It was still early enough that the usual bustle had not yet taken full hold, and the familiar sounds of morning preparation—voices below stairs, the faint movement of doors and footsteps—remained distant. Elizabeth passed through the hall with little notice and made her way upstairs, drawn not to the common rooms but to the privacy of her chamber.
Once inside, she closed the door with more force than necessary and stood for a moment without moving.
It was a habit she had formed over time—to allow herself a brief stillness upon entering a room, a moment to orient herself fully before crossing it. Now, however, the pause held a different purpose. It was not the arrangement of space that required her attention, but the arrangement of her thoughts.
She crossed to the window and stood beside it, her hand resting lightly against the frame as she looked out upon the grounds beyond. The light had strengthened somewhat, though it remained softened by passing cloud, sparing her the strain that came with brighter days. She was grateful for it.
Her reflection, faint in the glass, caught her notice only briefly before she turned away. She had no wish to examine it. Not yet. Instead, she moved toward the bed and sat, her hands folding loosely in her lap, her posture composed though her thoughts remained anything but.
He had spoken of a man called Mr. Wickham. The name was unfamiliar, the story unexpected, and yet she understood why he had shared it. It had not been offered as mere history, nor as a diversion from the matter at hand. It had been, she realized, a kind of confession—not of wrongdoing, but of error. He had trusted where he ought not to have done. He had believed himself certain and been proved mistaken.
And from that, he had drawn a lesson.I will not make that mistake again.
Elizabeth drew a slow breath. He had not spoken those words lightly. She was certain of that. Nor had he spoken ofherlightly. That was the difficulty.
It would have been far easier to dismiss him had he done so—to laugh at his observations, to turn them aside as exaggerated or misplaced. She had done as much with others before, had found in such dismissals a kind of protection against disappointment.
But Mr. Darcy did not speak as other men did. He did not flatter or soften truth into something more pleasing. He stated what he believed and expected it to be received as such.
Elizabeth closed her eyes briefly. Now she found herself wondering whether she had been too quick to reject what he offered. By his words, she had entirely misjudged his approbation. It left an uncomfortable feeling in her stomach. Despite her visual impairments, she had always tried to see people clearly. How, then, had she so completely misunderstood Mr. Darcy?
The thought unsettled her.
She had built her understanding of herself over time, shaping it not from vanity but from necessity. To accept too much, to hope too far beyond what circumstance allowed, had once led her to disappointment of a kind she did not wish to repeat.
Better, she had long believed, to expect little and be content with what remained. Better to value usefulness over longing and to find satisfaction in the lives of those she loved than to dwell upon what might never be her own.
Elizabeth pressed her lips together. And yet she had admitted, only that morning, that she had not been as successful in that effort as she had once believed. The admission lingered. It would not be set aside.
A soft knock at the door broke through her thoughts.
She turned her head. “Yes?”
The door opened without waiting for further invitation, and Lydia entered first, her presence filling the room with an energy that left little space for quiet reflection. Kitty followed closely, her demeanor inquisitive, whereas Mary proceeded at a more leisurely pace, exhibiting a composed disposition, yet her gaze betrayed an unfeigned interest.
“You are hiding,” Lydia declared at once, crossing the room with purpose. “Which means something has happened.”
Elizabeth could not help but smile, though it came more readily than she expected. “I am doing no such thing.”
“You are,” Kitty said, settling herself upon the edge of the bed. “You went out early, and now you are here, alone, and thinking. It is very suspicious.”
Mary took a chair near the window, folding her hands neatly in her lap. “It is also very uncommon. You are not prone to silently brooding.”
Elizabeth looked between them. “I am not aware that I am required to account for my thoughts.”
“You are when they make you look so serious,” Lydia replied, leaning forward. “Was it Mr. Darcy?”
Elizabeth hesitated. It was brief. It was enough.
Lydia’s eyes widened. “It was. See, Kitty, I told you he admired her!”
Kitty gasped softly. “You saw him while on your walk?”
Elizabeth inclined her head, though she made no attempt to elaborate.
“And?” Lydia pressed.
“And we spoke,” Elizabeth said.
