Page 27

Before the mood could sink into complaint, Mr. Bennet, who had been standing behind his chair with an absent air, spoke with uncharacteristic warmth.

“We shall all go to the ball, of course. The invitation was extended to each of us, and accepted with civility. If the ladies of the house find us tiresome, let us do them the courtesy of appearing agreeable—if only by contrast.”

There was a pause—small, surprised smiles rippled around the room. Even Elizabeth looked up at him in mild astonishment.

He continued with a dry but generous tone, “Mr. Bingley and Mr. Darcy are both fine gentlemen. I saw no harm in either tonight.”

Mrs. Bennet’s eyes widened in surprise, her brows arching high on her forehead. “You are actually praising Mr. Darcy? How utterly unexpected!”

“I have many opinions,” Mr. Bennet replied. “Some of them I keep in reserve. Tonight, I found no reason to dislike him. Quite on the contrary.”

Reassured, Lydia and Kitty perked up at once.

“Oh, I must wear my blue muslin!” Lydia cried. “Even if Miss Bingley would glare at it like a basilisk!”

Jane smiled gently, and even Mary seemed faintly gratified.

Satisfied by this declaration, Mrs. Bennet stood with a rustle. “Well, I shall be glad to see the ball done and all my daughters admired, as they ought to be.”

With that, the younger girls ascended the stairs in a flurry of slippers and fabric. Jane followed more slowly, with a soft “Good night,” and Mary took her book, soon after excusing herself with decorum.

Only Elizabeth lingered. With her sisters retired and the fire dying low, the moment Elizabeth had been waiting for finally arrived.

“Papa,” she said, stopping just short of the threshold, “may I speak with you?”

Mr. Bennet looked at her slowly. His gaze met Lizzy’s with something between weariness and welcome.

“Certainly, Lizzy. Though I must warn you, I am in no condition to solve riddles or compose verses.”

“This is neither, and you know it, Papa,” she replied gently, and stepped back inside, closing the door behind her.

He gestured to the chair across from him, and she sat without fuss, her hands folded neatly in her lap.

“Now then, Lizzy—”

“Isn’t it something you postponed to tell me, Papa?”

There was a silence. Not defensive, not angry—but thoughtful. Then, with a long breath, Mr. Bennet leaned back in his chair and gave a dry, rueful smile.

“Well,” he said, “you have always been the sharpest among us. I suppose I should tell you and get the burden off your shoulders.”

There was a silence.

Then he smiled again and said, “It will not surprise you to learn that the sum is no longer a target. I had no means of raising it—not until last night.”

Elizabeth’s eyes narrowed slightly. “You told no one.”

“I did not need to,” he said. “Mr. Darcy… offered assistance. Quietly. Without condition.”

Elizabeth blinked.

“He made no show of it. No speech, Lizzy. Simply handed me what I lacked—disguised as winnings at cards.” Mr. Bennet said.

“You have played cards for money. Again, Papa?”

“I didn’t mean to. Anyway, the stringent matter is solved. Mr. Darcy made no show of it. But I know a gift when I see one.”

“And you accepted?”

He gave a small, bitter smile. “I had no choice, Lizzy. I tried to refuse. I even thought to tear up the draft. But Mr. Darcy insisted. Not as a man with wealth to spare, but as a man unwilling to watch another drown. And Mr. Bingley stood behind him every single moment.”

Elizabeth sat very still.

Mr. Bennet went on, softer now. “Darcy said nothing afterward. Neither did Bingley. I believe it was done for your sake—not mine.”

She looked down, biting her lower lip in embarrassment.

“I shall repay him,” Mr. Bennet added. “It may take me more than half an year, but I will. It is a debt of honor now.”

Elizabeth nodded once. Her voice, when it came, was quiet. “And what shall we do, Papa?”

He gave a tired, thoughtful smile. “I shall go to London to solve the matter. Then, we shall go to the Netherfield ball. We shall hold our heads high. And I shall begin, tomorrow, to rebuild what I have squandered.”

Elizabeth stood. “Thank you for telling me.”

“Thank you for not letting me hide, Lizzy.”

She stepped toward the door, then paused and looked back at him. “You are still our father, Papa. And we shall always trust you no matter how. “That is not a dignity that may be so easily lost.”

His eyes softened. And when she left the room, there were no tears—only resolve.

***

Elizabeth ascended the stairs slowly, each step a measured release of breath. The house had settled into its familiar evening hush. Jane’s door, left open a few inches, cast a golden bar of candlelight across the corridor—as though her sister had been expecting her all along.

Elizabeth tapped lightly once on the door, and Jane’s voice answered at once, low but expectant: “I knew you would come.”

