Page 14 of He Insulted My Entire Family Before Proposing

Jane drew back, searching her face. "Lizzy?"

"Later."

The later came at night, when the house had worn itself into relative quiet and Lydia's laughter had retreated upstairs. The sisters sat in their room with one candle between them. Elizabeth had intended to be careful. She had prepared phrases. She had arranged the truth in soft cloth so it might wound Jane less.

But Jane looked at her and said, "It is about Mr. Bingley," and all the cloth fell away.

Elizabeth told her.

Not every word. Not Darcy's private references to Georgiana, which were not hers to distribute. But she told Jane that Darcy had interfered, that he had believed Jane indifferent, that he had concealed Jane's presence in London, that family objections had strengthened his hand.

Jane listened without interruption. Her face did what it always did in pain: became quieter.

"He thought I did not care?" she asked.

"He says so."

"And Mr. Bingley believed him."

The name, spoken softly, hurt more than reproach would have.

"I am so sorry," Elizabeth said.

Jane looked down at her hands. "I told myself there must be reasons."

"There were. They were bad."

That almost made Jane smile. "Lizzy."

"I am trying to be fair. It is unpleasant and I resent it."

Jane's smile faded. "Did Mr. Darcy apologize?"

Elizabeth thought of the letter, its precision, its pride, its painful honesty where Wickham was concerned, its careful self-defense where Jane was concerned. "He explained."

"That is not the same."

Elizabeth blinked.

Jane, who was accused by proud men of being too serene to possess a heart, sat in the candlelight and named the matter more plainly than any of them. Explanation was not apology. Pain did not become less real because it had been filed under mistake.

"No," Elizabeth said. "It is not."

The next days brought visitors, calls, and a great deal of ordinary life, which was rude enough to continue during moral upheaval. Mrs. Bennet had a cold. Lydia required money. Mr. Bennet hid in his library with the dedication of a monk and the conscience of a fugitive.

Elizabeth kept the list in her workbag, where it lived among thread, a thimble, two visiting cards, and a ribbon Lydia had borrowed, returned, and borrowed again by the simple method of placing it nowhere near its owner. Twice Elizabeth unfolded the paper to add some fresh report; twice she folded it away again when Mrs. Bennet entered with questions about lace. Once Lydia nearly seized it to wrap a broken hairpin, and Elizabeth rescued Mr. Darcy's offenses from becoming a parcel with more alarm than dignity warranted.

"What is that?" Lydia asked.

"A private paper."

"Is it romantic?"

"Not in the manner you mean."

Lydia lost interest at once, which proved that providence occasionally took Elizabeth's side.

Elizabeth began to notice how stories traveled.