Elizabeth reached out and took her hand. “You would never loseme.”
Jane smiled gratefully and squeezed her fingers.
They sat for a long time like that, the weight of the day dimming behind them. Then Jane released her sister’s hand and stood to untie the ribbon in her hair. She moved with slow grace, thoughtful in her silence.
After a moment, Elizabeth rose as well and went to the small mirror over the washstand. Her own reflection stared back—dark hair, green eyes, and features too sharp to blend in among her sisters. She studied it with quiet detachment, as if assessing a stranger.
“Jane?” she asked suddenly.
“Yes?”
“Do you ever wonder—why I look so different from the rest of you?”
Jane glanced up from brushing her hair. “You mean your hair and eyes?”
Elizabeth nodded.
“I used to think perhaps you favored Uncle Frederick,” Jane said with a small shrug. “Or that perhaps you simply came from some long-forgotten branch of the family tree.”
Blinking, Elizabeth asked, “Who is Uncle Frederick?”
“Papa’s brother. He visited once or twice, but I was very small. I only vaguely remember dark hair.”
“I had no idea Papa had a brother. He has never spoken of him to me.”
“I believe he died while traveling,” Jane said. “Mama mentioned it once, but Papa told her very sternly to not speak of it again. I think it made him sad.”
Elizabeth felt a strange pull towards this unknown relative. “I wonder if my coloring comes from him, then.”
“But does it really matter?” Jane asked gently. “You are our sister, no matter your appearance. Or does it make you feel left out?”
“No,” Elizabeth said. “Of course not.”
She turned away from the mirror, ignoring the way her heart had begun to beat faster.
Jane gave her a searching look, but said nothing more. Elizabeth climbed into bed, pulling the coverlet up over her legs.
As Jane blew out the candle, the room slipped into darkness. Outside, an owl called once and then fell silent.
In the quiet, Elizabeth lay with her eyes open, counting the days until harvest. Counting how many pounds she would need to cover the next dressmaker’s bill. Counting how many steps it would take before this whole household fell into ruin.
And wondering—only briefly, and always in silence—if her mother would listen to her if her eyes had been blue.
Chapter 9
Fitzwilliam Darcy had always preferred the silence of a good road to the chatter of a bad companion.
Still, as his carriage left the main road from London towards Meryton, with chimneys coming into view through the haze of early-autumn sun, he found the silence today offered no peace.
He shifted slightly on the squabs, glancing across at Bates, his valet, on the opposite bench, who had long since dozed off. Darcy folded his arms and stared out the window, but the countryside blurred. His thoughts were still in London.
It had been a trying summer. Lady Anne and Georgiana had gone to the seaside for a month’s respite. The salt air was meant to ease Lady Anne’s frequent headaches, and Georgiana had always adored the sea. For a time, he had been pleased to see them go—if only because they seemed happy.
But then the express arrived.
Lady Anne’s handwriting was perfectly composed, her phrases gentle—but the worry beneath it was clear. There was a young nobleman in the town, about Darcy’s age, charming and attentive… too attentive. He had called on them thrice in five days. Asked after their plans. Inquired—politelybut persistently—about Georgiana’s dowry. Then, disturbingly, Lady Anne’s jointure.
Darcy had left London within the hour.