Jane sat near the hearth, her hands clasped loosely in her lap, a shawl drawn around her shoulders. Her gaze lifted as Elizabeth entered—gentle, expectant, and touched with quiet curiosity. “You spoke with Papa?”

Elizabeth stepped inside and pulled the door mostly closed, her expression calm—if thoughtful. “Of course. He has good news: the debt... it is hopefully settled.”

Jane’s brow eased, though she still searched Elizabeth’s face. “Truly? Is it indeed?”

Elizabeth crossed the room and sat beside Jane. She let out a slow breath. “The debt was as serious as you know. But Papa has accepted help. From Mr. Darcy.”

Jane blinked. “Mr. Darcy?”

Elizabeth nodded. “Not directly. He disguised it—very neatly—behind a game of cards. He let Papa win. It was a gift, carefully presented as a gentleman’s loss.”

Jane’s mouth parted, then closed again without a word.

“And Papa,” Elizabeth continued, “accepted it. Reluctantly, guiltily—but he accepted. And intends to repay every pound.”

Jane reached out, gently covering her sister’s hand with her own. “That is... extraordinary.”

Elizabeth smiled faintly. “Yes. That is the precise word.”

They sat in silence for a few moments, the candlelight flickering across the soft contours of Jane’s face and the fine tension in Elizabeth’s brow.

“Jane,” Elizabeth said at last, “this news changes everything.”

Jane tilted her head slightly. “Does it?”

“I was prepared to marry a man I did not care for. Not out of pressure—but from necessity. I was prepared to tie myself to someone simply because it might spare us shame. It seemed, at the time, the only honorable thing left to do.”

“And now?” Jane asked gently.

Elizabeth looked down, then out toward the narrow window and the stars beyond it. “Now the burden has been lifted, and I... I do not know what to do with this sudden freedom. I feel as if I have been released from some invisible thread—but not quite returned to myself.”

Jane waited, understanding that Elizabeth spoke more from thought than emotion now.

“I cannot help wondering,” Elizabeth said slowly, “why Mr. Darcy did it. Not for our father—not really. He scarcely knows him. Not for society’s approval—he abhors display. And not for amusement—he is far too serious for that.”

Jane sighed but said nothing.

Elizabeth’s voice softened, almost hesitant. “The only explanation—however improbable, however inadmissible it may seem—is that he did it for me. Mr. Darcy acted for my sake.”

There. The truth, spoken aloud for the first time, felt startling and strange. Elizabeth let the idea sit between them, watching Jane’s reaction, but her sister simply gave her hand a soft squeeze.

“I do not pretend to understand Mr. Darcy,” Elizabeth went on, “but I begin to see that I misunderstood him. He is not merely proud—he is private. Deep. And capable of more compassion than I ever imagined.”

“You are beginning to admire him,” Jane said quietly.

Elizabeth turned her head, startled. “Am I?”

Jane smiled adding a glance full of knowing kindness. “Perhaps you are only beginning to realize that you already do.”

Elizabeth drew in a breath and rose from the bed. “I need to think.”

“I know,” Jane said.

Elizabeth leaned down to press a kiss to her sister’s brow. “Sleep, dearest. You are still my compass.”

“And you are still my heart,” Jane replied.

Minutes later, Elizabeth stepped into her own room and closed the door softly behind her. The candle on her table had burned low, its wax pooling at the base like a fallen crown. She crossed to the window, pushed open the sash, and let the night air kiss her skin.

Mr. Darcy’s face rose before her—steady, composed, and strangely gentle as she imagined he had handed her father that redeeming piece of paper. It had not been for show. It had not been for reward, nor for praise.

It had been done for her. She could not fathom how one might thank such a man for such a deed.

If he cared for her—if there was truly feeling behind so profound a gesture—why had he said so little?

Why else would he offer help to her father?

Perhaps Mr. Darcy believed she would learn of it in time.

Perhaps he understood that, when she did, she would struggle to make sense of a kindness so deeply concealed, so humbly given.

A gift without explanation, from a man who once seemed all pride and reserve.

A man she had once dismissed as arrogant had, in quiet defiance of all appearances, preserved her family’s honor.

Elizabeth pressed her forehead to the cool pane of glass and closed her eyes.

He had not spoken of admiration. He had not repeated anything like affection. And yet what he had done spoke louder than any proposal could have.

It was not love she was certain of—not yet. But it was something real. Something true. And it had moved her, deeply.

She closed the pane and turned away from the window, her chest full and aching, and extinguished the candle and with it, the last flicker of uncertainty—if only for a moment.

Elizabeth felt an unfamiliar fullness in her heart.

A quiet joy settled in her—new, fragile, and entirely her own. She did not cry. Not this time.

But she did not sleep quickly, either.