The sisters sat in silence for some time, the soft rhythm of their breathing mingling with the chirping of crickets beyond the window.
“When our aunt spoke of Mr. Wickham, did you observe his countenance?” Elizabeth asked at last, breaking the quiet.
"I did."
"He looked…pained. Angry. As though the very name caused him distress."
"Yes."
"But Wickham told me Mr. Darcy treated him abominably. Denied him the living that was promised. Left him in poverty out of pure spite."
Jane was silent.
"And yet tonight," Elizabeth continued slowly, "Mr. Darcy spoke of old Mr. Wickham with such warmth. Such respect. Would a man who treated the son so cruelly speak of the father that way?"
"I do not know, Lizzy."
Elizabeth pressed her hands to her face. "Neither do I. And that is what troubles me. I was so certain I knew exactly who he was. So certain of my judgment. But tonight—tonight I am not certain of anything."
Jane reached out and took Elizabeth's hand. "Then perhaps you need to learn who he truly is. Not who you thought he was in Hertfordshire, or who he appeared to be in Kent, but who he is now, here, in Bath."
"And how am I meant to do that?"
"By watching him. Speaking to him. Giving him the chance to show you." Jane squeezed her hand. "You were wrong about him once, Lizzy. Perhaps you are wrong again. Or perhaps you are right, and he is simply better at concealing his true nature thanwe gave him credit for. But you will never know unless you allow yourself to see him clearly."
Elizabeth looked down at their joined hands. "I do not know if I can."
"You can," Jane said with quiet certainty. "You are the bravest person I know, Lizzy. You have never been afraid of the truth, even when it is uncomfortable. Do not start being afraid of it now."
They sat in silence for a long moment.
Then Elizabeth said, very quietly, "He saved my life yesterday."
"I know."
"He did not hesitate. He pushed me out of the way without a thought for his own safety."
"I know."
"Does that mean something, do you think? Or would he have done the same for anyone?"
Jane smiled sadly. "I cannot answer that, dearest. Only he can."
Elizabeth lay back against the pillows, staring up at the ceiling. "I wish I had read the letter."
"What letter?"
Elizabeth’s lips parted, then stilled, as she met her sister’s gaze. Jane’s eyes were gentle, yet full of quiet inquiry—an unspoken question Elizabeth could not mistake. She had spoken too freely once more, and an explanation was now inevitable.
“The one he wrote to me after I refused…after I accused him,” she said at length, her voice low. “He offered it as some sort of explanation. I imagine it contained particulars of his connexion with Mr. Wickham, of you, and Mr. Bingley, and of all that I laid to his charge.” She drew a trembling breath and closedher eyes. “But I would not take it. I told him I wished to hear nothing further. And when I looked later, upon the bench where he had promised to leave it, it was gone.”
"I know. My better judgement at that point wanted nothing to do with him. It was foolish, stubborn pride. I was so angry, so hurt by what he had said, that I could not bear to hear his excuses." She opened her eyes. "But what if they were not excuses? What if they were truths I needed to hear?"
"You cannot change what is past," Jane said gently. "But perhaps, now that you are reconnected, he will find another way to tell you what was in that letter."
"And if he does not?"
"Then you will have your answer, and you can put this all behind you."
