“Marry her.”
For a moment, he simply stared.
“I—” He gave a short, disbelieving breath. “That is not—she would not—”
“She would,” the nun said calmly. “It is plain enough to anyone who cares to observe it.”
He shook his head. “You do not understand. I am not—” He stopped, searching for words that did not come easily. “I am not fit to offer her what she deserves. I am… not whole.”
Sister Mary Francis said nothing.
So he continued.
“I have already given my heart once,” he said more quietly. “I was married—in the eyes of God, if not those of the law. And though the world did not recognize it, I did. I do still.”
The nun’s expression softened, though she did not interrupt.
“She was taken from me,” he finished simply. “Forced into another life. I have no right to—”
“No right to begin again?” she asked gently.
Frederick did not answer.
“I cannot speak for God’s will,” she continued after a moment. “Nor tell you what is required of you. But I know this—His ways are not ours. And He has seen fit to bring you here, to this place, at this time.”
Her gaze flicked briefly toward the doorway through which Anya had fled.
“Sometimes,” she said quietly, “we are given the means to answer the very prayers we did not know we had.”
Sister Mary Francis’s words echoed in Frederick’s mind in the days that followed. They would not leave him be.
And so, at last, he sought out Anya.
He found her in the courtyard, where the evening light had softened and the noise of the day had faded.
She started when he approached.
“Mr. Bennet—”
“I owe you an apology,” he said at once.
She blinked.
“For speaking before without having properly addressed you. For not—” He stopped, then began again. “May I speak plainly?”
She nodded, though uncertainty lingered in her expression.
And so he told her.
Everything.
Not with elegance, nor with careful phrasing—but with honesty.
Of England.
Of Cathy.
Of the child he had left behind.
