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"Write at once," Charlotte finishes, "and tell me when the wedding is to be, and whether he means to have a special license, for nobody in Meryton has ever had a special license, and I should so like to be the first. Your affectionate mother." She folds the letter. "Then there is a postscript. Ten thousand a year!!! Three marks of exclamation."

There is a long silence.

"I think," says Mr. Collins, "that Mrs. Bennet is pleased."

***

I write to Jane that afternoon.

I write it four times. Each time it comes out wrong. Each time I either tell her too much, which I cannot, or too little, which she will see through in an instant, because Jane always sees through me, for all she pretends she does not.

In the end I write only this.

Dearest Jane, I cannot tell you in a letter. I cannot tell you in a hundred letters. It is not what you think, and it is not what Mama thinks, and it is not what I thought either, a month ago. I will tell you everything when I see you, every word, and you will understand why I could not write it down. Until then, please believe that I love you, and that I am so happy about Mr. Bingley I could dance down the lane, and that whatever else is true, it is true that Mr. Darcy sent him back to you, all by himself, without a word from me.

Your very bewildered sister, Lizzy.

I read it over.

"Is it enough?" I ask Charlotte, who is sewing by the window.

She looks up. "For Jane? Yes. Jane will wait." She bites off a thread. "It is your father I should be worrying about."

"I am worrying about him."

"Good." She threads her needle again. "Lizzy. You do understand what has happened? It is not a secret between five people at Rosings any longer. It is in Meryton. It is in Mrs. Long's parlor and at Lucas Lodge and very probably at St. James's. Your mother is choosing wedding clothes." She looks at me steadily. "When this comes apart, it will not come apart in Lady Catherine's breakfast parlor. It will come apart in front of everyone you have ever known."

I know.

I have known since I opened Jane's letter.

"The fortnight is over," I say.

Charlotte says nothing. She only sews.

***

Mr. Darcy comes to breakfast.

Not to Rosings. To the parsonage.

He walks across the park at nine o'clock in the morning, on Mr. Pettigrew's arm, with Colonel Fitzwilliam strolling behind and Lowe behind him carrying a basket, and knocks at the parsonage door himself.

Mr. Collins nearly expires.

He has been warned. A note came at eight. He has had an hour to prepare, and he has used it to change his neckcloth three times, move the good chair into the breakfast parlor and back out again, and drill Hodges in the correct manner of announcing a gentleman of ten thousand a year. When the knock finally comes, he flings open the door before Hodges can reach it, and bows so deeply he very nearly topples onto the step.

"Mr. Darcy! Sir! What an honor! What a very great honor! To my humble abode! I am overwhelmed. I am quite overcome. I hope you have not over-exerted yourself, sir. The park is so very extensive."

"I have walked half a mile, Mr. Collins. Pettigrew carried most of it."

"I did not, sir," says Pettigrew, aggrieved.

"He carried me in spirit." Mr. Darcy steps into the narrow hall and has to duck his head under the lintel, and straightens, and his eyes find mine at once, over Mr. Collins's bowing back. "Good morning, Miss Bennet."

He is in a brown coat today. The bruise at his temple has faded to the color of weak tea. He looks thin, and tired, and better than I have ever seen him.

"Good morning, Mr. Darcy."