No.
It was better this way.
Better that he remain, in England’s eyes, a ghost.
Better that whatever purpose had been preserved for him—whether by chance or by Providence—be fulfilled here.
And so, Frederick Bennet, who had once expected to die in a narrow cot in a mission house in Calcutta—
Lived.
And worked.
And gave.
As though the life returned to him had been granted for no other reason than that he might spend it.
Chapter 41
Longbourn—1812
Elizabeth listened without interruption.
She did not trust herself to speak.
Every word heruncle—for that is how she preferred to think of him—spoke seemed to settle somewhere deep within her, stirring thoughts she could not yet fully grasp, emotions she had not the leisure to examine.
She watched him as he spoke—watched the way his voice changed when he spoke of the mission, of the children, of the work he had taken upon himself as though it were a penance he had willingly embraced.
It was not the story she had expected.
It was not, perhaps, the story Lady Catherine had expected either.
For when he fell silent, his gaze drifting toward the fire as though he saw something there that the rest of them could not, the room held its breath.
“That is it?”
Lady Catherine’s voice cut through the quiet, sharp and disbelieving. “That is all?”
Frederick did not look at her.
“That is your justification?” she pressed, anger rising now to replace the earlier shock. “It wasbetterfor you to remain there than to return? Better to stay away than to come back for me?”
“You were married,” he said, turning to her at last.
“For only a year,” she retorted at once. “And then he died, and I was free. You could have—you might have—” Her voice faltered, the words breaking despite her evident determination to master them.
Frederick’s expression tightened, but before he could answer, someone else came to his defense.
“He could not have known,” Darcy said quietly beside Elizabeth, causing her to startle slightly. “He made the only choice that would have seemed rational at the time.”
Elizabeth felt, rather than saw, Lady Catherine’s glare turn upon her husband. It was not a look often borne without consequence, but this time there was no retort, no sharp rejoinder.
Only silence.
The fire crackled softly, the sound suddenly far louder than it ought to have been.
Elizabeth drew in a breath.
