Mary listened with the attentiveness of someone who expected nothing in return. She asked no questions, offered no judgments. When she finally spoke, her voice was calm and low.
“Jane is not wrong. Faith is a strength—and not only in matters of doctrine. It is good to hope, even when one cannot yet see the path ahead.”
Elizabeth’s brow furrowed. “But is it wise to place one’s heart in the hands of uncertainty?”
Mary considered this. “That depends, I think, on whose hands you believe truly guide it.”
Elizabeth gave a quiet, almost bitter laugh. “You sound more like a Bennet every day, Mary. A better one.”
Mary tilted her head slightly. “Perhaps. But I also think you are holding something back. Whether it is because we are sisters, or because there is more than you dare name aloud—I do not presume to know. But you have always said that Aunt Gardiner is the wisest woman you know. And now, with her arrival—and the journey ahead…”
Elizabeth glanced toward the window, the motion small, unconscious. Her shawl slipped slightly from her shoulder, and she tugged it back with a steadying breath.
“You’ll have time to speak with her,” Mary finished gently. “And perhaps… time to hear yourself.”
Elizabeth stood in silence for a long moment, her arms crossed tightly against her chest. Then, in a voice scarcely louder than breath, she said, “I am not certain I should go.”
Mary blinked. “Why not?”
Elizabeth hesitated, her throat tightening. “Because,” she whispered, “if I go—and he has not come—if he has chosen to stay away—then I will see it. I will see Pemberley, and know I could never live there. Not as I once did. Not with him.”
Tears threatened at the corners of her eyes, but she refused to let them fall.
Mary reached for her hand and clasped it gently. “Then all the more reason to speak to our aunt. She may see what we cannot. And Lizzy… you do not know why he has not come. Please—do not assume the worst.”
Elizabeth didn’t answer. But her lips pressed into a thin line, and her eyes drifted toward the window.
“You were so certain when you returned,” Mary continued. “So full of hope. Hold on to that, Lizzy. Hold on to it just a little longer.”
That was the moment Elizabeth’s breath caught. She turned slightly, blinking hard—but the tears came anyway, quiet and unannounced.
“It has been three weeks,” she whispered. “No letter. No word. If he were ill—if something serious had happened—surely someone would have written.”
Mary’s hand tightened around hers.
Elizabeth drew a breath. “I told myself it was just a delay. But what if he never meant to come?”
Her voice broke entirely then, and she pressed a hand to her mouth, her shoulders trembling.
From below, a soft knock echoed through the house.
Both sisters turned.
Elizabeth rose instinctively, wiping her cheek with the back of her hand. Her heart was not ready—but she stood, nonetheless, as though the sound itself required her to try.
Mary stood as well, but instead of stepping away, she pulled Elizabeth into a quiet embrace. For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then Mary leaned back, her hands still resting on Elizabeth’s arms.
“One step at a time,” she said softly. “And not alone.”
Elizabeth nodded, grateful, though her eyes had not quite cleared. Arm in arm, they began their slow descent—one careful step, then another. At the stair’s turn, the noise of the house grew clearer: the sharp rise and fall of voices, the unmistakable stir of arrival. Somewhere below, Mrs. Bennet was already in full command.
Chapter 50
Mrs. Bennet’s voice carried through the hall, bright and overwhelming—exclaiming over the length of the journey, the state of the roads, and how the guest room had been prepared since Monday.
Kitty peeked from the drawing room with an eager wave. Lydia called down from the upper landing, declaring that someone had misplaced a bonnet ribbon—but it was found again, so all was well.
The younger maids darted between guests and trunks, their arms full of wraps and travel dust, caught in cheerful disarray.
