“I have been selfish,” she said, the admission feeling like pulledteeth. “I had no idea?—”
“Nor should you have,” Mary interrupted firmly. “My feelings are my own to manage. I mention them now only to explain why I understand the complexity of your situation more fully than you might expect.”
Elizabeth studied her sister’s face, noting the quiet dignity with which she acknowledged her unrequited attachment. “You could have stayed in Meryton,” she observed. “Or gone to London with the Gardiners. You chose to follow me to this remote sheep farm instead. Why?”
Mary’s smile held a trace of genuine amusement. “For the intellectual stimulation and refined society, of course.”
The unexpected humor startled a laugh from Elizabeth. “Clearly. The sheep are renowned conversationalists, and Mrs. Honywood’s discussions of preserving techniques rival any London salon.”
“I came because you needed me,” Mary said. “Because family means standing together in difficulty as well as prosperity. And perhaps… because I wished to be somewhere my presence might be valued rather than merely tolerated.”
The candid admission pierced Elizabeth’s heart with unexpected force. How often had Mary been overlooked at Longbourn? The plain, pedantic middle daughter, neither beautiful like Jane nor vivacious like Lydia, neither the eldest nor the youngest—just Mary, with her moralizing and her mediocre piano playing, the sister they all acknowledged but rarely truly saw.
“I do value you,” Elizabeth said softly. “More than I have properly expressed. Your steadiness, your loyalty, your willingness to speak truth even when I might prefer flattery—these are rare qualities, Mary, and I have not appreciated them as I should.”
Mary’s expression softened with evident surprise at this acknowledgment. “Thank you, Lizzy. That means a great deal to me.”
They stood in companionable silence for a moment, the bond between them strengthened by this unexpected exchange of vulnerabilities.
“We should return to the house,” Mary said eventually. “Mrs. Honywood will be wondering what became of her apples, and William will be looking for you.”
“In a moment,” Elizabeth replied, her hand moving to the chain around her neck. “There is something I must do first.”
With deliberate movements, she unfastened the chain and slid the signet ring free. The heavy gold felt both familiar and strange against her palm—a physical connection to Darcy that she had kept hidden since his arrival at Bellfield, just as she had hidden the truth of their marriage.
“What are you doing?” Mary asked, watching with curious eyes.
Elizabeth did not immediately respond. Instead, she slipped the ring onto her thumb—the only finger large enough to hold it securely—and studied the effect. The Darcy crest caught the dim sunlight, the engraved falcon gleaming with subtle brilliance against the polished gold.
“Acknowledging a truth I have tried to avoid,” she said. “That I have been unfair in my expectations and judgments, while demanding perfect understanding from a man whose memory was stolen through violence rather than choice.”
Mary’s expression held approval but no triumph. “It is a significant step,” she observed quietly.
“A small one,” Elizabeth corrected, flexing her hand experimentally. The weight of the ring felt right somehow, a tangible reminder of connections that transcended memory and misunderstanding. “The first of many, I suspect, if there is to be any hope of genuine reconciliation.”
“Do you wish for reconciliation, then?” Mary asked carefully. “Beyond the legal acknowledgment of your marriage?”
Elizabeth considered the question with honesty she had not permitted herself since Darcy’s arrival at Bellfield. Did she want more than the formal recognition of their vows? Did she still harbor feelings for the man who had offered her protection during a storm,who had seen her as worthy of respect when all others had turned away?
“I wish,” she said slowly, “for the opportunity to know this Darcy as he is now, rather than measuring him constantly against the man I remember. And perhaps… for him to know me as I am, rather than as the fallen woman he imagined or the perfect wife he has forgotten.”
A single tear escaped, tracing a path down her cheek before she could brush it away. “I wish I had allowed him to place this ring back on my finger before he departed,” she whispered, more to herself than to her sister. “Instead of maintaining my pride and distance until the last possible moment.”
Mary reached out to squeeze her hand gently, the gesture conveying more understanding than words could have done. “He will return, Lizzy. And when he does, perhaps you will both be ready to begin again—not as you were at the Red Lion, but as you are now, with all the wisdom your separate journeys have brought you.”
“Perhaps,” Elizabeth agreed, though uncertainty still clouded her heart. “If he can forgive my pride as readily as I must forgive his prejudice.”
“That,” Mary said with unexpected confidence, “is the one outcome I would wager upon without hesitation. A man does not depart on a dangerous mission to secure his son’s inheritance if his heart remains untouched by the mother.”
“Mary, you are truly an angel.” Elizabeth embraced her sister, the one she had rarely regarded, the one who had stood solidly at her side and endured her trials. “You deserve happiness, too. When they return, because surely they will, you shall open your heart to the possibility that Graham already recognizes your worth and yes, your beauty. I have seen the interest he takes in explaining all the intricacies of tending the sheep and the trust he placed in you by handing you his duties.”
“His duties, perhaps… but not his…” Mary choked on her words. “I amthe plainest of all the Bennet sisters. I have neither your wit, Jane’s beauty, Lydia’s liveliness, nor Kitty’s softness.”
“You underestimate your attractions.” Elizabeth held onto Mary’s shoulders. “You are intelligent, loyal, possessed of genuine faith and moral courage. Any gentleman of sense would consider himself fortunate to earn your regard.”
“You are kind to say so, though I suspect such qualities hold less appeal for most gentlemen than conventional beauty or accomplished flirtation.”
“For some gentlemen, perhaps. But Graham Pullen has never struck me as a man who values surface attractions above substance.” Elizabeth smiled, remembering the steward’s patient guidance of William, his respectful attention to Mary’s questions about farm management, and the obvious pleasure he took in their thoughtful conversation. “I believe you might be surprised by the direction of his affections. He does seem especially interested in the music room lately, not an endeavor I’ve observed earlier. And didn’t he dance at least three sets with you at the harvest festival?”
