“You have seemed tired a great deal lately.” Mrs. Gardiner’s tone was gentle but probing. “And Mr. Darcy appeared rather grave when you returned. I hope there was no disagreement between you?”
“No disagreement, Aunt. Only—” Elizabeth’s voice caught. “Only a misunderstanding that has been cleared.”
“A misunderstanding?”
“It is nothing I can speak of now. Please, do not press me.”
Mrs. Gardiner looked as though she wished to say more, but she simply nodded. “Very well. But if you need to speak of it, you know I am here.”
Elizabeth excused herself and went upstairs, still clutching the book.
***
That evening, after they had retired for the night, Jane sat brushing her hair and watching Elizabeth in the mirror. Elizabeth had been unusually quiet through dinner, picking at her food and responding to questions with distant politeness.
“Lizzy,” Jane said softly, setting down her brush. “I know you told Aunt Gardiner that you are merely tired, and I promised myself I would not trouble you. However, you have been so unlike yourself these past days.”
Elizabeth sat on the edge of the bed, the book resting in her lap. For a long moment, she said nothing. Then the words began to pour out.
“I have been such a fool, Jane. Such a blind, prejudiced fool.”
Jane turned to face her sister fully. “What do you mean?”
“Do you remember the little girl from the fire?”
“Of course. The poor child that Mr. Darcy rescued.”
“I met her a few days ago. On a walk.” Elizabeth’s voice was thick with shame. “She called Mr. Darcy ‘Papa.’ Said he visits them often, provides for all their needs. And I—I assumed—”
“Assumed what?”
“Assumed the worst of him.”
Jane’s eyes widened in understanding. “Oh, Lizzy.”
“I thought she was his child. His and the mother’s. I thought he had been maintaining a secret household all this time.” Elizabeth pressed her hands to her face. “I was so cold to him. So horrible. I believed the absolute worst without even asking for an explanation.”
“But surely there is some explanation?” Jane’s voice was hesitant. “If you spoke to him today—”
“She is not his child. She is Mr. Wickham’s.”
The words fell into the silence like stones into still water.
Jane drew in a sharp breath. “Mr. Wickham?”
“Yes.” Elizabeth’s voice broke.
She began her narration, sobbing as she recounted all that Mr. Darcy had told her of Sarah, of the child’s mother, and of the assistance he had provided in securing their removal to Bath.
“He provides for them out of charity—because it is the right thing to do, because that child deserves care regardless of how she came into this world. And Sarah calls him Papa because he is literally her godfather.”
Tears slipped down Elizabeth’s cheeks.
“And I accused him. Not in so many words, perhaps, but my meaning was clear. I let him know that I believed him capable of such deception. Of maintaining a mistress while playing the reformed gentleman.” She looked at her sister with anguished eyes. “What kind of person does that make me, Jane? What kind of person assumes the worst so readily?”
Jane moved to sit beside her, taking Elizabeth’s hand. “You did not know. How could you have known?”
“I might have asked,” Elizabeth said, her voice trembling. “Might have given him the opportunity to explain before I condemned him in my heart.” Her tears fell unchecked now. “He told me everything today—of Wickham’s true character, of his falsehoods and debts, of his dissipated habits… his pursuit of fortune wherever it might be secured, regardless of honour or consequence.”
