The name she had not meant to carry out of anonymity, out of screens and careful distance. The man who had been only words at first—humour threaded unrestrained, intelligence that met hers without trying to outshine it, sweet words that sounded almost flirtatious but not quite, and the kind of silly, private jokes only the two of them seemed to understand—or so she liked to think.
Elizabeth’s throat tightened.
Jane’s voice softened further. “You can’t deny you liked him.”
Elizabeth opened her mouth, then closed it again.
Because she could still hear him sometimes in the cadence of those messages. She could still picture the way he had listened in the yoghurt shop—Mr. Darcy sitting across from her, and yet, for a moment, feeling indistinguishable from Mr. F—as though her opinions were not merely amusing, but worth holding. And she hated that part most of all: that even now, knowing exactly who he was, she still found herself missing the ease of speaking to him, still wishing, against better judgment, that she could have him in her days the way she once had.
She forced herself to speak. “I liked… the conversation.”
Jane’s smile was knowing. “Lizzy.”
Elizabeth looked away.
Outside, a car passed, headlights briefly washing the ceiling.
Jane leaned back, quiet for a moment, then said, “Maybe you shouldn’t be so determined to hate him.”
Elizabeth’s head snapped up. “I am not determined to hate him. I am determined to be sensible.”
Jane’s brows lifted. “Sensible?”
“Yes,” Elizabeth said, a little too quickly. “He’s Fitzwilliam Darcy. The man who thinks love is an algorithm. Proud, disdainful, utterly self-centred. The man who said I was not ‘handsome enough to tempt’ him. The man Wickham—”
“Wickham is one story,” Jane said gently. “And Darcy is a person.”
Elizabeth’s jaw tightened. “A very wealthy person who can erase people when it suits him.”
Jane did not rise to it. She only said, “I’ve been with Bingley for a couple of months now. One thing I know for sure is that he is a decent judge of character.”
Elizabeth let out a breath that was almost a scoff. “Well, since he managed to land you—and you are the best-behaved of the Bennet sisters—I won’t argue.”
Jane’s cheeks coloured, and she giggled softly, the sound warm in the dim room.
“Perhaps,” she admitted. “But truly, Lizzy… do you think Charles would be friends with Darcy, or invest his money with him, if he believed him to be a bad man?”
Elizabeth hesitated.
Bingley’s openness was not foolishness. Not entirely. He was trusting, yes, but not blind.
She gave a reluctant, noncommittal hum.
Jane watched her carefully. “All I am saying is that you have the wood and nails, Lizzy…”
Elizabeth frowned. “What?”
Jane’s smile was faint. “But don’t crucify him yet, until you know without doubt that he deserves it.”
Elizabeth stared at her sister.
Jane’s gaze was steady, affectionate, but perceptive in a way that made Elizabeth feel seen.
“You liked Mr. F,” Jane said quietly. “You were curious. You were… lighter.”
Elizabeth’s chest tightened.
“And then you discovered Mr. F was Darcy,” Jane continued, “and suddenly you decided you must not feel anything at all.”
