The novel Pride and Prejudice.

The air in Longbourn was thick with unspoken concern. Days had passed since the Bennet family had last heard any news from Netherfield, and Jane's radiant optimism, usually as constant as the rising sun, seemed dimmed by the cloud of uncertainty that had settled over her. Elizabeth watched her sister with a mixture of sympathy and quiet frustration. Jane would never admit her unease outright, but her actions betrayed her. She lingered by the window far longer than usual, her embroidery untouched in her lap, her gaze fixed on the road as though willing a familiar carriage to appear.

Mrs. Bennet, however, showed no such restraint. "It is most peculiar!" she exclaimed over breakfast, waving her teacup for emphasis. "Mr. Bingley seemed utterly devoted to you, Jane. Why, he could scarcely take his eyes off you at the last ball. And now? Silence! Mark my words, it is that horrid Mr. Darcy's doing."

Elizabeth looked up sharply. "What makes you so certain, Mama?"

"Why else would Mr. Bingley abandon Netherfield so suddenly?" Mrs. Bennet replied. "That Mr. Darcy is as cold as stone, and he thinks no one beneath his notice should be happy. I dare say he has poisoned poor Mr. Bingley's mind against us."

"Perhaps Mr. Bingley simply had pressing business in London," Elizabeth suggested, though her tone lacked conviction. She had no great love for Darcy, but even she found it hard to imagine him capable of such calculated cruelty. And yet, the suddenness of Bingley's departure was troubling.

Jane, seated quietly at the far end of the table, finally spoke. "We must not leap to conclusions. Mr. Bingley has always been kind and considerate. If he has gone to London, I am certain he has good reason."

Her voice was steady, but Elizabeth could hear the faint tremor beneath it. Jane was trying to convince herself as much as anyone else. Elizabeth's heart ached for her sister, who had so quickly and deeply invested her feelings in a man who, while undeniably charming, might not prove as steadfast as she deserved.

After breakfast, Jane excused herself, claiming a headache. Elizabeth followed her upstairs, finding her sitting at the edge of her bed, hands clasped tightly in her lap.

"Jane," Elizabeth said gently, sitting beside her. "You don't have to bear this alone."

Jane turned to her, her eyes shining with unshed tears. "I feel so foolish, Lizzy. I allowed myself to hope... to believe that he cared for me as I care for him."

"You are not foolish," Elizabeth said firmly. "If Mr. Bingley is as good a man as you think, then he will return. And if he does not... well, it is his loss."

Jane smiled faintly. "You always know what to say."

"I merely speak the truth. Any man who cannot see your worth does not deserve you."

Despite Elizabeth's comforting words, the days stretched into weeks, and Bingley remained in London. Letters from Caroline Bingley arrived sporadically, but they offered little comfort. She wrote of the bustling social season, of Darcy's sister Georgiana, and of Bingley's many engagements, but there was not a single mention of Netherfield—or Jane.

Elizabeth began to suspect that Caroline was not merely indifferent to her brother's affection for Jane, but actively working against it. She shared her suspicions with Jane one evening as they sat together in the parlor.

"Have you noticed how carefully Miss Bingley avoids any mention of you in her letters?" Elizabeth asked.

Jane hesitated. "I had noticed, but I did not want to assume ill intent."

"Sometimes it is necessary to assume," Elizabeth said wryly. "Miss Bingley is not subtle in her ambitions. She clearly wishes for her brother to marry Miss Darcy."

Jane frowned. "But Mr. Bingley is not the sort of man to be easily influenced, especially in matters of the heart."

"No, he is not," Elizabeth agreed. "But Miss Bingley is clever, and Mr. Darcy... well, you know my opinion of him."

Jane sighed. "I wish I could understand why they would object to me. I have never given them cause to dislike me."

Elizabeth took her sister's hand. "It is not you they object to, but our circumstances. To them, connections and fortune matter more than character and kindness. But none of that changes your worth, Jane. You are as lovely and good as ever, and no amount of scheming can take that away."

Despite Elizabeth's reassurances, Jane's spirits remained low. She tried to busy herself with her usual activities, but her heart was not in it. Her light footsteps grew slower, her laugh less frequent. Elizabeth began to resent Bingley—not for leaving, but for leaving without a word. Surely, if he cared for Jane as deeply as he seemed to, he would not allow so much time to pass without sending some assurance.

As the weeks turned into a month, Mrs. Bennet's indignation grew louder. "I shall never forgive Mr. Bingley if he does not return," she declared one afternoon. "To raise our hopes so high, only to dash them! And poor Jane, so patient, so sweet. It is a travesty!"

"Mr. Bingley has made no promises," Elizabeth reminded her. "Though I cannot deny he has acted poorly."

Mrs. Bennet huffed. "Well, if he is so weak as to be led by the likes of Mr. Darcy and that scheming sister of his, then he is not worthy of Jane!"

Elizabeth silently agreed, but she said nothing. She could see how much the situation weighed on Jane, and she did not wish to add to her burden by voicing her own frustrations.

One evening, as the family sat in the drawing room, a letter arrived from London. It was addressed to Jane, and Elizabeth watched her sister's face closely as she read it. At first, there was a flicker of hope, but it was quickly extinguished. Jane folded the letter and placed it in her lap, her hands trembling slightly.

"What is it, my dear?" Mrs. Bennet asked anxiously.

"It is from Miss Bingley," Jane said quietly. "She writes to inform me that Mr. Bingley has decided to remain in London for the winter. She hopes I will not take offense, but she implies that he has no intention of returning to Netherfield."

Mrs. Bennet gasped. "No intention of returning? But why?"

"She does not say," Jane replied, her voice barely above a whisper.

Elizabeth's eyes narrowed. "She doesn't need to. This is exactly what I feared. Miss Bingley has been working to separate you from her brother, and now it seems she has succeeded."

Jane shook her head. "No, Lizzy. I cannot believe that Mr. Bingley would allow himself to be so easily swayed. If he truly cared for me, he would not—" Her voice broke, and she covered her face with her hands.

Elizabeth wrapped an arm around her sister's shoulders. "You do not deserve this, Jane. None of it."

Jane leaned into her sister's embrace, but she said nothing more. Elizabeth's heart burned with anger—not only at Miss Bingley and Mr. Darcy, but at Mr. Bingley himself. He had seemed so earnest, so devoted. How could he let others dictate his actions? How could he leave Jane to suffer, without so much as an explanation?

As Jane quietly wept, Elizabeth vowed to herself that she would uncover the truth. Whether Mr. Bingley had abandoned Jane of his own accord or been manipulated into it, he owed her more than silence. Until then, she would do everything in her power to lift her sister's spirits, even if it meant confronting the people who had caused her pain.

But as the fire crackled softly in the hearth and the shadows lengthened in the room, Elizabeth felt the weight of her sister's disappointment settle heavily on her heart. It was a wound that words alone could not heal, and she could only hope that time would bring clarity—and justice.