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Elizabeth nodded. “I do.” A tremble went through her at the thought.

How fortunate that she’d missed. She knew one must cock a pistol, and point it in the right direction before squeezing the trigger, but nothing more. She hadn’t even known if it was loaded, or how to check. Not that she’d time to do so.

She shuddered again. She had no desire to hurt anyone. Even Miss Archer. Or Mademoiselle Dubois. Or whatever she went by this week. Between peacocks, modistes, tradesmen, thieves, English, French, Archers, and Dubois, Elizabeth had no idea what to call the six women who’d claimed to be Mr. Collins’ relations. Nor did she much care what they should be called.

Mr. Partridge returned to his scribbling. “Did you intend to kill the woman you knew as Miss Archer?”

Elizabeth stared at the slim man behind the desk.

“Miss Elizabeth is not on trial,” Mr. Fletcher said firmly.

“I merely seek an accurate understanding of the events,” Mr. Partridge said in a mild voice, his pencil darting across the page.

“I have no notion what I meant to do,” Elizabeth murmured. “All I know is that she shot Mr. Darcy and she was aiming, ready to do so again, and I needed to stop her.”

Not looking up, Mr. Partridge nodded. “And it was then that she jumped backward and fell down the staircase?”

“Yes.” Elizabeth closed her eyes, a blur of memories assailing her. Miss Archer tumbling backward, out of range of the gun Elizabeth aimed at her. Shots ringing out. The sting in her hand that caused her to drop Mr. Darcy’s pistol after firing. Miss Archer’s cry, accompanied by those of her sisters. Later, Mr. Fletcher told her that both Miss Edith and Miss Mabel were on their way up the steps, both armed. Miss Archer fell onto them, several of their weapons firing, and all three ended up in a heap at the base of the staircase.

“And Mademoiselle Catherine Dubois was in the kitchen at this point?” Mr. Partridge asked.

“I do not know. I—” Elizabeth remembered dropping to her knees beside Mr. Darcy, heedless of the growing pool of crimson around him. She’d pressed her hand to the wound in his side, trying to staunch the blood, but it flowed out from beneath him as well. Then she’d become fearful she might somehow be pushing blood out the other side of the wound and had let up, which only resulted in more blood welling forth—

A sob escaped her. She was so very tired. Days of tending Mr. Darcy, of coming to know his sister, who turned out to be a very fine young woman, all capped by Mr. Darcy’s declaration of love and his dismissal. Elizabeth did not know what to do or how to feel. She did know that Jane had the right of it. When a man you cared for told you he loved you but could not marry you, the only recourse was to stay in your room and cry.

“Lizzy?”

“Elizabeth?”

“What is the matter with the girl?” Mrs. Bennet demanded loudly. “She should be happy. She is going to marry Mr. Darcy. He is a very wealthy man, you know, Mr. Partridge.”

“I am aware, Mrs. Bennet.”

“Elizabeth?”

Jane’s voice again, and Jane’s hand, holding hers. On her other side, Kitty patted her shoulder, reaching over from her chair. She shifted and Elizabeth raised her head, uncertain when she’d dropped her face into her hands. She didn’t want Kitty to try to get up. Kitty shouldn’t stand. She would hurt her feet. Feet run raw to save them.

Elizabeth dragged the backs of her hands across her cheeks, trying to blink away tears. “I am sorry. I am a bit overwrought.”

Jane caught back up one of her hands.

“Overwrought?” Mrs. Bennet demanded. “What have you done? You are going to marry Mr. Darcy, are you not?”

How could her mother be so obtuse and yet so insightful? Or was Elizabeth marrying Mr. Darcy all Mrs. Bennet could think of? Had Mrs. Bennet no notion that it might upset Elizabeth to speak of the moment the man she loved nearly died while she knelt beside him, helpless?

“Well?” Mrs. Bennet demanded.

Elizabeth sucked in a breath. If it were done when ‘tis done, then ‘twere well it were done quickly… “I do not believe I am going to marry Mr. Darcy, Mama. We quarreled when he woke up.”

Mrs. Bennet’s eyes bulged. Her mouth hinged open, but no sound emerged.

Mr. Bennet cleared his throat, standing. “If you will excuse us?” He caught his wife by the elbow, hoisting her to her feet with a grunt of effort. “Please carry on without us. I am confident that Mr. Fletcher and Mr. Hurst have my daughters’ interests in mind.” He tugged on Mrs. Bennet’s arm, starting her moving.

“D-did you hear that, Mr. Bennet?” Mrs. Bennet, fortunately, spoke in the reedy whisper of someone about to faint. “They quarreled.”

Mr. Bennet led her from the room.

Everyone exchanged relieved looks. Jane moved closer, putting an arm about Elizabeth’s shoulders. Elizabeth offered her a grateful smile.