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The morning after their heartfelt conversation, Elizabeth had found little rest. Sleep had come in brief, restless intervals, and even the brightening light of day failed to lift the weight that had settled upon her heart.

Though she had agreed to give her father time to seek another solution, no other path seemed likely.

As she sat quietly in the breakfast room, watching the steam rise from her untouched tea, Elizabeth knew she could no longer keep her thoughts to herself.

After breakfast, Mr. Bennet declared his intention of riding into Meryton for the Sunday morning church service, citing both duty and convenience.

It was his custom, when the weather allowed and the mood struck him, to attend the Sunday sermon—not so much from piety as from habit, and the agreeable prospect of encountering acquaintances in the churchyard.

On this occasion, he particularly hoped to meet his old friend Mr. Partridge, a retired solicitor who now resided in the village of Moorleigh, just east of town.

Should Mr. Partridge not be present at the service—a possibility Mr. Bennet acknowledged with a shrug—he expressed his determination to ride on and call at his friend’s house directly.

“There is more sense,” he observed dryly, “in exchanging a few civil remarks with a man of experience than in staying home to listen to nonsense spoken with youthful conviction.”

Elizabeth watched him depart with mingled anxiety and hope, wondering what small aid such a visit might bring.

It was scarcely half an hour later when Charlotte arrived, having come on foot, her bonnet slightly askew from the breeze and a worried expression tugging at her usually placid features. Mrs. Bennet welcomed her cheerfully, but Elizabeth soon proposed a walk in the garden, claiming a need for air.

Once safely beyond the hearing of the house, Charlotte touched Elizabeth’s arm. “You look pale, Lizzy. And distracted. What is it?”

Elizabeth hesitated, pressing her lips together as though determined to remain silent, then gave Charlotte a searching glance.

Shadows of worry played in her eyes, and she drew a slow breath before speaking.

“It is a matter I can trust only to you, Charlotte. You must promise to keep it in confidence.”

“Of course,” Charlotte said with unwavering sincerity, her curiosity piqued by Elizabeth’s obvious distress.

Elizabeth then said quietly, “My father is in debt. A serious one. A thousand pounds must be paid within a month, or we risk losing Longbourn—not only the estate, but our respectability, and our good name. I discovered it through a letter from our solicitor, Mr. Blunt. I had asked him, long ago, to keep me informed should anything pressing arise and my father seem… uncommunicative or evasive. He sent word after Papa failed to respond clearly.”

Charlotte halted, her eyes widening in disbelief. “Lizzy, this is a matter of great consequence. Can nothing be done?”

“He has very few choices. But I offered him a solution.” Elizabeth spoke as if doubting her own words even as she uttered them. “I told Papa I might reconsider Mr. Whitmore.”

Charlotte’s breath caught. “You cannot mean it.”

“Yet I do. He is not disagreeable. More importantly, Mr. Whitmore is respectable, well-settled, and seeks companionship, not romance. If I were to show interest, perhaps he would—”

“Lizzy,” Charlotte interrupted gently, “you refused him at the ball. He likely does not expect your interest now—and if he is modest, as you say, he may not even consider himself an eligible prospect for a woman like you. Were you to accept him now, he might wonder at your reasons. Others certainly would.”

Elizabeth looked away. “I am aware. But if he is willing to marry again, he will not raise too many objections and will concern himself more with the remedy to his solitude than with questions. He will dismiss what happened at the ball as a mere whim of a young, inexperienced girl. He may even prefer to think of me in that way. Do you not agree?”

“Perhaps he would,” Charlotte said after a moment, her voice quiet. “Men often do—especially those who value peace over passion. But Lizzy, even if he asks no questions, you will know the answer. Can you bear that, day after day? To be bound by gratitude rather than affection?”

The silence between them stretched, filled only by the distant rustle of leaves.

“You once told me,” Charlotte went on, always measured, always thoughtful, “that you wished to marry only for love—or at least for esteem. That you would rather remain alone than settle for a cold bargain.”

“I remember,” Elizabeth said, her voice tight. “But I also remember that we live in a world where not all choices are fair.”

Charlotte turned toward her, studying her face. “Would you truly sacrifice yourself for the sake of the rest? For your sisters?”

Elizabeth’s reply came low but steady. “Wouldn’t you, if you were in my place?”

