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“Forgive my digression, Mr. Whitmore,” Lady Lucas interjected rather eagerly, “but I must say—Elizabeth Bennet is not quite the young lady she appeared to be that evening. One of the reasons I wished to invite you today was, quite frankly, to see whether some sort of reconciliation might be possible. I assure you, her conduct, though regrettable, has its explanation.”

“And more than that,” Charlotte added gently, “Elizabeth truly regrets having caused you any discomfort. She told me herself how sorry she was, and asked that I convey her apologies should the opportunity arise.”

Mr. Whitmore looked at her, unconvinced.

“I promise you, she never meant to give offence, sir,” Charlotte insisted. “It was an unfortunate circumstance—she is a young lady, still learning. Mistakes do happen.”

“And yet you are young as well, if I may say so, Miss Lucas,” Mr. Whitmore replied, his tone edging toward the moralizing, “and you do not appear to make such mistakes.”

“I am, however, six and a half years older than she is,” Charlotte said mildly, offering the fact as a gentle defense.

“I should not have guessed it, Miss Lucas,” he replied. “But in any case, age and wisdom seem very much in your favor.”

“You are too kind,” Lady Lucas interjected, smiling with satisfaction.

“I am often kind, madam,” said Mr. Whitmore, “but in this case, I am only honest. I have tried to be fair, and I have no wish to flatter. Miss Lucas has earned such praise—and the modesty with which she receives it speaks further in her favor.”

Charlotte leaned forward slightly, her expression unusually earnest.

“You may not know her well, Mr. Whitmore—but I do. Elizabeth is spirited, yes, and sometimes too quick to speak, but she is also generous, loyal, and impossibly brave. She carries more responsibility than many see, and never complains of it. She would sacrifice her own comfort in a moment for those she loves. Elizabeth sees through pretense, and because she does, she sometimes speaks with more truth than the world is prepared to hear. But she is never cruel. She is the sort of person who notices when someone is hurting—even when they try to hide it. She would rather make herself the fool than allow another to feel small.”

Charlotte paused, her voice softening but steady.

“I do not say this as a friend trying to excuse a fault. I say it as someone who has seen Elizabeth at her worst and best—and has loved her more for both.”

Mr. Whitmore regarded her in silence, clearly moved. Then, after a pause, he said, his tone slower, more reflective, “You have spoken well for her, Miss Lucas. Admirably so. I imagine your fiancé must be quite proud of you. And rightly so—mark my words.”

Before Charlotte could answer, Lady Lucas, chin slightly raised, replied on her daughter’s behalf. “You are mistaken, Mr. Whitmore. My daughter has, at present, no fiancé—”

At that moment, the door opened with a brisk sweep and Sir William entered, cheeks ruddy from the walk and hat still in hand.

“Quite right,” he said with good-natured pomp. “And none on the horizon, to my knowledge—though I daresay half the county ought to be applying!”

Charlotte looked away in embarrassment, her cheeks coloring, though a faint smile played at her lips.

“Mr. Whitmore,” Sir William said warmly, offering a respectful bow. “A pleasure, sir. I trust my wife and daughter have kept you well entertained while I was detained in Meryton.”

The guest rose to return the courtesy. “Very much so, Sir William. I am glad to see you again.”

“My apologies for arriving late,” Sir William added, settling into the nearest chair. “But I come bearing excellent news. Our Walter has received formal confirmation—he will take the post of assistant magistrate next quarter.”

“Oh, that is delightful news!” exclaimed Lady Lucas.

Mr. Whitmore inclined his head. “Allow me to offer my congratulations. I assume that a post of such responsibility will suit your son well.”

“Just so!” Sir William beamed. “He has always been steady—more scholar than showman, perhaps, but thoughtful and fair. Exactly what the town needs.”

Mr. Whitmore, who had been nodding with polite approval, turned his gaze again toward Charlotte—not as Elizabeth Bennet’s loyal defender, but as someone worthy of attention in her own right.

“Do continue!” Sir William said, noticing the thoughtful silence. “It wasn’t my intention to interrupt.”

“Indeed,” Lady Lucas added, her voice gentler than usual. She glanced at Mr. Whitmore with an almost knowing look. “Mr. Whitmore, you were about to say something?”

He inclined his head slightly. “Yes. I was addressing Miss Lucas. Your words about your friend—they have stayed with me. But it is not only your defense of another that struck me. Your manner. Your composure. Your thoughtfulness, your loyalty—not just to Miss Elizabeth, but to those around you. That...” He hesitated.

