∞∞∞
Elizabeth did not sleep well that night.
She had thought, at first, that the quiet of her chamber would lend clarity. Instead, her thoughts circled without resolution. Love had seemed so simple only the day before. Now it bore weight—history, doctrine, expectation.
By midmorning, she could endure her own mind no longer.
She wrapped her pelisse about her shoulders and walked toward Meryton, her pace brisk, her purpose only half formed until she found herself turning instinctively toward the parsonage.
Mr. Harding had held the living at the Meryton church for as long as she could remember. He had baptized her younger sisters, buried neighbors, preached sermons of varying length but consistent decency. He was not an alarming man. Nor was he rigid.
He received her kindly.
“Miss Lizzy,” he said, rising from behind his desk. “You look as though you have come in search of counsel.”
She smiled faintly. “I fear I have.”
He did not press her to sit until she chose to do so.
“I shall not presume to pry,” he said. “But if you wish to speak freely, you may.”
And so, she did.
She did not speak of Darcy’s name, nor of Pemberley, nor of affection. But she described the matter plainly: a gentleman of Catholic heritage, devoted to his faith, desiring a Catholic ceremony in addition to the Anglican one required by law, and the raising of children within that communion.
Mr. Harding listened without interruption.
“And what troubles you most?” he asked at last.
“That I do not wish to offend God,” she answered honestly. “Nor to enter into anything that would estrange me from Him.”
He regarded her thoughtfully.
“Does this gentleman seek to draw you away from belief,” he asked, “or toward it?”
“Toward it,” she said at once. “He speaks of it with reverence. With seriousness.”
Mr. Harding nodded.
“Anything that draws a soul closer to God is not easily condemned,” he said quietly.
She hesitated. “But would it not be wrong? To participate in a ceremony outside our church?”
He leaned back slightly.
“Ephesians tells us there is one Lord, one faith, one baptism,” he said. “We must remember that truth precedes institution. The Church of England did not descend entire from heaven untouched by human frailty.”
She blinked.
“The root of our present establishment,” he continued gently, “sprang from a king’s unwillingness to be contradicted in his personal affairs. It would be difficult to argue that political necessity and wounded pride form the sole gate to salvation.”
Elizabeth could not help but smile faintly at the understatement.
“I do not believe,” he went on, “that the Church of England possesses a monopoly upon heaven. Nor do I believe that God measures grace by geography.”
She felt something within her loosen.
“If your heart leads you to a life in which faith is taken seriously—lived seriously—you are not walking away from God.”
