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Only she did not run off with a scoundrel. Jane Bennet had made what all their friends and neighbors in Hertfordshire would consider an excellent match.

Yes, Elizabeth’s mother might at first complain of the injustice of it all - how she had been robbed of the prospect of having a daughter who was the future mistress of one of the finest estates in all of Derbyshire.

On the other hand, how soon her protests will be quieted when she learns that the young man who has married her daughter is handsome and agreeable and has five thousand pounds a year.

Now standing just outside the library, fashioning the words to say to her father to explain what all had happened during the night, Elizabeth prayed he would view what had transpired in a similar light as her mother most certainly would when she learned of the truth.

This is a very good thing for our family—a very good thing. How we manage things over the course of the next several hours and days will make all the difference in terms of how society, in general, will react.

Upon entering the library, Elizabeth’s eye immediately darted to the part of the room where she had taught herself to find her papa. He was not there. Walking a bit further, she commenced looking side to side in hopes of finding him. It was no surprise to her that the library was not teeming with people. Other than her father and, of course, herself, Pemberley’s guests did not make very good use of the room.

She did on occasion espy the younger Mr. Darcy either in the stacks seeking his next reading escape or sitting by a large window, overlooking a garden deeply immersed in a book. Thus it hardly came as a surprise to her to see him that morning. His attitude, however, was completely altered. He sat in his usual chair, both of his hands covering his face, his clothing in some disarray.

Perchance he has read Mr. Bingley’s letter already, she considered. Perchance that is the cause of his altered state. Her curiosity to find out what she did not know would not be repressed. She would speak with her father in due time, but first, she needed to speak with Mr. Darcy.

One tentative step after another led her to where he sat. His manner was so different—more akin to distraught. She called out his name to summon his attention, even as she was concerned that she might be one of the last people on Earth he wished to see.

“Mr. Darcy.”

He lowered his hands and in so doing, confirmed Elizabeth’s supposition that something was terribly amiss.

Is this the look of a betrayed man? She somehow sensed it was something more. Lowering his head, he spread his fingers over his eyes. He then stood abruptly.

“Miss Elizabeth,” he said. Remembering himself, he bowed slightly. Throwing a cursory glance about the room, he said, “I suppose you are looking for your father. He is not here. He is with my father.” His voice was clearly affected and heavy with sorrow.

Tears she did not expect welled in her eyes. “Oh, Mr. Darcy,” she cried, “How can I make amends?”

He shook his head slightly as though he had missed a significant part of the conversation. “Make amends? Whatever for, Miss Elizabeth?”

She drew a sharp breath. “Sir, do you not know?”

At that moment, a footman entered the library and approached them. Bearing a silver salver, he bowed before the gentleman. “A letter for you, Sir.”

Mr. Darcy took the letter and with a slight nod of his head in gratitude, silently ordered the servant to be on his way. He looked at the missive which from Elizabeth’s vantage point seemed very much like the one she had received from her sister — the greatest difference being that it was not nearly so pristine.

Frowning a bit, Mr. Darcy then placed the letter on the table beside him.

“Are you not going to read that, Mr. Darcy?”

“It is a missive from my friend Bingley. I believe it can wait. If I may, I wish to ask you again what was your purpose in saying you wish to make amends?”

“Sir, perhaps you ought to read your friend’s letter first.”

He gave the letter a cursory glance and then looked back at Elizabeth. “The letter can wait. No doubt, Bingley writes to tell me that he has gone off on some hastily conceived mission. It is just like him to decide on a thing in one breath and act on it in the next.”

Elizabeth felt the color spread over her body. Were she to judge by Mr. Darcy’s expression, he noticed it too.

“Miss Elizabeth,” he said, “you look ill. Pray have a seat.” He gestured toward the spot next to where he sat moments earlier. “Shall I bring you a glass of wine?”

Sitting, she said, “There is nothing much the matter with me. At least nothing having to do with my health.” She could not help staring at the unread missive on the table.

“What is it about this letter that concerns you so?”

“Sir, I really do think you ought to read what Mr. Bingley has to say.”

Taking his place next to her on the sofa, Darcy reached for the letter. “If it will make that much of a difference to you, I shall.” He tore open the seal and commenced reading. Despite the blots of ink on nearly every line that were visible even from Elizabeth’s vantage point, Mr. Darcy read it without tearing his eyes away for even a second.

At length, he turned his head aside slightly, and holding the letter loosely in one hand, he massaged his temple using the other. Drawing a deep breath, he exhaled audibly and then folded the letter and placed it aside. Standing, he walked to the window and peered outside. After a long stretch of silence, Elizabeth followed him.