Elizabeth could no longer hold back her tears. They fell, silent and slow, as Jane embraced her.
For a long time they remained thus, sister pressed to sister, the past and present and future blurring together in shared sorrow and love.
When Elizabeth could speak again, she said, "I have told you now… and I feel… lighter. Somehow."
Jane smiled through her tears. "That is what sisters are for."
Elizabeth gave a watery laugh. “I have not yet told you the worst.”
Jane, ever gentle, turned fully toward her. “Then tell me, Lizzy. Whatever it is, we shall face it together.”
Elizabeth clasped her hands tightly in her lap. “I would not have burdened you with this knowledge, but… I am afraid I used what I remembered to change our lives.”
Jane blinked. “Change them—how?”
“When I awoke last autumn, I remembered that Mr. Darcy had once convinced Mr. Bingley to leave Hertfordshire. I couldn’t bear to watch it happen again. So I went to him and begged him not to interfere a second time. He agreed.”
She swallowed hard. “His sisters still tried, of course, but he offered me a clue—something about the ducks—and it was enough. Mr. Bingley came back. You were engaged. Your heart was spared.”
Jane listened without interruption, her expression open and serene, offering Elizabeth the inestimable comfort of her gentle understanding.
Emboldened, yet trembling still, Elizabeth continued. "It is that interference which now gives me fear," she said softly. "You see, if you and Mr. Bingley are married sooner than you would have been..."
She faltered, watching as Jane, following the course of her thoughts, coloured modestly. Elizabeth herself blushed, momentarily chagrined at her own boldness, though she pressed on.
"A marriage may indeed be sooner blessed, but a child must yet have its nine months’ course. A difference of even a few weeks may alter all. In my other life, Jane, you had a daughter—a goddaughter to me, whom I loved most dearly—and now... now I do not know if she shall ever be."
Jane’s sweet expression only softened further. She rose and, with infinite tenderness, took Elizabeth’s trembling hands in hers.
"Oh, Lizzy," Jane said, her smile trembling through a sudden mist in her eyes, "you have not harmed anything. If our love is true—and I do believe, with all my heart, that it is—then every blessing meant for us will come in God's good time. If we are to be parents, it shall be as He ordains, whether sooner or later. And if there is a dear little girl destined to be ours, she will find her way to us, whenever and however she is meant to come."
Elizabeth made an effort to speak, to protest, but her voice faltered under the gentle earnestness of her sister’s gaze. Jane, seeing her struggle, only clasped her hand more firmly.
"You have always acted out of love, Lizzy," she said tenderly. "Such efforts cannot displease Heaven. I cannot believe that any sincere wish for the happiness of others could ever lead to lasting sorrow."
Tears stung Elizabeth’s eyes, and she blinked them away with difficulty. "I pray you are right," she whispered.
Jane smiled again—bright, serene, and sure. "I know I am."
Jane pressed Elizabeth’s hand between both of her own and looked at her with such earnest affection that Elizabeth could scarcely bear it.
"But what of your own sorrows, dearest?" Jane said softly. "To carry such knowledge alone—it must have been a heavy burden indeed. How much you must have borne in silence. I cannot think of the long months you carried this secret without my heart aching for you. I only wish you had felt you could confide in me sooner—but I know it was not from want of love. You have ever sought to spare those you hold dear from sorrow."
Elizabeth shook her head, blinking back a fresh rush of tears. "I bore it gladly, for your sake," she said. "And if there was pain, it was only what I deserved, for meddling with what ought to have been left to Providence."
But Jane would not be persuaded. "No, Lizzy," she said firmly. "You acted from love, and love can never be a fault. But I cannot have you thinking only of me. You must allow me to think of you, as well."
Without waiting for further protest, Jane rose and, with quiet efficiency, set about tending to Elizabeth’s comfort—rearranging the pillows, fetching a shawl, stirring the fire to a more cheerful blaze. She moved with the tender authority of one who had spent many hours in nursing and small cares, and Elizabeth, who had so often borne her own troubles in silence, found herself surrendering to the unfamiliar relief of being looked after.
"Come, dearest," Jane said gently, smoothing the hair back from Elizabeth’s brow with a sister’s fondness. "You are far too tired for more talk tonight. We shall sleep together, as we did when we were girls, and I shall watch over you. All will be well, dearest. You are not alone."
Chapter 44
The morning sun crept timidly through the curtains at Longbourn, casting a pale glow over the modest chamber. Elizabeth stirred first, blinking against the light, the heaviness of her restless thoughts clinging to her as surely as the blankets.
From the other bed, Jane’s gentle voice roused her fully.
"Lizzy," she said softly, "how are you this morning?"
