“You believe I have treated Graham unfairly,” she said, framing it as a statement rather than a question.
“I believe,” Mary replied carefully, “that you have treated him inconsistently. He was permitted closeness when it served William’s needs for a male presence, then relegated to his proper station when Mr. Darcy arrived—without acknowledgment of what that demotion might cost him.”
“I never encouraged his… personal feelings,” she said, though the defense sounded empty.
“Perhaps not explicitly,” Mary agreed. “Yet you must have recognized them.”
Elizabeth sighed, gazing out across the kitchen garden where frost had transformed the remaining herbs into crystallinesculptures. “I did. Though I made it clear from the beginning that my heart was not free to offer.”
“Because it remains with Mr. Darcy,” Mary stated. “Despite everything.”
“Despite everything,” Elizabeth echoed, her fingers moving to touch the chain around her neck where Darcy’s signet ring rested beneath her dress. “Though at present, that attachment brings little joy to either of us.”
“Perhaps it is time to face your own culpability in your affairs.” Mary avoided her gaze, pretending inordinate interest in a dried rose. “That you are not only the affronted one, that you are quick to point out offense from others but do not comprehend the contribution of your own actions.”
Elizabeth opened her mouth to retort, then closed it again as Mary’s words sank in. She had indeed provided Darcy with precisely the facts that would lead him to that erroneous conclusion, while withholding the crucial information that would have corrected it. She had allowed him to develop affections and encouraged his attentions to William without giving him the true context. Had she, on some level, been testing him? Expecting him to overcome his prejudices through sheer force of feeling?
“I was disappointed that he did not immediately recognize me that first day he appeared,” she admitted. “I never considered it from his perspective.” Elizabeth studied her sister with new eyes, noting the quiet confidence that had replaced her former pedantry. “The way you did, observing his actions with compassion and a strange kinship.”
Elizabeth realized she’d never considered Mary’s situation. She had been so focused on her own trials—the scandal of her hasty marriage, Darcy’s long absence, the difficulties of raising William alone—that she had scarcely considered Mary’s journey. To leave the security of Longbourn, however imperfect, for the isolation of Bellfield Grange had required courage and loyalty few would have expected from the middle Bennet sister.
“When did you become so adept at reading hearts, Mary?” she asked finally. “I do not recall such discernment being among your accomplishments at Longbourn.”
“Perhaps it was always there,” Mary replied, coming to stand beside her at the wall. “Hidden beneath quotations and moralizing because I feared my observations would not be valued.”
Elizabeth glanced at her sister, noting the quiet dignity that had replaced her former affectation. “I have underestimated you, it seems.”
“As you have underestimated yourself,” Mary countered. “Your capacity for forgiveness is greater than your pride, Lizzy, if you would only allow it expression.”
“Is that what you believe I should do?” Elizabeth asked. “Forgive Darcy his mistaken assumptions and insulting proposal?”
“I believe,” Mary said carefully, “that forgiveness is less about what others deserve and more about what we need to heal. In this case, both you and Mr. Darcy require grace rather than judgment.”
Elizabeth considered this, her fingers absently tracing patterns in the frost on the wall. The notion of grace—of unmerited favor freely given—was one that challenged her natural inclination toward justice and fairness. Yet there was wisdom in Mary’s words.
A thought occurred to Elizabeth then, one that brought a slight frown to her brow, yet another instance of her carelessness in trampling over the feelings of others. “What about your happiness, Mary? You speak with great insight about my situation, yet say little of your own feelings.”
Mary’s gaze drifted toward the sheep pens visible in the distance, where several of the farmhands were moving the pregnant ewes to more sheltered pastures. “My situation is quite different from yours.”
“In what respect?”
“I have no husband misplaced or otherwise,” Mary replied with a small smile. “No child depending upon me for security and guidance. My heart remains unencumbered by such complications.”
“Unencumbered,” Elizabeth repeated, following Mary’s gazetoward the distant figures moving among the sheep. “Yet not, I think, untouched.”
Mary’s cheeks definitely colored then, the blush visible even in the fading light. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“I believe you do,” Elizabeth countered gently. “Your interest in the sheep ledgers, your willingness to take on Graham’s duties in his absence, your precise knowledge of his systems and methods… these suggest more than casual observation.”
Mary’s composure faltered, her practiced serenity giving way to a vulnerability Elizabeth had rarely witnessed in her practical sister. “It is of no consequence,” she said. “Mr. Pullen’s affections lie elsewhere, as we both know.”
The quiet statement struck Elizabeth with fresh guilt as she recognized another dimension of her thoughtless cruelty. She had allowed Graham’s devotion, had accepted his care and attention to William, had permitted him to hope for a future that her marriage to Darcy made impossible. And Mary, observant Mary, had watched this unfold while developing her own feelings for the man who could never be hers while he remained devoted to her unattainable sister.
“Oh, Mary,” Elizabeth whispered, reaching for her sister’s hand. “I am so sorry. I never realized… I never considered…”
“That your encouragement of his regard might affect others?” Mary’s tone remained gentle, but Elizabeth detected a note of something sharper beneath the surface. “No, I do not believe you did consider it. You have always been so focused on your own circumstances, your own feelings, that the effects of your actions on others sometimes escape your notice.”
She had indeed been so absorbed in her own trials that she had failed to see the collateral damage her choices had inflicted on others—Graham’s hopeless devotion, Mary’s unrequited love, even William’s confusion at the changing dynamics he was too young to understand.
