"And perhaps Mr. Wentworth will discuss the matter with his wife," Mary added thoughtfully. "If he does, I dare say half the town shall know by the morrow."
"We shall have to see what tomorrow brings."
"Indeed," said Elizabeth. "For I have little doubt Mr. Wickham means to return."
Soon after their return from Meryton, a letter was delivered to Miss Bennet. The handwriting was instantly known to them all—it came from Netherfield. Jane opened it without delay, and Elizabeth stood beside her, the past echoing so keenly in her mind that it almost felt as though time itself had stilled.
The letter was exactly as Elizabeth had remembered it, each phrase a mirror to the one received in her other life. The formal civility, the restrained regret, the careful phrasing that cloaked cruelty in courtesy—nothing had changed. Jane’s face, too, was unchanged in its gentle confusion and heartbreak.
Elizabeth felt her own heart clench with quiet pain. This moment had returned, just as before. And just as before, she would not allow it to pass without resistance.
“They are acting without their brother’s knowledge,” Elizabeth said softly, her voice calm and sure. “Of that I am certain.”
Jane looked up, her expression troubled. “But why would they write such things, if they are not true?”
“Because,” Elizabeth replied, “they fear your connection. They see your gentleness and goodness as a trap, a snare for their brother. They know not how deeply he already esteems you, or how undeserving they are of your trust. And this tale of Miss Darcy? It is false—she is not even out yet.”
Mary, who had entered the room during this exchange, now stepped forward. “Elizabeth is right. Their reasoning is flawed, and their assumptions ungenerous. Why speak of a future match for Miss Darcy as if it were settled, when by all accounts she is scarce presented?”
Elizabeth glanced at her sister with a quiet flicker of surprise. Mary, it seemed, was more perceptive in this life, more willing to trust her judgment.
“Thank you, Mary,” she said, her voice warm.
It was agreed, then, that Mrs. Bennet should only be informed that the Netherfield party had returned to town, and that they did not know when they would return. Nothing more.
When Mrs. Bennet received the news, her lamentations filled the household.
“Oh, my poor Jane! Just when everything was going so well! To think he should be taken away—called to town—and without so much as a proper proposal!”
Elizabeth tried once, gently, to suggest restraint. “Mama, we cannot always understand the motives of others. Perhaps it was not in Mr. Bingley’s power to remain.”
But Mrs. Bennet would not be soothed. “Nonsense, Lizzy. Gentlemen may do as they please. He ought to have stayed. If he were truly in love with Jane, he would not have gone. I daresay his sisters planned it all!”
Elizabeth turned away, biting her tongue. There was no comfort to be had in arguing with her mother. Her father, as always, remained in the library, unwilling to involve himself beyond a dry remark or a wry smile. He had long preferred amusement to responsibility, and it stung Elizabeth more than she liked to admit.
She found herself walking out with Mary again, this time not to Meryton, but along the edge of the gardens, where the last of autumn’s colours clung stubbornly to the hedgerows.
“He has gone,” Elizabeth said at last, her voice soft.
“You expected it,” Mary replied.
“I did. He needs time. Time to think, to understand himself, to grow. I love him—I do. But I do not expect him to love me as I am now. Not yet.”
“You think he is confused.”
“He is.” Elizabeth gave a small, sad smile. “He was confused last time, too, but I did not see it then. I only saw pride, not the vulnerability that pride tried to mask.”
Mary was silent a moment. “What will you do?”
“Focus on what I can do. On Jane. On saving Lydia. On keeping Wickham from destroying this town.” She stopped walking and looked ahead with quiet determination. “I could not save everyone last time. But I will try harder now.”
They turned to go back to the house, and Elizabeth’s gaze lingered on the narrow path winding away from Longbourn. She thought of Fitzwilliam—Mr. Darcy—and her heart ached, but she did not despair. Not yet.
He would think. He would reflect. And perhaps, when the time came, he would return.
Until then, she would do all in her power to protect her family, even those who did not wish to be protected.
Chapter 22
