Charlotte squeezed her hand gently. "I do not ask questions," she added with a small smile. "I have learned, with you, it is better to let answers arrive in their own time."
"You are wiser than I deserve," Elizabeth said warmly.
Charlotte only shook her head, her smile unwavering. "Perhaps. But I do believe you are meant for something extraordinary.
And whoever walks beside you in that future is a very lucky man."
Elizabeth's throat tightened, but she managed a smile. "I will write to you from Gracechurch Street."
"Do. And let me know if… anything should change."
With a final embrace, they parted.
As the carriage pulled away, Elizabeth looked back once at the parsonage—the tidy garden, the crooked chimney, the quiet air of contentment that had sheltered her in its own plain way.
And so she turned her face forward—toward London, and whatever would come next.
London was very different from what she recalled. The streets bustled with life as ever, but the tone of her visit had shifted profoundly. This time, Mr. Bingley himself was there to greet her and Jane, his joy evident in every smile, every gesture. His presence at Gracechurch Street lent the household a lightness, an air of affectionate cheer that Elizabeth had not realized she had missed until it enveloped her.
Jane glowed with happiness—there was no other word for it—and Elizabeth allowed herself to feel it, too. It was a comfort beyond words to see her sister so beloved, so cherished. And for once, Elizabeth could enjoy it unreservedly, without the shadow of doubt that had so long clouded her heart.
Maria Lucas had returned to Hertfordshire earlier than planned, having been collected by Sir William just two days after their arrival. News of Mr. Bingley’s calls—more than one, and attended by every evidence of preference—had reached Longbourn swiftly. Mrs. Bennet, in her particular way, had been adamant that her eldest daughters remain in town a while longer. It was not a request easily refused—nor was it unwelcome, given the evident pleasure Bingley took in Jane’s company.
During tea, Mr. Bingley, in his usual cheerful and unsuspecting way, happened to mention that he had seen Mr. Darcy only a few days prior. Elizabeth, though outwardly composed, felt her entire frame tighten at the mention. Her teacup paused mid-air, her smile frozen as her mind leapt forward.
"Oh, he seemed well," Bingley said with an easy shrug. "Though he did ask some rather peculiar questions, now that I think of it."
Elizabeth forced herself to breathe evenly. "Did he?" she asked lightly, striving to match his tone. "What sort of questions, if you remember?"
Bingley tilted his head thoughtfully. "Something about—oh, nothing serious. He asked after Miss Bennet, of course—how she was, whether she seemed in spirits. And then he inquired, quite casually, whether she had spoken much of her family—particularly of you. Whether she had seemed worried for you, or mentioned anything out of the ordinary. I thought it rather curious at the time," Bingley added with a cheerful shrug, "but you know Darcy—he always did favour precision above all."
Elizabeth nodded, unable to summon words immediately. Her heart was racing now, pounding so fiercely she feared it might be heard.
He is thinking of me,she realized with a jolt—still trying to make sense of me.
Not forgotten. Not dismissed. But watching, questioning, fearing.
Does he believe me mad? Does he suspect Jane?
Or—worst of all—does he think I have involved my sister in some great deceit?
She set down her teacup with careful precision, lest her trembling hands betray her.
Bingley, unsuspecting, prattled on about the weather and the shops, and Elizabeth let the murmur of conversation wash over her unheard.
Her mind was already elsewhere—racing toward him.
She bit her tongue against a wave of questions she could not possibly voice. She felt her aunt’s eyes upon her, calm and observant, and knew her inner conflict did not go unnoticed.
Mrs. Gardiner said nothing then, but later, as they arranged for the evening’s plans, she took Elizabeth gently by the arm.
"You are holding something tightly, my dear. You need not share what it is—only know that I see it."
Elizabeth smiled faintly. "Thank you, Aunt. I suppose I am still adjusting to being back."
"Mm," her aunt said softly. "Then I shall be content to wait until you are ready to speak."
Aunt Gardiner’s patience was almost dangerous, for it made her long to confess everything.
