“I know.”
“And my family—beyond her—will not judge you as she does.”
Elizabeth’s gaze lifted to his. “You are certain?”
“I am.”
He hesitated only briefly.
“They will see what I see.”
She did not speak.
He continued, “And that will be enough.”
Elizabeth felt something in her chest ease at those words—not because she required the approval of those beyond her immediate circle, but because she understood what it meant for him to say it.
He did not ask her to prove herself.
He did not ask her to meet some external measure of worth.
He simply believed she already did.
When the first responses arrived, his certainty proved well-founded.
Georgiana, who had remained at Netherfield through the season, required no letter to express her feelings. She did so at once, her delight as sincere as it was unrestrained, her affection for Elizabeth already firmly established.
Of the others, most wrote with warmth, with interest, with a degree of curiosity that was entirely natural and not at all unkind.
Only Lady Catherine’s reply diverged.
It was long.
It was emphatic.
And it was, as Darcy had predicted, entirely disapproving.
Elizabeth did not read it.
She did not need to.
Darcy summarized it with admirable brevity.
“My aunt is not pleased.”
Elizabeth smiled. “I had not expected her to be.”
“No,” he said. “Nor had I.”
He folded the letter without further comment and set it aside.
Elizabeth watched him.
“You are not troubled.”
“I am not,” he said simply.
“Not at all?”
