"Indeed not."
Mary's tone softened. "Elizabeth, you said you would tell Jane. And I still believe you must."
Elizabeth sighed and looked away. "I know. But the closer Mr. Bingley's arrival draws, the more I fear it. What if it changes things? What if it shifts some delicate thread that must not be touched?"
Mary studied her sister quietly. "Then trust Jane to bear it."
Elizabeth shook her head. "I trust Jane to forgive anything. That is precisely what makes me hesitate."
Mary reached out, gently touching her sister’s hand. "Even so, she deserves to know. And you will feel better once it is spoken."
Elizabeth said nothing more, but in her silence, she conceded the point. The morning had been long, but the day was far from done.
As the household settled into its various pursuits, Elizabeth found herself standing near the drawing-room window. Her mother and Jane had left some time ago in a flurry of bustle and excitement. From above, muffled exclamations could be heard, and a maid passed by bearing a tea tray—its destination unmistakable. Mrs. Bennet’s private parlour, situated just beyond the upstairs chambers, had clearly become the seat ofbridal consultation. The clinking of china and the occasional bursts of animated speech filtered down with all the clarity of high spirits and maternal fervour.
Elizabeth sighed. It would not be long before Jane was once more alone—and then, she must speak.
She dreaded it more than she cared to admit.
It was not a question of trust. Elizabeth loved Jane with all the devotion of a grateful heart and trusted her above any other living soul. But it was theburdenshe hesitated to place—the weight of knowledge which, once shared, could not be recalled. She had carried it alone for many weeks, and she knew how it pressed upon every thought, shaded every decision, coloured even the smallest hopes with caution.
Jane, newly engaged, was radiant—so light, so untouched. Elizabeth had hastened Bingley’s return and, in doing so, had stolen months of sorrow from her sister. She had acted swiftly, and only later—when she had nearly lost her own happiness—had she realised how fragile the course of events truly was.
It was Mary who had guessed the truth—or near enough—and had pressed her, gently but firmly, to speak. Her arguments had been prudent, even wise. Mary could bear such knowledge; her mind was steady, her judgment quiet. But Jane’s generous spirit was another matter. If Elizabeth spoke, there could be no retreat. To know the future was not only to possess power—it was to bear the responsibility of every action taken, or left undone.
And Jane... Jane would carry that burden as Elizabeth had, but with none of her sister’s hardened resolve.
Still, Elizabeth had promised—and she meant to keep it. She had delayed as long as she dared.
In less than three days, Mr. Darcy and Mr. Bingley would arrive. That thought gave her courage. At Hunsford, she had shared the barest outline of her secret with Fitzwilliam, and in London, he had begun to ask for more—only to be interrupted by the joyous news of Jane’s engagement. That he had wished to hear more, that he had not dismissed her out of hand, had kindled a fragile but growing hope.
She trusted him to believe her fully in time—trusted him with a certainty she could not quite explain.
And yet, even with that comfort ahead, the hours before her stretched long and heavy. Each moment brought her closer to the conversation she most dreaded. Jane’s happiness was unclouded now—how could she be the one to dim it?
She rested her forehead against the cool windowpane and closed her eyes.
There was no more avoiding it. Only the quiet ticking of time until the words were spoken—and the course of everything changed.
Chapter 43
Evening had fallen at last, soft and cool upon the walls of Longbourn. Elizabeth, heart heavy with resolution, made her way to Jane’s chamber, feeling every step as though she waded through treacle. A faint light glowed from beneath the door; within, she could hear the soft whisper of a brush through hair. She knocked lightly.
"Come in!" called Jane's gentle voice.
Elizabeth entered to find her sister seated before the looking-glass, her golden hair falling in waves down her back, her nightclothes lending her an air of ethereal sweetness. Jane turned, her countenance bright, her eyes alight with quiet joy.
"Lizzy," she said, smiling, "you are come to sit with me? How good you are. I was just thinking how very soon, you must help me plan—oh, but I weary you, I am sure, speaking so much of Mr. Bingley."
"Not at all," Elizabeth replied, sinking into the chair by the fire. "Speak of him all you like."
And she meant it. For a little while, she allowed herself to be drawn into Jane’s simple happiness, answering where she must, encouraging with a smile where she could not find the words. Jane spoke of their hopes for the future, of the arrangement of rooms, of the pleasant country walks she and Bingley would enjoy once settled. Elizabeth listened, willing her own heart to steady, to gather the strength she needed.
At length, Jane paused, her brow furrowing in tender concern.
"But you are very quiet tonight, Lizzy. I cannot pretend not to notice it. Pray, what is it?" Jane set her brush aside and turned fully to her, her expression soft with sisterly affection. "Something presses upon your mind, dearest. I can see it."
Elizabeth drew in a shallow breath, folding her hands tightly in her lap.
