Page 193 of What Change Entails

Miss Bingley’s fingers flexed in her lap before she smoothed them again.

“I deserve that, I suppose.”

Elizabeth had not expected humility. She distrusted it.

Miss Bingley turned her face toward the window. Beyond the glass, Lydia was attempting to make Horace sit while Georgiana held what appeared to be a biscuit. Horace preferred leaping. Lydia spoke with great authority. Georgiana laughed and then tried to hide it behind one gloved hand.

“You are fortunate, Miss Bennet.”

Elizabeth remained standing for a moment, then sat across from her. “In my sisters? Yes, though I do not always remember it when Lydia has possession of a biscuit and a plan.”

Miss Bingley did not smile.

“I did not mean your sisters.”

“No?”

“I meant in your freedom.”

Elizabeth’s brows drew together. “My freedom?”

“You have the astonishing habit of entering society as if it must accept you because you have decided to be yourself.”

There was a time when Elizabeth would have laughed at such a remark. She did not now. Miss Bingley’s voice held something raw beneath the polish, and Elizabeth, despite every reason for caution, could not quite dismiss it.

“I assure you, I have spent a considerable portion of my life being corrected for precisely that habit.”

“By family. By neighbors. Not by the world that matters.”

“The world that matters is usually the one nearest at hand.”

“How very pretty,” Miss Bingley said, with a bitterness that spoiled the compliment. “And how very country.”

Elizabeth rose halfway from her chair.

Miss Bingley lifted one hand. “Forgive me. That was unkind.”

It was the apology that stopped Elizabeth. Miss Bingley’s face had colored, and not with triumph.

Elizabeth sat again, more wary than before.

Miss Bingley drew in a breath through her nose, a small, controlled movement. “My grandfather was in trade.”

“I know.”

“Of course you do. Everyone knows. That is the point.” She looked out the window again, where Lydia had given up on commanding Horace and was now bribing him shamelessly. “My father increased the fortune. My brother may purchase an estate and marry well if he chooses. Louisa married respectably. We have carriages, gowns, jewels, masters, acquaintances. There is not a comfort we cannot afford.”

“That sounds enviable.”

“It is.” Miss Bingley said imperiously. “Until one discovers comfort is not acceptance.”

Elizabeth’s answer did not come.

“I have been in rooms where no one insulted me,” Miss Bingley continued. “No one needed to. A pause is enough. A glance between two women whose grandmothers dined together before my family had a crest to engrave upon a spoon. An invitation that arrives too late to be convenient. A compliment too carefully phrased. A gentleman who dances and never calls. A lady who praises your gown while making certain you know the modiste served her first.”

“That is cruel.”

“It is ordinary.”