Page 5

Chapter Five

T he letter lay open on Elizabeth’s lap, the crisp folds of the expensive paper softened by repeated handling. For days now, she had returned to these pages, tracing Mr. Darcy’s elegant script with eyes that grew more hollow with each reading. The words remained unchanged, yet their meaning seemed to deepen with every hour, like a wound that refused to close, seeping into her very soul until she could think of nothing else but her grievous error in judgment.

“I had not been long in Hertfordshire, before I saw, in common with others, that Bingley preferred your elder sister to any other young woman in the country...”

Elizabeth closed her eyes against the pain those words inflicted. Mr. Darcy had admitted his interference in Jane’s happiness, yes, but with what different understanding she now read his explanation. The confession that had once enraged her now only served to deepen her shame. For in the pages that followed came not only hard-to-swallow truths about her family, but also revelations about Mr. Wickham that had turned her world upside down.

And now, by some cruel twist of fate, she found herself bound to marry the very man whose true character had been laid bare in this letter.

The morning light filtered weakly through the curtains of her bedroom, casting shadows that seemed to mirror the darkness in her heart. Outside, birds sang with cheerful disregard for her misery. Elizabeth rose from her chair by the window and paced the small confines of her room, the letter clutched in her trembling hand.

“You are the last man in the world whom I could ever be prevailed on to marry.”

Her own words returned to haunt her with vicious clarity. How confidently she had delivered that cutting rejection, secure in her belief that she understood both men completely. Mr. Darcy, proud and disagreeable; Mr. Wickham, charming and wronged. Now, the bitter irony of her situation struck her anew. She was indeed engaged to marry the last man in the world she could ever wish to, but it was not Mr. Darcy.

Elizabeth pressed her hand to her mouth, stifling a sound that might have been a laugh or a sob. What would Mr. Darcy think if he could see her now? Would he find satisfaction in seeing her brought so low? No, she could not believe it of him, not anymore. Not after reading his letter again and again until the truth of his character was as clear to her as her own misguided pride.

She moved to the small writing desk and carefully folded the letter, placing it beneath a volume of poetry. The need to preserve it seemed vital, though each reading was a fresh torment. It was her punishment, perhaps, to carry the knowledge of her mistakes while facing the consequences that now seemed inescapable.

The worst of it was that she had no one to blame but herself. Had she been less proud, less certain of her own discernment, she might have seen through Wickham’s charm. She might have recognised the honour and integrity that lay beneath Darcy’s reserve. Instead, she had allowed herself to be utterly deceived, and now she was utterly fallen.

Elizabeth pressed her forehead against the cool glass of her window, watching as a carriage passed on the lane below. Was it only weeks ago that she had walked these same roads with a light heart and easy conscience? How quickly one’s fortunes could change. How swiftly pride could precede a fall.

The scandal had spread through Meryton like wildfire. Elizabeth Bennet, compromised by the dashing Lieutenant Wickham. The circumstances were humiliating enough: discovered alone with him in circumstances that admitted no innocent explanation, a fabricated encounter he had arranged with calculated precision. Her reputation was beyond salvage without marriage. And Wickham, after initial reluctance that Elizabeth now recognised as carefully staged, had graciously offered to “do the right thing.”

If only they knew the half of it. If only she could tell them what manner of man they were forcing her to marry.

But who would believe her now? They would say she was inventing tales to avoid a marriage she had brought upon herself.

A loud knock at her door interrupted her thoughts. Elizabeth hastily composed her features, wiping away traces of tears with the back of her hand.

“Come in,” she called, her voice steadier than she felt.

The door burst open to reveal Lydia, her cheeks flushed with excitement, her eyes bright with malicious pleasure.

“Lizzy! Still hiding away? Mama says you must come down for tea. Mr. Wickham might call today.” Her voice carried a sing-song quality that set Elizabeth’s teeth on edge.

“Thank you, Lydia. I shall be down shortly,” Elizabeth replied, turning back to the window in hopes her sister would take the hint and depart.