“That reminds me of what I most valued. In my Geraldine.”

A pause followed. For once, Lady Lucas said nothing.

Mr. Whitmore went on, his voice lower, almost contemplative.

“I do not consider myself a romantic man, Miss Lucas. I have lived a quiet life—preferable, perhaps, to the noise of pretended emotion. I value respect, companionship, understanding. And I find myself hoping that such things might still be offered... anew.”

He stopped then, clearly gathering his thoughts, and glanced once more at Charlotte.

“I had not intended to speak so soon—today least of all. But your patience, your quiet strength, your calm sense of what matters—I have come to admire it deeply. If it would not displease you... I would be honored to call again. With purpose.”

Charlotte did not answer at once. Her expression was composed, but the warmth in her eyes did not waver.

“There is more I would say,” Mr. Whitmore continued after a moment, his voice softer still. “And if, with time, you would permit it... I would very much like to ask if you would consider becoming my wife.”

There was a flicker in Charlotte’s gaze—surprise, certainty, and something tender. “Yes,” she said, and her voice, though soft, held the weight of conviction.

There was a stillness, brief but full, before Mr. Whitmore turned to the elder Lucases.

“Sir William. Lady Lucas,” he said with quiet gravity, “I am a gentleman of independent means, a widower with an established estate in Somerset, and now—by Miss Lucas’s kind consent—a man with sincere intentions. It is your blessing I hope to receive.”

Sir William blinked once, then rose to his feet with a broad smile and all the pomp of a ceremonial moment.

“Well, Mr. Whitmore—how could any father refuse such an honorable request? You have my full blessing, sir. And my congratulations!”

He crossed the room and offered a respectful bow, which Mr. Whitmore returned with equal dignity.

Lady Lucas, who had remained still for once, dabbed discreetly at the corner of her eye. “You will forgive me, Mr. Whitmore,” she said, her voice uncharacteristically soft, “but I am most sincerely touched. I always hoped Charlotte would be seen for who she truly is.”

Charlotte looked down, her cheeks tinged with color but her smile steady.

“There is nothing to forgive,” Mr. Whitmore replied gently. “You have raised a woman of excellent sense and rare kindness. It is I who am honored.”

There was, for a moment, nothing but the gentle clink of teacups and the rustle of leaves at the parlor window. Then Sir William clapped his hands together, already rising to the occasion.

“Well! Let us make this a day to remember. Another pot of tea—and something sweeter, if you please! This calls for a proper toast.”

The air in the room shifted—lighter, warmer. What had begun as a visit of uncertain purpose had unfolded into something far more meaningful. All present felt it: a quiet certainty that something good had taken root and begun to grow.

Mr. Whitmore settled back, exhaling softly. “My Geraldine,” he murmured. “God rest her soul—she would have liked you, Miss Lucas. Very much indeed.”

***

After Mr. Whitmore’s departure—having been escorted to his carriage with all due ceremony by Sir William, who offered distinguished well-wishes and, at the guest’s own suggestion, promised to return the visit the following Saturday—the atmosphere within Lucas Lodge all but exploded.

Sir William, too elated to contain himself, summoned not only his immediate family but every servant within earshot to the drawing room. Once gathered, he puffed up like a town crier on market day.

“Attend me, all!” he declared, chest proudly expanded. “Our Walter has been officially appointed assistant magistrate—hurrah!”

This was greeted with cheerful exclamations, clapping, and a spontaneous hooray from the youngest Lucas child, who clearly had no idea what a magistrate did but sensed celebration was in order.

“And,” Sir William continued with a flourish, “to crown the day with happiness, I am proud to say that Mr. Whitmore has asked for our Charlotte’s hand—and I have accepted! A proper engagement will be settled soon.”

This second announcement caused an even greater stir. Laughter, congratulations, and embraces followed in quick succession. Lady Lucas clung to her daughter with joyful abandon, crying aloud her gratitude to Providence, while the footman rushed to the kitchen to inform the cook.

But amid all this rapture, Charlotte sat composed, her smile gracious, her posture calm—and her eyes suspiciously bright.

Tears welled, not only from emotion, but from something far more difficult to admit.

Charlotte’s heart was a tangle of joy and regret, of resolution and guilt.

She had accepted Mr. Whitmore’s offer with sincerity, even with hope—but also with the sharp knowledge that in doing so, she had forfeited her friend’s final chance at salvation.