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"You are Miss Bennet, engaged to Mr. Darcy. Your mother's courtesy as the daughter of a princely family does not by itself tell us what forms, if any, may apply to you under that family's rules. We shall not invent an honorific because it sounds pleasing in a London drawing room."

"What a disappointment to Mrs. Bennet," Elizabeth said.

Lady Matlock looked up from her needlework. "Mrs. Bennet will find sufficient entertainment in telling everyone that you had noble relations all along. I do not think she requires a title to assist her."

They were right. A letter from Hertfordshire arrived within days, full of Mrs. Bennet's astonishment and a long account of how she had always been certain Elizabeth possessed unusual distinction. Jane wrote separately, expressing affection without reference to rank, and quietly acknowledging that her mother had forgotten some of the words spoken after Mr. Bennet's death.

Elizabeth answered Jane first. She told her cousin the truth in the gentlest terms she could manage, described her improving shoulder, and asked whether Mr. Bingley had yet found sufficient courage to put his question plainly.

The answer came sooner than she expected. Bingley had proposed, Jane had accepted, and Mrs. Bennet's joy threatened the tranquility of every person within hearing of her voice. Elizabeth carried the letter to Darcy and read the happiest lines aloud.

"I am relieved," Darcy said.

"Because your friend has found happiness?"

"Because I have been obliged to endure six months of his speculations concerning the proper hour, room, and weather for a proposal. He nearly asked me whether the moon should be consulted."

"And you, who once proposed in a garden, did not offer an opinion?"

"I advised him that Miss Bennet was unlikely to measure his affection by the barometer."

Elizabeth laughed, then grew quiet. "Jane deserves every happiness. It is a comfort to know that this dreadful business has not swallowed everyone else's future."

Darcy drew her hand to his lips. "It has delayed ours more than either of us wished."

"Do you regret waiting?"

"No. But I wish to marry you, Elizabeth. Not in order to rescue you from your troubles, and not after some perfect day when every person we love has been made secure. We have waited long enough for life to permit us happiness."

She searched his face. The earnestness that had once amused her now steadied her. He did not promise a future free of grief. He offered one in which they would meet it together.

"Then let us marry in the spring," she said. "When the roads are kinder and my shoulder no longer supplies you with reasons to rearrange my cushions."

"I shall find other reasons."

"I know," Elizabeth said. "That is what I love about you, among many more defensible qualities."

Several days later Elizabeth visited Mrs. Ashby, now recovered enough to be conveyed to a comfortable town house without distress. Betsey stood at the door and embraced Elizabeth before recollecting that she was embracing a young lady of consequence. Tom Ellis, still recovering from his broken arm, had been assured employment upon healing and given wages during his confinement. The former groom seemed astonished that Saye had remembered a promise spoken beside the road.

"My lord has remembered every part of the arrangement," Tom said. "He sent word to the yard that I was not to be blamed for the mishap."

"My brother keeps account of many things," Elizabeth said. "We are fortunate that his lists occasionally include human beings."

Tom grinned. His arm was still in a sling, but he looked less fearful for the future. Elizabeth felt a release she had scarcely anticipated. There were injuries Adelheid could not undo, but neither could she claim the right to define all that followed them.

Charlotte Collins came to London with her husband during the winter and requested a call upon Elizabeth. Mrs. Bennet had written of royal relations with such extravagance that Charlotte was relieved to discover her friend still greeted her with a smile and a book left open upon the table. Mr. Collins made a long speech concerning the honour of Elizabeth's connections and the deep wisdom of Lady Catherine, whom he believed ought to be consulted upon the treatment of nearly every person of rank.

Charlotte listened until he paused for breath. "My dear, Elizabeth has been unwell. Perhaps her aunt would be pleased if we spared her a discussion of genealogies."

Mr. Collins agreed at once and turned his attention to the room's furnishings. When Lady Matlock invited him to examine a curious clock in the passage, he accepted with enthusiasm and followed her out, never suspecting that Charlotte had been granted the conversation she wished.

"Are you happy?" Charlotte asked when they were alone with a maid in attendance.

"Very," Elizabeth answered. "But I confess I have learned that happiness does not banish anxiety. I had thought it might have been considerate enough to do so."

Charlotte smiled. "I do not believe any estate, however large, is free of difficult relations."

"You manage Longbourn with such skill that I sometimes wonder whether my uncle left it to the wrong person."