So yes, Mr. Darcy, if you will write again, you are welcome to do so. There is more I wish to ask and more I would like to share, though I cannot yet say how or when the words will come. But know that you are not unwelcome in my thoughts. Quite the opposite.
Yours—
Elizabeth Bennet
Elizabeth reread the letter carefully, reconsidering more than once whether to add something on the reverse. Her small handwriting would have allowed it, yet again she persuaded herself that it was wiser—and more proper—to write less. Just enough, as decorum allowed, for a correspondence still in its early stages. She decided to seal the letter and looked with quiet satisfaction toward the cat, who slept on, undisturbed and untroubled.
“What do you care, Sophocles?” she murmured. “No worries press upon you, no hopes unsettle your peace, no rules keep you in check. You must be happy as only a cat can be.”
Indeed, Sophocles slept with great aplomb—one of the few pursuits at which he excelled beyond all question.
Nine
In her room, Jane sat near the window, the light falling gently across her lap. The letter from Aunt Gardiner lay on the nearby table. Elizabeth opened the door softly and glanced toward her sister, noting the subtle lift of her brows and the small smile playing at the corners of her mouth.
“All are well at Gracechurch Street,” Jane said, looking up. “Aunt writes that Peter has begun Latin lessons—though he complains of headaches—and Louisa sketches everything she sees, from the drawing-room curtains to the coal scuttle.”
“I never doubted Louisa would attempt a likeness of the cat if he sat still long enough,” Elizabeth replied with a fond chuckle.
Jane laughed softly, then turned back to the page. “She also mentions that the Lawrences have been to visit.”
That gave Elizabeth pause. “Charlotte and her husband? I knew they were temporarily settled in Portsmouth.”
“Yes, they were. But there has been a change. I shall tell you. They stayed two nights with our aunt and uncle on their way from the south coast to Essex. Captain Lawrence has inherited an estate—near Colchester, in a village called Ardleigh. He is to leave the army within three months and will receive full pay for his commission.”
Elizabeth stilled, absorbing the image. Charlotte, calm and deliberate, presiding over her own household at last. A quiet place in Essex, distant from Meryton yet not unreachable for the Lucases. There was something almost wistful in the idea—so settled, so practical, so unmistakably Charlotte.
Jane handed her the letter, pointing to a paragraph near the bottom. “Aunt included Charlotte’s new direction. She asked that we write, once we have a moment.”
Elizabeth nodded slowly. “Do not worry. I shall. It has been too long. I should like to know how she finds Ardleigh—what sort of house it is, and whether she has taken to Essex air.”
She paused, then glanced at Jane.
“Mama will be curious once she hears of the inheritance,” Jane said with a faint smile. “Though I doubt she would trouble herself to write—or visit.”
“True,” Elizabeth agreed. “But she will be pleased to know that Charlotte is mistress of an estate at last. Let us give her that pleasure, at least. I think I shall write to Charlotte this afternoon,” she added, watching the light shimmer on the elm leaves beyond the glass. “She will be glad to hear from us.”
Jane smiled, folding Aunt Gardiner’s letter. “Do tell her I was pleased to hear of her visit. And that I hope the air at Ardleigh is truly as fresh as she claimed. Though I believe, with Captain Lawrence beside her, she would find even a desert agreeable.”
Elizabeth turned toward her sister, the corners of her mouth lifting. “It is good to hear you speak of such things with ease, Jane.”
A blush rose, but Jane did not look away. “It has been some weeks now… and still Mr. Bingley comes. Without fail. I do not wish to be hasty or vain, but—he speaks with more confidence lately. And I think—” her voice dropped almost to a whisper, “—I think Mama may not be entirely wrong.”
Elizabeth reached for her hand and gave it a fond press. “Then I am glad. He would be the happiest man alive to deserve you.”
Jane hesitated. “Lizzy, I sometimes wonder… have you grown more fond of Mr. Darcy since he left?”
Elizabeth, caught off guard, looked down quickly. “What makes you ask?”
“You seem altered—quieter at times, and yet more steady somehow. As though—” her voice softened, “—something hassettled in your mind. You speak of him differently now. Less doubtfully. Less sharply.”
“Well. He has written to me. Twice.” Elizabeth allowed herself a soft smile, then turned again toward the window.
“Oh.” Jane drew a quiet breath. “That may explain it.”
There was a long moment in which the sounds of the day drifted in through the open sash: a bird calling from the hedge, a carriage rumbling distantly along the lane.
Elizabeth spoke again, her voice low but composed. “It is not a courtship—not by any usual design. There are no visits, no declarations. Only letters. And in them, a kind of honesty I did not expect. He writes... not to impress, but to be understood. Which I find rare.”
