Was that love?
Or merely inclination?
Her mind, inconveniently, supplied a caution.
Her father must once have felt something not unlike it. Mr. Bennet had not married from indifference. There must have been warmth once—laughter, admiration, perhaps even delight. Elizabeth could recall, from her earliest childhood, moments when her parents had seemed united in amusement. Yet over the years something had altered. Disappointment had crept in. Respect had thinned. Her mother’s nerves had grown louder; her father’s retreat into irony more complete.
The affection had not vanished, perhaps—but it had changed.
Could such a change occur between herself and Darcy?
She looked up at the ceiling, staring into the dimness as flickers of light from the dying fire danced across the small cracks in the stone and plaster.
She believed Darcy to be honorable. She believed him to be principled. She believed him to be steady where her father had been careless. Yet how did one know that present admirationwould withstand years of shared life? How did one guard against discovering, too late, that early warmth had mistaken itself for permanence?
The stronger her feelings grew, the less certain she felt in naming them.
If she loved him—truly loved him—ought she not feel assured?
Instead, she felt… vulnerable. Exposed. As though her heart had been set beating in a manner not entirely under her governance.
How can I know?
Elizabeth turned upon her pillow, first to one side, then the other, as though by altering her position she might alter the nature of her thoughts. The house lay quiet around her, but her mind refused to follow its example.
She reviewed, one by one, the marriages within her acquaintance.
Her parents came first—inevitably. There must once have been admiration. Her father had not married a woman he despised. Yet admiration had yielded to disappointment, and disappointment to distance. Respect, once thinned, had never returned. Their early warmth had not preserved them from later discontent.
Was that the danger? That affection might be founded upon partial knowledge?
She considered the Gouldings, who quarreled in company with remarkable indifference to spectators. Of the Lucases, whose civility seemed maintained by habit rather than ardor.
Only her Aunt and Uncle Gardiner came readily to mind as an example unmarred by qualification. In their company there was ease. Conversation flowed without effort. Disagreement never sharpened into contempt. There was affection, certainly—but also esteem. Mutual regard. A kind of cheerful partnership.
How had her aunt known?
Had she felt certainty? Or had she felt this same restless mixture of warmth and fear?
If only she were here for me to ask.
Elizabeth shifted beneath the coverlet and gave a small, impatient exhale at herself.
Then write her a letter, you silly goose.
The simplicity of it brought the faintest smile to her lips. She turned once more, but less restlessly now. The question, which had moments before seemed vast and unsolvable, now possessed a practical remedy. Her aunt had ever been candid, sensible, and kind. If anyone could distinguish between transient admiration and enduring affection, it was Mrs. Gardiner.
I shall write to her first thing tomorrow.
The resolution steadied her thoughts. The tumult within her breast did not vanish, but it softened, as though it had been given direction. With that small but certain plan formed, Elizabeth Bennet at last drifted into sleep—her heart no less engaged, but her mind somewhat eased by the promise of counsel to come.
∞∞∞
The fire upon his hearth had burned low; shadows from the dying embers flickered faintly against the ceiling. Darcy stared upward, hands folded loosely over his chest, as though the plaster above him might yield an answer if studied with sufficient intensity.
Coward.
The word rose unbidden.
