“Perhaps in person, but will he feel welcome?”
“Of course, William will welcome him.” Elizabeth reached on tiptoes for the last delectable apple and tucked it into her already heavily laden basket.
“But not by you, his beloved wife.”
“I’m hardly beloved when he…” Elizabeth fastidiously brushed tiny twigs and leaves from her woolen garments.
Mary waited with the patient silence she had perfected during years of being the least heard among five sisters. When Elizabeth remained quiet, she suggested, “It must be difficult to witness William’s confusion without being able to provide explanations he could understand.”
“William is too young to comprehend the complexities of adult relationships,” Elizabeth said, glad to be talking about her son instead of his infuriating father. “He will forget, in time.”
“As Mr. Darcy forgot?” Mary asked with deceptive mildness.
Mary was like a hound worrying a badger hole. “That is entirely different. Darcy’s loss of memory was caused by injury, not time or circumstance.”
“Indeed. And how frustrating it must have been for him to sense connections he could not understand, to feel drawn to people whose significance remained hidden from him.” Mary resumed her record-keeping with infuriating calmness. “Rather like William’s current situation, though in reverse.”
Elizabeth cheeks burned as her sister’s parallel struck home. “William’s situation is temporary. Once his father returns—” She stopped abruptly, recognizing the trap she had walked into.
“Once his father returns,” Mary repeated thoughtfully. “Yet you have given Mr. Darcy little reason to believe his return would be welcomed.”
“I have given him every reason to understand the legal necessity of resolving William’s legitimacy,” Elizabeth replied with more sharpness than she intended. “That should provide sufficient motivation for hisefforts.”
“Legal necessity,” Mary mused, her pen moving steadily across the page. “How very… practical. I am certain Mr. Darcy found such motivation deeply inspiring.”
Elizabeth set down her basket with more force than necessary. “What precisely are you attempting to say? I suggest we return to the house first. My arms are not equal to supporting both these apples and the weight of moral instruction.”
“Your wit remains as sharp as ever. Though I wonder if it serves you as well as you believe.”
The comment, delivered without heat or judgment, nevertheless caused Elizabeth to glance at her sister with surprise. Mary had changed during their time at Bellfield—her observations had grown more nuanced, her delivery less pedantic. She spoke less often but with greater impact, a development Elizabeth had noted without fully examining its implications.
“Are you suggesting I should cultivate dullness instead?” Elizabeth asked, attempting to maintain her lightness of tone despite a curious discomfort. “I fear I’m rather too old for such fundamental changes to my character.”
“Not dullness,” Mary corrected as she picked up one handle of the basket between them. “Perhaps… reflection before reaction.”
Elizabeth picked up the other basket handle, sharing the weight between them. “I reflect a great deal, Mary. Some might say too much.”
“On others’ words and actions, certainly,” Mary agreed. “But how often on your own?”
The directness of the question—so unlike the Mary of Longbourn with her borrowed platitudes and detached moralizing—caught Elizabeth entirely off guard.
She fumbled for a response. “I am not in the habit of extensive self-examination, but perhaps you may direct me with a well-placed homily or exercise in spiritual flagellation?”
Elizabeth detected a roll of Mary’s perceptive eyes as they passed through the orchard gate.
“A useful avenue would be to examine why you determined that Mr. Darcy suffer as much as possible for failures that were largely beyond his control.”
“Beyond his control?” Elizabeth’s steps faltered, and she turned to gape at her sister, the one she’d often found to be dull but now seemed determined to needle her by taking Darcy’s perspective. “He offered me charity, Mary. He proposed to make his own legitimate son his ward out of generous condescension. He treated me like a fallen woman grateful for his magnanimous intervention.”
“Yes,” Mary agreed, facing her directly. “He did all of those things. While suffering from significant memory loss and believing the exact appearances you allowed him to see.”
“He should have known better,” Elizabeth said fiercely. “He should have recognized his own son, should have trusted that I would not have… that I could not have…” She trailed off, unable to voice the accusations that had wounded her so deeply.
“Should have trusted what, Lizzy?” Mary’s voice remained gentle, but her gaze had grown uncomfortably penetrating. “That you would not have compromised yourself with a clergyman? Based on what information? You told him yourself that you had refused a gentleman’s offer and been cast out by your family as a result. What other conclusion was he to draw when confronted with a child named William born nine months after such an incident?”
Elizabeth opened her mouth to argue, then closed it as the full implications of Mary’s observation struck her. She had indeed told Darcy about Collins’s proposal and her family’s reaction to her refusal. She had spoken of her disgrace, her exile, her reduced circumstances. From his perspective, with no memory of their actual history, what other explanation would have made sense?
“I never told him Collins was William’s father,” she said weakly.
