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Later that week Elizabeth received a visit from Jane, who had come to London with the Gardiners and accepted their invitation to remain at their house until early September. Her uncle and aunt were pleased to keep her with them while she made her calls, and Jane could write to her mother from Gracechurch Street. The cousins embraced with such warmth that Lady Matlock cheerfully surrendered the drawing room to them.

"You are quite transformed by happiness," Elizabeth told Jane, examining her cousin's flushed cheeks.

"And you by curiosity," Jane answered. "Every letter you have sent me has contained another detail of your mother's family. I hardly know whether to rejoice or worry."

"Both, I believe. It seems the proper condition for anyone involved in my affairs."

Jane smiled. "I am glad your uncle is kind. That matters more than the rest."

Elizabeth told her about the songs, the letters, and Albrecht's delight at hearing the old family expressions. Jane listened with the patient attention that had once sustained an eight-year-old orphan at Longbourn. Only when Elizabeth mentioned Adelheid's questions did Jane look thoughtful.

"Perhaps she is eager to understand what happened to your mother," Jane said.

"She is very interested in the dreams Mama had. I cannot imagine why, since there is so little to tell."

"Some people fear what they cannot explain."

Elizabeth nodded. She did not consider Adelheid dangerous. She thought her solemn, perhaps overly anxious, and devoted to her husband. An aunt who had travelled through a war to accompany a grieving man deserved kindness. The fact that she asked uncomfortable questions seemed a small price to pay for the happiness Albrecht had found.

Jane drew a folded note from her reticule and then, with a faint blush, put it away again. Elizabeth raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

"Mr. Bingley asks after you whenever he writes," Jane said. "He was quite distressed by the delays in your uncle's journey. He wished to know whether you would find it intrusive if he sent word through his business acquaintances."

"And what did you tell him?"

"That you had good friends already attending to the matter." Jane smiled down at her gloves. "He was relieved. I think he worries sometimes that doing nothing is the same as not caring."

Elizabeth remembered the music sent from Netherfield months earlier and pictured Bingley looking for some useful task while Jane gently discouraged him. The picture pleased her.

After Jane had gone, Darcy came to take tea with Elizabeth and found her standing before the window, looking down at the departing carriage. He waited until Lady Matlock had asked after Jane's health and gone to answer a note before speaking.

"You seem thoughtful," he said.

"Jane tells me I ought to be careful not to burden Uncle Albrecht with every question I can devise. She is right, of course. I want to know everything about Mama, and he wants to tell me. But there are griefs a man does not wish to revisit merely because his niece has become curious."

"Have you asked him whether he minds?"

"He tells me to ask anything. That is not quite an answer."

Darcy considered her. "You are afraid of taking too much from the people who love you. I have noticed it before."

Elizabeth gave him a rueful smile. "I was raised for eight years by parents who asked nothing of me, and another eight in a house where I was sometimes reminded that I must earn my keep. I fear the latter lessons have a troublesome habit of returning."

"Then permit me to offer you a different lesson," Darcy said. "Albrecht can decide when he wishes to speak of his sister. You may ask without obligation, and he may answer without compulsion. Neither kindness nor honesty requires one person to disappear for the comfort of the other."

She drew a slow breath. "I suppose we shall both need to remember that when we are married."

"We shall. I have spent many years persuading myself that everyone is safest when I anticipate every difficulty. You will not always welcome the assistance."

"I shall welcome it when it is offered rather than imposed."

"Then we have made an agreement."

"We have made a beginning," Elizabeth corrected.

He bowed. "I am instructed."

Later, when Albrecht called again, Elizabeth did ask whether her questions were painful. He answered without evasion that sometimes they were, and that his pain did not make them unwelcome. They agreed that on days when memory felt too heavy, they would speak instead of books or flowers or the unfortunate manner in which Richard played chess.