“Good morning,” Mrs. Hurst said stiffly. “May I come in?”
Elizabeth stepped aside to allow her entrance.
The woman glanced around the room, her eyes settling on Jane before returning to Elizabeth. “I—I wanted to… that is, I thought it appropriate to offer my apologies.”
Elizabeth said nothing, waiting.
“I should have questioned my sister’s account,” Mrs. Hurst continued, her voice tight with restraint. “She told me Miss Bennet had refused assistance. I see now that I ought not to have taken her at her word.”
Elizabeth felt a flicker of surprise. The speech was not graceful, but it felt real.
And then, without warning, a strange image rose in her mind—of Kitty, sweet and uncertain, standing beside Lydia’s commanding presence. Of Kitty deferring, following, even when she ought to know better.
She looked at Mrs. Hurst again.
The woman was older than she was, but in that moment, she looked uncertain—more like a younger sister than Elizabeth had ever seen her.
“I appreciate your coming,” Elizabeth said slowly. “It is no easy thing to offer an apology. I understand how difficult it can be to speak against those who lead.”
Mrs. Hurst’s mouth twisted into a rueful smile. “Yes… well.”
“Please,” Jane said softly from the bed. “There is no need to feel poorly. I am sure it was all a mistake.”
Mrs. Hurst blinked and turned to her, a furrow appearing between her brows.
Elizabeth watched as their guest took in Jane’s open expression, her sincere eyes, her ready forgiveness.
Their gazes met for a long moment, and Elizabeth gave the smallest nod—resigned and a little weary, as if to say,Yes. She really is that good.
Mrs. Hurst gave a small exhale of something like amazement. “There was no mistake, Miss Bennet,” she said at last. “Only indifference.”
Jane’s expression crumpled, just a little. Her mouth parted in a quiet breath, and Elizabeth reached for her hand, giving it a gentle squeeze.
Mrs. Hurst looked as though she wanted to say more, but she only dipped into a shallow curtsy. “Good day.”
She left without waiting for a reply.
As the door closed behind her, Jane sighed and blinked rapidly. A few tears slid quietly down her cheek.
“Oh, Jane,” Elizabeth murmured, brushing them away. “You must not waste sorrow on people who do not deserve it.”
“I am not sorry for them,” Jane whispered. “Only… only for the world to be so unkind.”
She closed her eyes, and once Jane’s breath had settled into the even rhythm of sleep, Elizabeth gently released her hand and stood, stretching her aching limbs. She had been sitting beside her sister for hours, and while the quiet was soothing, her mind longed for a diversion.
She glanced at the trunk that had been brought from Longbourn earlier that morning. Though grateful for the clean clothes and hairbrush it contained, her smile faded slightly when she spotted the lone book atop the neatly folded linen:The Improvement of the Mind,by Isaac Watts.
Elizabeth shook her head in exasperation. “Mary,” she muttered under her breath. “Ever hopeful that I might one day match her own standard of moral perfection.”
With a sigh, she rose and slipped quietly from the room. A housemaid passed in the hall, carrying fresh linens. Elizabeth paused her. “Excuse me—could you direct me to the library?”
The girl curtsied. “Of course, miss. Downstairs, west corridor. The door is usually open.”
Elizabeth thanked her and made her way through the hall, pleased to find herself largely unobserved. She had no desire to endure another encounter with Miss Bingley’s allies, and the tranquility of the morning had fortified her enough to brave even a meager country collection of books.
When she reached the library, however, she found it already occupied.
Mr. Darcy sat near the hearth, a leather-bound volume in hand and a cup of tea cooling beside him. He looked up at the sound of the door and blinked in surprise.
