Page 57 of When Elizabeth's Cat Chose Darcy
I retreated to my room and closed the door with the care of a woman handling a delicate piece of Meissen porcelain, and then I stood with my back against it, breathing, holdingBelinda, the ribbon, and the entire weight of the evening against my chest:You fool. You absurd fool—not in love, no, but nevertheless… still a fool.
I could not think about Darcy. Nor could I dwell on anything that involved green ribbons or brown eyes or the way a man’s voice dropped half a register when he said my Christian name for the first time.
Pressing my palms to my forehead, my gaze fell on my writing desk, where I had neglected my correspondence.
I broke the seal on Mama’s letter first because Mama’s remarks required action, and reading Mama’s handwriting required the concentration that left no room for midnight distractions.
My dearest Lizzy,
You have communicated nothing of substance about your primary purpose concerning Netherfield. Does Mr. Bingley seek Jane’s company of his own volition, or must he be placed in her path like a hedgerow before a horse? A man who requires steering is not worth catching. A man who steers himself toward what he wants is worth everything. I require observations, Lizzy. Detailed ones. Your father sends his regards, by which I mean he grunted from behind his newspaper when I informed him I was writing to you.
I set the reprimand down. I had been at my post for five dayswithout putting Bingley to any real test. I had quite forgotten about Jane’s predicament—stuck at Longbourn in between assemblies—and unable to call unless Miss Bingley invited her, which I could be assured she would not. The Bingley sisters were the type of fashionable women who, although bedecked in finery, were rather plain—their jewelry glittered more than their features, and women who prided themselves on fashion plates and cosmetic improvement did not appreciate the presence of a natural beauty like Jane.
I broke Jane’s seal next, handling her letter with the tenderness one reserves for correspondence from those too good to harbor suspicion and too kind to make demands.
Her writing was warm, as always. She reported that Mama was in excellent spirits over the dinner invitation.Papa had approved the menu with his customary detachment, whatever Mama wishes, provided there is port and I am not seated beside Mr. Collins’s ghost. Kitty and Lydia were lobbying to be included and had been told they might sit at the table if they did not mention officers. Mary had volunteered to perform after dinner and had been diplomatically redirected to turning pages for Miss Darcy, if requested.
And then, tucked between a description of the linen napkins Mama had ordered from Meryton and an account of the new sauce Cook was attempting for the rabbit pie, a sentence that I read twice:
Mr. Bingley’s sisters—have they spoken of plans to leave the neighborhood? I ask only because Mrs. Long mentioned that short leases often produce short attachments, and I wished to reassure Mama.
It was not an interest in Caroline’s traveling plans, but whether the man who smiled at her, praised her embroidery, and danced with her twice at the assembly was staying or leaving, and she was asking through the safe medium of Mrs. Long’s gossip because Jane Bennet could not bring herself to ask directly whether a man she was beginning to care for cared for her in return.
This is Jane’s affliction: she feels everything and reveals nothing, on the grounds that to reveal feeling is to impose it, andto impose it might inconvenience someone, and Jane would rather be quietly heartbroken than cause anyone a moment of inconvenience.
I folded both letters and set them beside the novel.
A soft, familiar scratch at the door broke my reverie. I opened it to find Cinnamon padding in. She leaped onto my bed without fanfare and stretched over my pillow, unleashing an enormous, pink-tongued, whisker-stretching yawn of such profound nonchalance that it communicated, in the universal language of cats, that nothing of consequence had occurred.
I gathered her against my chest and buried my face in her warm fur. She permitted my affections with the tolerant grace of a creature who understood that humans required reassurance and was willing to provide it, so long as it did not interfere with her sleep.
“Is he safe?” I whispered into her fur.
Her only response was a contented purr.
It was not an answer. But it was the only one I was going to get, and for tonight, it was sufficient.
