed her attention upon it, wishing Jane had chosen almost any other morning to become so determined.

“Mr. Bingley called this morning while you were out walking.” Jane said.

Elizabeth's shoulders stiffened. She kept her attention upon the window. “Did he?”

“Yes.”

“I hope you had an agreeable visit.”