Lydia, however, lingered in the doorway, twirling a curl around her finger with affected nonchalance. “I must say, Lizzy, it is rather extraordinary how things have turned out. You were always so proper, so quick to judge my enjoyment of officers’ company. And now look at you.”

The words stung, as they were designed to do. Elizabeth kept her gaze fixed on the garden outside, willing her face to remain impassive.

“Mr. Wickham is very handsome, of course,” Lydia continued, stepping further into the room. “You are fortunate he was willing to marry you after... well, after everything. Mama says we must all be grateful.”

Elizabeth turned slowly, meeting her sister’s eyes. Where once she might have delivered a sharp rebuke, she now found herself without the heart for confrontation. What could she say? That Wickham was a liar and a scoundrel? That he had targeted her deliberately?

“Yes, I am very fortunate,” she said instead, the words like ashes in her mouth.

Lydia giggled, clearly delighting in Elizabeth’s discomfort. “You always thought yourself so clever, did you not? Reading all those books, walking for miles, turning down poor Mr. Collins.”

“I am glad you find my situation amusing, Lydia,” Elizabeth said quietly. “Though I wonder if you would feel the same were our positions reversed.”

A flash of uncertainty crossed Lydia’s face, quickly replaced by her customary pout. “Well, they are not reversed, are they? You are the one who must marry in haste, not I. You are the one in disgrace.”

“Yes,” Elizabeth agreed, feeling suddenly very tired. “I am. And now, if you will excuse me, I must dress for tea.”

Lydia lingered a moment longer, perhaps disappointed by Elizabeth’s calm response, before flouncing out of the room with a final triumphant glance over her shoulder.

When the door closed, Elizabeth sank back into her chair, the composure she had maintained in her sister’s presence crumbling away.

She retrieved Darcy’s letter from beneath the book and unfolded it once more, her eyes finding the passage about Wickham’s “life of idleness and dissipation.” How blind she had been, how willing to believe the worst of one man and the best of another based on nothing more than a pleasing countenance and engaging manners.

“His object was unquestionably my sister’s fortune,” Darcy had written of Wickham’s designs on Georgiana, “which is thirty thousand pounds; but I cannot help supposing that the hope of revenging himself on me was a strong inducement.”

Elizabeth pressed the letter to her chest, a silent tear sliding down her cheek. What fortune did she possess to tempt Wickham? None. It was revenge, then, pure and simple. Revenge for Elizabeth’s slighting him, fear that she might expose his character to the world. At least Wickham could not know of Darcy’s proposal, for Elizabeth had spoken to nobody of it save Jane; though probably if Wickham had known it would have only added to his glee in her destruction, thinking that Elizabeth’s ruin might cause Darcy pain.

Pride cometh before a fall . The old proverb echoed in her mind with cruel clarity. She had been so proud of her discernment, so certain of her judgments. And now she had indeed fallen, not only in society’s estimation but in her own.

Elizabeth Bennet, who had once declared she could never be prevailed upon to marry Mr. Darcy, would now become Mrs. Wickham. And in that moment, she would have given anything to change her answer, to have seen the truth before it was too late.

The morning sunshine cast dappled shadows through the leaves as Elizabeth and Jane walked slowly along the garden path. They had taken to these quiet strolls each day, away from the house where their mother’s excited wedding preparations and Lydia’s smirks made Elizabeth’s situation all the more unbearable. Jane’s presence beside her was a balm to Elizabeth’s wounded spirit, though she noticed how her elder sister seemed to struggle for words of comfort, her usual gentle optimism faltering in the face of a predicament that offered no apparent remedy.

“The garden is looking particularly fine this year,” Jane observed quietly as she guided their path toward the small stone bench at the far end of the garden, where they might sit unobserved from the house.

Elizabeth nodded, grateful for Jane’s attempt at normalcy, though both knew the beauty of Longbourn’s gardens was far from her thoughts. When they reached the bench, Jane arranged her skirts carefully, her fingers smoothing invisible wrinkles with nervous energy for some moments as she clearly took the time to gather her thoughts.

“Lizzy,” she began finally, then faltered. “I wish I knew what to say to make this easier for you.”

