Lydia flounced into a chair, undeterred. "You may mock, but it is a real trial. Harriet—Mrs. Forster, that is—says the air is delightful, and that sea-bathing does wonders for one's spirits. And the shops! They have caps trimmed in real ribbon, not just dye."
"Harriet," Mr. Bennet echoed, folding his paper slowly. "A fine judge of headwear and health remedies. It is no wonder the Colonel married her."
"She is very agreeable," Lydia insisted. "She said she might ask her husband about having me come with them. Not all of us, of course. Jane must stay and marry Mr. Bingley, and Lizzy is no fun. But Kitty and I would make a charming pair."
"So long as no one expects me to finance this charming expedition," Mr. Bennet said. "The Colonel’s judgment is already in question; I would hate to strain it further."
Kitty, who had been spreading jam with unusual care, looked up uncertainly. "I had not thought—I mean, perhaps I ought to stay here."
"Kitty!" Lydia cried, aghast. "You would not abandon me! What shall I do there alone? No, you must come. It will be the dullest thing imaginable without you."
"You are not obliged," Mary said, her tone calm but firm. She set her knife down gently. "You are not a sheep to follow where you are led."
Mrs. Bennet looked up with a scowl. "Really, Mary, you always have some bookish thing to say. It is not becoming in a girl to sound like a governess."
Elizabeth exchanged a glance with Mary, a small thread of gratitude passing between them. There was something more discerning in Kitty of late—quieter, more hesitant—but Lydia’s enthusiasm was a tide not easily stemmed.
Chapter 41
Elizabeth spent the greater part of the next morning in quiet contemplation, wandering the gardens and weighing within herself whether she ought to confide in Jane. The temptation to share the truth was great; not merely to unburden herself, but to prepare her sister for all that might follow. And yet, as always, with Jane came the hesitation — the dread that the knowledge might trouble her, unsettle her gentle peace, and prove a burden she should not be made to carry.
It was in this spirit of internal conflict that she sought Mary’s counsel once more. They were sitting beneath the great elm that stood on the edge of the orchard, its leaves fluttering softly in the spring breeze. Mary had brought out her volume — some lesser-known tract on virtue and the responsibilities of the soul — but it remained unopened in her lap.
"I do not know whether I ought to tell Jane," Elizabeth said at last, her voice low and uncertain.
Mary glanced at her, solemn and steady. "Do you fear her judgment?"
"No," Elizabeth answered quickly. "No, never that. But I fear to distress her. She is so happy just now. And she hides it so poorly when she is troubled — she would fret over me, and then she would speak to Mr. Bingley, and it would all spiral out of my control."
Mary nodded, absorbing the words. There was a long silence between them before she spoke again.
"Still," she said, carefully, "if anyone deserves the truth — if anyone would seek to understand it with compassion rather than suspicion — it is Jane."
Elizabeth looked down at her hands, folded tightly in her lap.
"I know. And I mean to do it. I think I must."
Mary gave a small nod of approval, but her expression remained curiously unreadable. Her eyes fixed on a distant part of the orchard. Elizabeth studied her a moment.
"Mary," she said gently, "you do not seem pleased."
Mary turned her head slightly but did not meet Elizabeth’s eyes. "I am — I am glad. It is right that you should tell her."
And yet the tone was too clipped, the words too precisely chosen. Elizabeth, who in another life might have overlooked the nuance, was no longer that girl. The lessons of Pemberley had taught her the importance of tone, of glance, of what was not said as much as what was.
She waited a beat longer. "But...?"
There was a pause, heavy and telling. At length, Mary spoke again, her voice barely above a whisper.
"I am not one for secrets. And yet this — this knowledge, this strange, impossible truth of yours — it has bound me in a way nothing ever has before. It is not only the knowledge itself, though I confess it unsettles me still. It is... it is the intimacy of it."
Elizabeth tilted her head, trying to understand.
Mary continued, almost mechanically, as if the words were being drawn from her against her will. "You turned to me. Not Jane. Not Charlotte. Not even our aunt. Me. And I—I have never been anyone’s confidante before. Not by accident of being near, like Jane. Not by indulgence or affection, like Lydia. But because you thought me worthy."
Now Elizabeth’s face softened entirely.
"Mary..."