“I probably would,” Charlotte admitted. “But my situation is different. I am older, with fewer expectations—and with no real hope that anyone would ever look at me as he once looked at you.”

Elizabeth said nothing. Her gaze had fallen to the gravel path beneath their feet.

“Your father must try other avenues,” Charlotte said eventually. “Has he not?”

“He has raised a portion from promises—about ￡420. A sum may come from Uncle Gardiner, but it will probably not arrive soon enough. And he will not consider touching the dowry trusts. Stubborn man. He protected them, at least.”

They walked on in silence, the garden path crunching softly beneath their shoes.

“Does Mr. Whitmore know of your family's difficulties?” Charlotte asked at last.

“No. Nor should he. But if I were to appear... open to renewing the acquaintance, he might infer something. Or he might not. Either way, I must seem sincere.”

Charlotte shook her head slowly. “It would be a sacrifice, Lizzy. Perhaps not of your dignity, but of your peace. You would forever wonder if he believed you came to him for love—or for rescue.”

“I would know the truth,” Elizabeth said. “And I could live with it—if it saved them.”

“Then let me speak plainly.” Charlotte’s expression softened.

“If you were to make such a choice, I would never judge you.

But I must urge you not to act unless it is truly your heart's decision. If you step toward Mr. Whitmore, and he misreads your intentions... he might not accept. Or he might accept too quickly, and then you must live with that outcome—whatever it is.”

Elizabeth nodded slowly. “I suppose there is no right answer.”

“No. Only what you can live with.”

They continued in silence. The sky above was clear, the hedges full of late-summer green. From the house came faint laughter—Kitty or Lydia, perhaps, untroubled as yet by matters of consequence.

Charlotte studied her for a moment, then gave a small, reluctant nod. “Very well. I shall speak to my mother. If I suggest a quiet tea and mention you only in passing, she may restrain herself—for a while.”

Elizabeth touched her arm gratefully. “Thank you, Charlotte. I would not ask if I saw another way.”

“I know. And I do not like the thought of you sacrificing yourself so coolly—but I understand why you feel you must.” A pause. Then, with quiet firmness: “Let us at least make certain he is worthy of the offer.”

Elizabeth gave a dry chuckle. “A campaign, then—with reconnaissance first.”

“Just do not let it become a siege.”

Her smile faded. “A siege, let it be—so long as it reinstates peace. For my family, at least.”

“And for you?”

Elizabeth turned her gaze toward the house. “I shall settle for quiet.”

For the briefest moment, it struck her that not before long, she might look upon that dear and familiar place not as its daughter but as a stranger come to call. She did not let the thought linger—it carried a pain she was not yet ready to face.

The two friends, bound by understanding and affection, returned slowly, their conversation fading as the gravel path led them back into the familiar hum of Longbourn.

***

Later that afternoon, the sound of approaching hooves and the steady rumble of carriage wheels broke the still hush of the hour and stirred a quiet expectancy within Longbourn.

The household, though discreet in movement, seemed to hold its breath.

When Hill appeared at the parlor door to announce the arrival of Mr. Bingley and Mr. Darcy, Mr. Bennet was already rising from his chair, brushing imaginary dust from his sleeve and murmuring something about punctual men being as rare as honest ones.

With a brief glance toward his daughters—some of whom had sprung to their feet more eagerly than others—he stepped out to the entrance hall to greet his guests.

“Mr. Bingley, Mr. Darcy,” he said, offering a cordial nod to each, “you are most welcome, gentlemen. I am pleased you accepted our invitation—it is always a pleasure to receive such agreeable company.”

Bingley’s manner was, as ever, all warmth and goodwill. “We are grateful for the invitation, sir. It is a pleasure to see you again.”

Mr. Darcy bowed, offering a polite, if more reserved, greeting. “Mr. Bennet.”

After the necessary pleasantries, Mr. Bennet directed them toward the drawing room. He turned with ease to lead them through the hall, his gait unhurried and his tone, when he did speak, a mixture of wry amusement and vague civility.

At their entrance, the ladies rose, standing in quiet expectation. When Mr. Bingley and Mr. Darcy bowed, curtsies were returned with grace and propriety.

Mrs. Bennet offered her greeting with eager warmth, Jane’s was gentle and modest, while Elizabeth’s was composed and perfectly civil. Mr. Darcy’s gaze lingered upon her just a moment longer than custom required, though his expression betrayed nothing beyond politeness.