Elizabeth reached for her sister’s hand, squeezing it gently. “You believe me, Jane. That is more than I could ask for.”

And it was true. When Elizabeth had explained to Jane the circumstances of her compromise, explaining that Wickham had deliberately engineered it all, Jane had not questioned her for a moment. Yet belief, however comforting, could not alter the reality they faced.

“He speaks so convincingly of his regard for you,” Jane said hesitantly. “When he called yesterday...”

Elizabeth could not suppress a bitter laugh. “Oh yes, he plays the part of the devoted lover to perfection. ‘My dear Miss Elizabeth,’ and ‘how fortunate I am to have won such a treasure.’ His performance is flawless.”

Indeed, Wickham’s public behaviour had been beyond reproach since the scandal broke. He appeared in Meryton daily, expressing his devotion to Elizabeth with such convincing sincerity that many who had initially condemned their impropriety now spoke admiringly of the young couple. Mrs. Phillips had even been heard to remark that it had clearly been a love match all along, and wasn’t it romantic how Mr. Wickham had insisted on doing right by her niece?

Only Elizabeth knew the cold calculation behind his smiles, the triumph in his eyes when he caught her gaze across a room. Each time he kissed her hand or spoke warmly of their future, she felt physically ill, remembering Mr. Darcy’s words about his former friend’s true character.

“I cannot bear it, Jane,” she whispered, her composure slipping momentarily. “The thought of being bound to him for life... I would rather...”

“Hush,” Jane said quickly, glancing toward the house. “Do not say things you may regret. We must hope that... that happiness may yet be possible.”

Elizabeth shook her head slightly, unwilling to crush Jane’s natural optimism but equally unable to pretend. “I have been thinking,” she said instead, changing the subject slightly. “About the wedding arrangements.”

Jane looked back to her, attentive. “Mama is quite set on having the ceremony as soon as possible. She mentioned getting a license again this morning.”

“I know. And that is precisely what I wish to avoid.” Elizabeth straightened her shoulders. “I told Reverend Simons yesterday that I greatly desire to be married properly in church, with the banns read on three consecutive Sundays, as tradition dictates.”

Understanding dawned in Jane’s eyes. “That would delay the wedding by nearly a month.”

“Indeed,” Elizabeth confirmed. “And I advised him that there was certainly no... urgency to the matter that would necessitate haste.” A faint blush coloured her cheeks at the implication of her words, but she continued resolutely. “He seemed quite pleased by my adherence to proper procedure in the face of... difficult circumstances. And I think Mama, once she has a moment to think about this, will not be displeased to have more time to fuss about arrangements and see me married ‘properly’… at least according to what she believes is my due as a daughter of Longbourn.” The nonsense Elizabeth would have to endure from her mother was a small price to pay to buy herself those extra days of freedom, she reasoned.

“Oh, Lizzy,” Jane said softly, a mixture of admiration and concern in her voice. “You are extraordinarily brave. But what of Mr. Wickham? Surely he will protest such a delay?”

Elizabeth’s lips curved in a humourless smile. “He can hardly do so without implying there is a reason for haste that would further damage my reputation, and by extension his own. No, he will have to agree, though I do not doubt he will find ways to express his displeasure privately.”

Jane’s brow furrowed with worry. “I do not like to think of you alone with him. Perhaps I could accompany you whenever he calls?”

“I would welcome that,” Elizabeth said gratefully. “Though I fear I cannot avoid all private conversation with the man who is to be my husband.” The word “husband” caught in her throat, and she turned away, blinking rapidly as her eyes burned.

Jane squeezed her hand. “You are managing this with such dignity, Lizzy. I do not know if I could do the same in your position.”

“You would never find yourself in my position,” Elizabeth replied, her voice steadying. “You are never foolish or proud as I have been.”

“You are not foolish,” Jane protested. “You were deceived by a man who has made deception his life’s work.”

Elizabeth sighed, unable to absolve herself so easily. “Perhaps. But come, we should return to the house. Mama will be looking for us soon, and I would rather face her questions about flower arrangements than have her send Lydia to fetch us.”

