Chances Come, Ney Mitch [snow like ashes series TXT] 📗

a handsome woman, but there was coldness within her that invited no warmth and therefore, she had been her own worst enemy. We all, at times, create our own prisons, and without knowing it, she had created her own. Yet, was I so different? After all, I had once believed so faithfully in Wickham, and believed so faithlessly in Mr. Darcy. I had created my own version of hell at one time.

And, despite her ill intentions, Miss Bingley had once tried to warn me. In fact, despite it all, I had to admit that Miss Bingley had once tried to do me a service and had been correct about something.

Of course, her judgment had come from a place of meanness and prejudice to those who were poorer than she was, but she had tried to warn me about Wickham’s true character. I was the one who did not listen initially and had clung to prejudice.

As painful as this was to admit, perhaps I did owe her something.

Soon, her friend had left her side and Miss Bingley was left alone. Turning around to see who she could speak with, she saw me. Despite our mutual dislike of each other, we were like lemons to each other: we were sour to bite into, but we were still drawn to each other’s taste. Therefore, she took a few steps towards me and began the conversation.

“So, Miss Eliza,” she began, “you found your way into our world.”

“Yes, by mere happenstance, I have fallen on the doorstep of fortune,” I responded evenly. “Though, home shall always be home for me.”

“Yes, I always saw you so much enjoying the country that I never even thought the city would suit you.”

“It reminds me of when you said that I was a great reader and took no pleasure in anything else. As in this case, I deserve neither such praise nor such censure. I love the country, but my taste will never be so singular.”

“Beg your pardon.”

“Did you enjoy your dance with Sir Aleck?”

“I did indeed. He is a pleasant man.”

“Yes, he is.”

An awkwardness was about to fall between us, and for some reason, I was not in the mood for it. Also, I was willing to be generous. For, in that moment, I felt sorry for Miss Bingley…though she had done little to deserve it.

“Miss Bingley, I have to thank you,” I announced.

She raised one eyebrow.

“Thank me? For what?”

“For when you tried to warn me about Mr. Wickham. You were right. He did treat Mr. Darcy in an infamous manner, and he was deceitful in many ways.”

This confession disarmed her, and she looked around, insecure.

“You are welcome,” she responded, awkwardly. “I was merely trying to supply a service. I know how you found his manner agreeable.”

“My attentions toward him were in response to the coldness that I felt from another quarter. I was looking for friendship because I did not find it elsewhere. You may pretend that you do not know how that feels, but I suspect that you do.”

She was silent, and it was well. Such outward confrontation was not how our relationship worked. Often, she was the one indirectly insulting me, and I would always directly ignore her. For a second, I regretted offering the olive branch between us, because there was a balance to our animosity for each other. We were so used to holding each other in subtle contempt that I think that was all that we knew how to be. Yet, here I was, changing the dynamic of our relationship. Perchance neither she nor I would be thanking me for it.

“Miss Bingley, why do you despise me so much?” I asked her.

She did not answer.

“Do you even know why?” I furthered.

“Yes, I do,” she finally admitted, “but I do not want to confess it. Yet, I know that you are not stupid. I sense that you know why I do not favor you.”

“Yes, I do. In truth, you never needed to say it out loud.” At first, her discomfort towards me was because she felt that I was beneath her notice. Yet, as time passed along, and I would sometimes gain the attention of Mr. Darcy, she felt starved for the attention that he tore from her and gave me. I had something that she craved for, but never fully achieved: his notice. Whole and undivided.

“Miss Bingley,” I continued, “I understand the impulse to feel resentment when one feels as if attention is taken from them. I also understand how it feels to like where one may gain nothing in return. I also know how it feels to come close to something and then for it to be yanked away from one. And lastly, I know how easy it is to wish to torment another woman when you feel that she is getting in the way of what you seek.”

“Do you?” she asked me passionately.

“Yes, I do. And I know that nothing I say will ever ease the pain of what you feel. But I must try. Miss Bingley, never let your heartache drive you to attack the woman who is in the way of what you seek. It will never give you the satisfaction that you think. It will never increase the man’s love for you. If anything, it will make you look uglier. I learned that in the hard manner myself. Our jealousies and constant attempts to degrade another woman for getting the man we desire never results in us winning. It only ends in us looking like harpies. I don’t know if you and I will ever be comfortable around each other. It might not be our destiny. But at least I tried to give us this moment.”

I was about to move away from her, but she turned to me and whispered, for her words were not something that she wished for any to hear. And from what we gathered, no one was near us at the time.

“It is just,” she urged, “it is not fair. You did