Lydia, who had grown sullen in her corner, suddenly straightened with a flash of irritation in her eyes. "Well, I think Brighton shall be a far livelier scheme than all this mooning over Mr. Bingley. Papa, you must write to Colonel Forster and secure us leave to go. I am sure it will hardly cost a thing, and we are so dull here!"
But Mrs. Bennet, for once, was not to be diverted. Her thoughts were fixed firmly upon wedding clothes, settlements, and the joyous prospect of Netherfield being but a carriage ride away.
"Nonsense, Lydia," she said briskly, waving her hand. "We must see Jane properly settled before thinking of any such foolishness as Brighton. Mr. Bingley must be invited to dine, and we must speak to Cook about a proper feast."
Lydia's pout deepened as her mother swept her attention back to Jane, demanding a repetition of how Mr. Bingley had proposed, and whether he had inquired after Longbourn.
Elizabeth leaned back in her chair and caught Mary’s eye across the room. The quiet sparkle there comforted her more than words could. Yes—tonight, they would talk. There was much to say, much to reflect upon. And above all, Elizabeth longed for Mary's steadying thoughts.
For though her heart stirred at the memory of a certain gentleman’s dark eyes and grave voice, she had not forgotten the trials yet ahead. Tomorrow would bring its own troubles—but for tonight, she was home, and it was enough.
The creak of the floorboards, the low murmur of voices below, the comforting clatter from the kitchen—these small, familiar sounds wrapped around her like a worn shawl. The corners were fraying. But still, it warmed.
She let the hush of the evening settle over her, soothed by the rustle of Mary's pages and the gentle light of the fire. And in that stillness, hope stirred—not bright or bold, but sure.
She did not dream wildly. She did not reach too far ahead.
But she let herself believe in something quiet:
that peace could be found again,
that the heart could mend,
and that happiness—however fragile—might still come.
Chapter 40
Elizabeth was impatient to acquaint Mary with all that had passed. Though she had confided some things to her sister in writing, there was something deeply satisfying in returning home with a better report than she had once feared. The morning after their arrival at Longbourn, she found Mary in the small morning room, curled in a window seat with a well-thumbed volume of essays—her reading tastes now as quietly thoughtful as the girl herself. At Elizabeth’s entrance, Mary’s eyes lifted quickly from the page, revealing her true anticipation.
"You are awake early," Elizabeth said, her tone light with amusement.
"I could say the same of you," Mary replied, marking her page carefully before closing the book. "I take it you did not wait for breakfast to see me?"
Elizabeth laughed and sat beside her. "No, I could not. I have too much to tell you."
Mary gave a small, pleased smile. "Then I am all attention."
Elizabeth took a breath and looked out the window before speaking again. "While I was at Hunsford, I told him."
Mary’s brows knit slightly. "You mean—Mr. Darcy?"
Elizabeth nodded. "Yes. I told him the truth. Or as much as I dared."
There was a long pause as Mary considered this. "How did he take it?"
“As anyone might. With disbelief at first. Confusion.” Elizabeth’s voice was quiet, weighted. “He didn’t dismiss it outright, but I could see it—how it warred with everything he’s been taught to trust. I spoke of things I shouldn't know, things only he could confirm. And yet… I don’t know if he believes me.”
Mary leaned forward, her expression earnest. “That took courage. I hope he proves worthy of such honesty.”
“He left not long after,” Elizabeth said, the words catching faintly in her throat. “I think he needed time—to order his thoughts, as he always does. But he asked questions, Mary. Not easy ones. Not about Georgiana, or himself, or even me—but about the truth. About what this is. How I came to be like this.”
Mary hesitated. “And did you tell him everything?”
Elizabeth gave a small nod, her gaze drifting to the fire, where the flames flickered low. “Enough.”
Mary sat beside her, eyes attentive, hands folded in quiet contemplation. “And then?” she asked softly. “You wrote that you saw him again in London.”
Elizabeth nodded again, her gaze shifting toward the window. “Yes. With Mr. Bingley being a daily visitor, we were invited to the theatre. I had just resolved not to approach him—thinking it must still be too soon—when Mr. Bingley noticed Mr. Darcy and his relations seated in a nearby box. And so, our paths crossed again.”
