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"That is not quite the same."

"No," Elizabeth agreed. She set down her pen. "But perhaps it may be enough until life supplies something better."

Georgiana reached across the table and took her hand. There was no dramatic declaration, only a shy pressure of fingers. Elizabeth understood it perfectly.

The day after they spoke of Mary, Georgiana came to Elizabeth in the little sitting room overlooking the garden. She had knocked although the door stood open. In one hand she carried her music; in the other she held a folded handkerchief, worn nearly transparent at one corner from the attention of her fingers.

"May I speak with you?" Georgiana asked.

Elizabeth closed the book upon her lap. "Of course. Shall I ring for tea?"

"No, thank you." Georgiana looked toward the window and then at the chair beside it. "I should rather not have anyone come in."

Elizabeth rose to close the door. When she returned, Georgiana was still standing, the music pressed flat against her gown. Elizabeth did not invite her to be brave or assure her that whatever troubled her could be easily mended. She remembered too well how such assurances had sounded when she was sixteen and frightened of what the next day might require of her.

"We may sit in silence if you prefer," Elizabeth said. "I have often found it the most comfortable part of a conversation."

Georgiana gave a breath that was almost a laugh and sat down. A long moment passed while she smoothed a crease in the music that would not stay smooth.

"You know something happened at Ramsgate last summer," she said.

"I know you were unhappy afterward," Elizabeth answered. "Your brother has told me nothing that was not necessary to understand that you ought to be treated gently."

"He thinks it was his fault. That is one of the worst parts." Georgiana swallowed. "He would give me anything I asked for, if he believed it might make me happy, but I cannot bear to ask him for anything now."

Elizabeth waited. Outside, a servant crossed the gravel with a basket of cut flowers. Somewhere in the house Richard was laughing at a joke she could not hear. That ordinary sound seemed to give Georgiana courage.

"My companion at Ramsgate was Mrs. Younge," she said. "She was very agreeable when we first went there. She permitted things my brother would have considered foolish—extra visits to the shops, walks when the weather looked uncertain, chocolate before dinner. I thought her very kind. I did not understand why she was so anxious that I should think her my friend."

She looked down at the handkerchief. Elizabeth could see a faint red mark where the linen had been twisted about one finger.

"There was a gentleman she knew," Georgiana continued. "Mr. George Wickham. I had known him when I was little. My father was fond of him, and I remembered him as someone who could always make me laugh. He spoke of Pemberley as though it belonged to our childhood together. He remembered my pony and the old summerhouse and the names of the dogs. I had missed home so dreadfully."

"Then he spoke of things you loved," Elizabeth said.

"Yes. And he never made me feel young or uncertain. If I was silent, he said he admired my thoughtfulness. If I said something foolish, he called it charming. Mrs. Younge declared that such attentions could have only one meaning." Georgiana stopped. Her cheeks had gone pink. "I believed her."

Elizabeth had heard compliments used as snares before, though never against a girl so young. She put down the book altogether.

"What did he ask of you?" she said.

"At first, nothing. That is what deceived me. Then he began to speak of how unhappy he had been, and of how little my brother understood him. He said Fitzwilliam would oppose our marriage because he wished to keep me a child and hated to see Mr. Wickham prosper." Georgiana's voice thinned. "I knew my brother disapproved of him. I thought it was only an old quarrel between gentlemen."

"Did you tell Mr. Wickham that you would speak to your brother?"

"I offered. He was distressed at the suggestion. He said Fitzwilliam would separate us before we could explain ourselves." Georgiana lifted her eyes for the first time. "He told me that if I loved him, I must trust him enough to go away with him. Mrs. Younge said marriages of affection were sometimes obliged to begin with secrecy."

Elizabeth felt a sudden, fierce impulse to go in search of the woman who had said such a thing. She kept her hands folded, for Georgiana had come seeking steadiness, not indignation.

"And you agreed?" Elizabeth asked quietly.

Georgiana nodded. "I had a little case packed. I had written a letter for Fitzwilliam. I remember being proud of it because the handwriting was so neat. I thought it would prove I was old enough to decide for myself."

Her mouth trembled. She pressed the handkerchief against it, fighting for command of her voice. Elizabeth moved nearer but did not touch her until Georgiana reached for her hand.

"Fitzwilliam came a day earlier than we expected," Georgiana said. "He had business nearby and wished to surprise me. I was so pleased to see him that I forgot all my fine resolutions. I told him everything. I thought, even then, that he might be persuaded if I explained how very good Mr. Wickham had been to me."

"What did he do?"