“Did he speak with you?” Mary inquired.
"Not then. Not properly. The circumstances allowed little more than civility, though I did meet his aunt and uncle. I believe it was his uncle, the Earl, who studied me mostkeenly. I could not say what was in his mind, but his countenance was one of consideration rather than disdain."
Mary tilted her head. "And Mr. Darcy?"
Elizabeth’s lips curved, not quite into a smile. "He stared. Not rudely, but with the look of one attempting to decipher a riddle that both vexes and compels. And I— I could not help but be glad of it. It meant I was still in his thoughts."
Mary offered a faint nod, then said with some gentleness, "But there was more? You said he visited you before you left?"
"Yes. The day before we returned to Hertfordshire, he accompanied Mr. Bingley on a morning call. Mrs. Gardiner was preoccupied with her children, so we walked... Mr. Bingley Jane and Mr. Darcy and I." Elizabeth looked down at her hands, then added, "We began to speak in earnest. Of the strangeness between us. Of what I had said at Hunsford."
Mary leaned closer. "And? Did he seem convinced at last?"
Elizabeth hesitated. "I believe he wishes to be. But the truth I offered him—it strains the bounds of credulity. I told him things no one could know, and he asked me how long—how long I had been as I am now."
Mary’s eyes searched hers. "And you answered?"
"I tried. But just as I felt his heart opening, just as I thought I might dare to speak more plainly, we were interrupted. Jane and Mr. Bingley came upon us, bursting with news of their engagement. There was no time to say more."
"Then he still does not know everything," Mary said slowly. "He walks the edge of truth, but you have not yet drawn him across it."
Elizabeth nodded, and her voice was a whisper. "I fear I may have lost the moment."
"No," Mary said, her voice suddenly firm. "If he needed time to reckon with your tale, then Providence gave it to him. And if he is the man you believe him to be, he shall return to you when he is ready."
Elizabeth looked at her sister, surprise flickering in her eyes. "You speak with such certainty."
"Not certainty," Mary corrected. "Faith. And perhaps a little hope. But if he loves you, he will come back."
Elizabeth gave a small, rueful smile. "I believe he does. I hope he does. But I must content myself with waiting and praying that I have not frightened him beyond recovery."
She fell silent for a moment, then looked at her sister with a different light in her eyes. "With Jane and Mr. Bingley engaged, I would beg to ask your opinion—though perhaps I should not. It is not a topic to discuss with a maiden, and though I technically am one, you are still yet one with no knowledge."
Mary raised a brow. "You feel their early marriage may have a negative effect on their life. And if it is not fit for a maiden, then it must be about... procreation? You once told me they have a daughter. You are afraid of her creation."
Elizabeth blushed faintly but nodded. "I cannot help it. I fear this early resolution for their relationship may affect the outcome or timing of their daughter's creation, causing her not to become. I interfered—and it would be my fault if it happens."
Mary was quiet for a moment before speaking gently. "Then you must remember what we are taught, Lizzy. God's plan is not so easily unmade. If that child is meant to be, she shall be."
Elizabeth hesitated, her eyes cast down. "But if I have altered the course... if I have changed it too soon—"
"Then let Jane decide," Mary interrupted softly. "Tell her what weighs on your heart. If she chooses to wait, then that is her will joined with yours. And if not, then it is still in God's hands. But the burden should not be yours alone to bear."
Elizabeth looked at her younger sister with a mix of gratitude and unease, her heart torn between hope and fear.
Soon after their conversation, Elizabeth and Mary entered the breakfast room, where the morning’s repast at Longbourn was descending into a scene of uncharacteristic commotion. Mrs. Bennet was already downstairs—a rare occasion in itself—and in high spirits. Her every breath was a flurry of wedding schemes, from white muslin to roast pheasants, and she scarcely allowed the tea to steep before she began declaring, “We must speak to Hill about new linens, and I dare say we must visit Meryton for lace! Oh, how the neighbours will stare!”
Mr. Bennet, seated at the head of the table with his newspaper artfully folded, did not lift his eyes as he replied dryly, “Indeed, madam, I should caution you to temper your enthusiasm. I do not recall having given Bingley my permission to wed my daughter. Until such an occasion arises—if it arises at all—I should prefer our breakfast without talk of carriages and currants.”
Jane, too radiant to be affected by her father’s sarcasm, merely smiled and poured him his coffee. “I am sure he will call as soon as he arrives in town, Papa,” she said softly, “but I will not press the matter.”
Mrs. Bennet gave a most indignant sniff. “I declare, Mr. Bennet, if you ruin this for Jane I shall never forgive you!”
“You have forgiven me for worse,” he answered, his eyes finally lifting with the hint of amusement. “That must count in my favour.”
At that moment, Lydia burst into the room, flushed with discontent. "Well, I think it is the greatest injustice that I am to have no Brighton! It is monstrously unfair! What are we to do here, when the regiment departs? I shall be in mourning, truly."
Mr. Bennet glanced over his newspaper, one brow arched with idle amusement. "Shall we hang the house in black crepe, then? Or perhaps compose a dirge for the garden walk?"
