She swallowed, her breath catching. “Of the ruin he has nearly brought upon—”
She broke off abruptly, colour draining from her face. “There are circumstances I ought not to repeat,” she said more quietly. “They concern others, and I have no right to speak about them.”
Jane gasped, her hand flying to her mouth.
“All of it was in the letter. The letter he tried to give me in Kent. Only if I had taken it.” Elizabeth’s voice was barely above a whisper. “You know he has carried that letter with him ever since. Tried to discard it but could not. He gave it to me today.”
She lifted the book slightly. Jane understood.
“Oh, Lizzy,” Jane said softly, pulling her sister into an embrace. “You could not have known. And now that you do, you can make it right.”
“Can I?” Elizabeth pulled back, wiping at her tears. “How do I make right such a terrible misjudgment? How do I apologize for thinking him capable of something so vile?”
“By reading what he has written. By showing him through your actions that you are willing to see the truth, even when it contradicts what you believed.”
Elizabeth nodded, though she felt no less wretched.
They sat in silence for a few moments. Then Jane asked quietly, “Do you still think of him as you did in Hertfordshire or Kent?”
“No.” The word came without hesitation. “He is not the man I believed him to be then. He is better. Kinder. More thoughtful. And I have been too proud and too prejudiced to accept it.”
Jane squeezed her hand. “Then tell him so. When you are ready.”
Later, when Jane had drifted to sleep, Elizabeth sat up in bed with a single candle burning beside her. She opened the book with trembling hands.
The letter was there, just as he had promised. The seal was broken, but she recognized the handwriting on the outside.
Miss Elizabeth Bennet
She unfolded the pages carefully, her heart pounding.
This letter had been written months ago. Had been refused, retrieved, carried, and finally delivered. It contained truths she had been too stubborn to hear when they were first offered.
But she would hear them now.
Elizabeth took a steadying breath, held the letter closer to the candlelight, and finally—finally—she began to read.
***
Darcy
Darcy heard little of what Bingley said on the walk back to his house.
His friend was in high spirits, chattering about Jane's smile, the novel she had selected, the way she had laughed at something he said. Darcy made the appropriate sounds of interest—a murmur of agreement here, a nod there—but his mind was elsewhere entirely.
On Elizabeth.
On the way her face had transformed when he told her the truth about Sarah. The shock that had given way to horror, then to shame, and finally to something that looked almost like relief.
She had believed the worst of him. Had condemned him utterly. But when given the truth, she had accepted it. Had apologized. Had asked for his forgiveness with such genuine remorse in her voice that he had nearly reached for her hand right there in the street, propriety be damned.
"Darcy? Are you listening?"
He blinked and turned to find Bingley watching him with an amused expression.
"Forgive me. My mind wandered."
"I noticed." Bingley grinned. "I was saying that I think it is time I propose to Miss Bennet. Once they leave Bath, I will be going to Hertfordshire—Darcy, you are not listening again."
