Elizabeth did not move. Her gaze fell upon the letter resting on the bench, the seal bright against the worn stone. For a moment, curiosity stirred, swift and unwelcome.
What could he have written? What truth could possibly excuse such arrogance? Her fingers twitched at her side, but she refused to yield.
To take it would be to question her own judgment. She would not.
Drawing a steady breath, she turned and continued along the path. Behind her, the letter lay untouched, its edges stirring faintly in the breeze, waiting for a hand that would never come.
ONE
Bath, August 1812
Elizabeth
Elizabeth Bennet woke to unfamiliar silence.
Not the silence of Longbourn, where every creak of the floorboards belonged to a known sister and every distant voice could be placed. This silence was different—heavier, edged with the muted rumble of carriage wheels on cobblestones and the echo of closing doors in neighbouring houses.
Bath.
The word settled in her mind with a weight she had not expected. They had arrived the night before, travel-worn and quiet, to a house in Camden Place that their aunt, Mrs. Gardiner, had let for the summer. Elizabeth had seen little of it beyond the lamplight hall and the narrow staircase. Now, in the grey light of morning, the room revealed itself: handsome furnishings, impersonal and arranged for display rather than comfort. A house for letting, not for living.
She turned her head.
Jane lay in the opposite bed, her eyes open and fixed on the ceiling.
Elizabeth's chest tightened. How long had her sister been awake, lying there in that terrible stillness?
"Jane."
No answer.
Elizabeth rose and crossed to her sister's bedside. Jane's face was pale, her expression composed in that careful way that meant she was holding something fragile inside and dared not let it break.
"Did you sleep?"
"A little." Jane's voice was soft, distant.
"Liar."
Jane's lips twitched, but the smile didn't reach her eyes. "I dreamed I was in London again. I kept thinking—if I had stayed longer, if I had called on Caroline just once more—"
"Stop." Elizabeth sat on the edge of the bed and took her sister's hand. It was cold. "You cannot torture yourself with what might have been."
"Can I not?" Jane turned her face away. "It seems the only occupation left to me."
The words cut deeper than Elizabeth expected. She had seen Jane grieve before—quietly, gracefully, as Jane did all things—but this was different. This was resignation. Defeat.
A brisk knock interrupted them, and the two ladies turned in unison. The door creaked open and Mrs. Gardiner entered without ceremony.
"Good morning, my dears. I trust you slept—" She stopped, her gaze sharpening as it moved between them. "Jane, you look dreadful."
"Thank you, Aunt."
"I mean it kindly." Mrs. Gardiner crossed to the window and threw open the curtains. Sunlight flooded the room, merciless and bright. "Lying about in dim rooms will not improve matters. Dress yourselves. We are taking breakfast, and then we are walking to the Pump Room."
Jane sat up slowly. "I am not certain I am equal to—"
"Nonsense. You are perfectly equal to it, and you shall be." Mrs. Gardiner's tone brooked no argument. "We did not come all this way for you to waste away in a hired bedchamber. Bath is full of diversion, and you will be diverted whether you like it or not."
