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"Nothing dreadful. That was dreadful in itself." Tears slid down Georgiana's cheeks. "He was very still. He asked whether I had promised to leave the following morning, and whether Mrs. Younge knew. I said yes. He looked as though someone had struck him. Then he took my hand and said I was coming home with him, and that no one would make me go anywhere I did not wish to go."

Elizabeth thought of Darcy's solemn care for his sister, of his habit of watching the doors of a room before Georgiana entered it. The habits she had occasionally teased him for had acquired a painful history.

"I was angry with him for a few minutes," Georgiana whispered. "Can you imagine it? I had almost ruined everything, and I was angry because he had prevented me from doing as I pleased. The next day I learned that Mr. Wickham had gone away. Mrs. Younge did not come to say farewell. Only then did I begin to understand that their affection was not what I thought it."

"I think you understand it very well now," Elizabeth answered.

"I had agreed to marry him. I thought I loved him. Fitzwilliam says I was deceived, but the agreement was mine. Some mornings I wake and remember that letter in my own handwriting."

Elizabeth took a moment before replying. A careless kindness would be too easy, and Georgiana deserved more than an easy answer.

"You were fifteen," she said. "A man older than you and a woman entrusted with your care arranged that you should trust them more than those who loved you. They took pains to keep you from asking the very questions that might have protected you. Your willingness to believe good of someone was not a promise that he might use it against you."

"But I ought to have known."

"Perhaps there are things we understand only after we have been hurt by them." Elizabeth thought of Mrs. Bennet setting Mr. Collins beside her at dinner, of the awful certainty that her refusal would leave her without a home. "When I was sixteen, I was told that gratitude required me to marry a gentleman I could not love. I knew I did not wish it, yet I wondered whether I was wrong to refuse. I needed someone outside that house to say I was permitted a choice."

Georgiana regarded her with surprise. "I thought you had never doubted yourself."

"I doubted myself most when I was most determined to appear certain," Elizabeth said. "I suspect it is a common failing."

Georgiana looked down at their joined hands. "Will you think of Ramsgate whenever you look at me?"

"I shall think that you play the pianoforte beautifully and are much too charitable toward Richard's jokes. I shall think you have excellent judgment about where benches ought to stand. I may also think that you trusted people who did not deserve it. I do not see why the last must erase the first three."

A tear escaped Georgiana, but so did a faint smile. She reached for the music she had brought with her and began smoothing its pages again, this time without the desperate movements of before.

"Would you mind," she said, "if we did not play today?"

"Not in the least. We could read, or walk, or complain about the weather. I excel at the last."

They remained by the window until the light shifted across the carpet. Georgiana spoke once or twice more about things she had not dared confess: that she sometimes missed the flattering voice she knew had been false, that she hated herself for missing it, and that Darcy's very tenderness made her wish she could give him back the peace he had lost. Elizabeth did not try to settle those sorrows before tea. Instead she listened, and when Georgiana fell silent, she remained beside her.

When at last they returned to the drawing room, Darcy rose from a conversation with his aunt. One glance at Georgiana's swollen eyes brought him half a step forward. He checked himself when his sister approached him of her own accord.

"Would you walk with me before dinner?" Georgiana asked.

"Gladly," Darcy said. "Which way would you prefer?"

Georgiana considered the question. "By the rose beds, if they are not too wet."

Darcy offered his arm. He did not ask what had passed in the sitting room. At the door, he looked back toward Elizabeth; the thanks in his expression was painful in its sincerity. She gave a slight inclination of her head, wishing him to understand that no gratitude was required for keeping a confidence.

After they had gone, Lady Matlock came to stand beside Elizabeth. She had noticed the handkerchief in Georgiana's hand and the unusual care with which Darcy had waited for his sister's answer.

"Shall I have them bring the tea a little later?" the countess asked.

"I think she would be grateful for that," Elizabeth said.

Lady Matlock nodded and sent word to the servants. It was such a small alteration to the order of the house that no one else remarked upon it. Elizabeth watched the countess settle to her sewing and was reminded, as she had been so often, that love sometimes announced itself by making room.

The following week Lady Matlock hosted a small evening of music. Georgiana had chosen to perform, but shortly before the guests arrived she became so nervous that she begged to be excused. Darcy offered to send everyone away. Lady Matlock promised that no one would be offended if she declined. Elizabeth said nothing until Georgiana looked to her.

"What would you like to do?" Elizabeth asked.

"I wanted to play when I chose the piece," Georgiana said. "Now I think I cannot."

"Then we might make the choice smaller. Play only the first movement if you wish, and leave the rest for another day."