They rose and walked back toward the house arm in arm, the sun now high above them, promising another warm day. Elizabeth felt a curious sense of calm settling over her. The delay she had engineered might ultimately change nothing, but it provided something precious: time. Time to think, to plan, to steel herself for the future that awaited her.

As they approached the house, they could hear Mrs. Bennet’s voice through the open windows, excitedly discussing something with their father. Jane and Elizabeth exchanged a glance before stepping inside.

“There you are, girls!” Mrs. Bennet exclaimed as they entered the breakfast-room. “I have been looking everywhere for you. Oh, Lizzy, I have had the most wonderful idea about your wedding breakfast. Mrs. Long suggested...”

Elizabeth listened with half an ear as her mother launched into elaborate plans involving white satin ribbons and a special cake ordered from London. Mr. Bennet sat ostensibly reading a newspaper but occasionally glancing at Elizabeth with an expression she could not quite decipher.

“And of course,” Mrs. Bennet continued, building to her grand finale, “Reverend Simons will be quite happy to issue you a common license! Then you could be married as early as next week, and all this unpleasantness will be behind us. Is that not excellent news?”

Elizabeth felt Jane’s hand come to rest supportively on her arm. “Actually, Mama,” she said, her voice calm and measured, “I have already spoken with Reverend Simons. The banns will be read this Sunday for the first time.”

Mrs. Bennet’s face fell. “Banns? But Lizzy, that will take weeks! Surely you do not wish to prolong matters when we could have everything settled so much more quickly?”

“I do wish it,” Elizabeth replied firmly. “I should like to be married properly in our parish church, with all the traditional observances.” She met her mother’s gaze steadily. “There is certainly no rush.”

“No rush! When all of Meryton is talking! When your reputation hangs by a thread! When your sisters’ prospects might be affected!” Mrs. Bennet’s voice rose with each exclamation.

“I believe,” Mr. Bennet interjected, setting his newspaper aside, “that Lizzy has made a very sensible decision. A proper church wedding will go some way toward restoring respectability to the situation.” He gave Elizabeth a penetrating look. “And as she says, there is no particular rush.”

Elizabeth felt a rush of gratitude toward her father. He had been uncharacteristically subdued since the scandal broke, and she had worried that his disappointment in her had overshadowed his affection. This small support meant more than he could know.

“But Mr. Bennet!” Mrs. Bennet protested. “Surely the faster this is resolved, the better for all?”

“I will not hear of it,” Mr. Bennet said firmly. “I trust Lizzy’s judgment in this matter.” He picked up his newspaper again, a clear signal that the discussion was closed. “The banns will be read as arranged.”

Mrs. Bennet subsided into dissatisfied muttering, though Elizabeth knew the matter would be raised again before the day was out. Still, she had gained her father’s support, which was no small victory.

“Perhaps we could discuss the flowers later, Mama?” Jane suggested gently. “Lizzy and I were about to take some refreshment in the breakfast room.”

“Yes, yes, go along,” Mrs. Bennet waved them away, already distracted by a new concern. “But remember we are dining with the Phillips tonight, and Mr. Wickham will be there. You must wear your blue gown, Lizzy; it brings out your eyes.”

Elizabeth nodded, not trusting herself to speak, and followed Jane from the room. In the front parlour, they found Mary practicing at the pianoforte while Kitty and Lydia worked on trimming their bonnets, their heads bent close together as they whispered and giggled.

“I do not think I can face dinner at Aunt Phillips’ tonight,” Elizabeth confessed quietly as she and Jane took seats by the window, away from their sisters. “The thought of sitting beside Mr. Wickham while he charms everyone at the table...”

“Would you like me to say you have a headache?” Jane offered. “I could stay behind with you.”

Elizabeth considered the offer, tempted beyond measure. But she shook her head reluctantly. “No, I should go. If I begin avoiding social engagements now, it will only become more difficult. And I will not have it said that I am ashamed or reluctant.”

“Even though you are reluctant,” Jane observed softly.

“Especially because I am reluctant!” Elizabeth replied. “I cannot let him see my weakness. Not yet.”

They sat in companionable silence for a few moments, the only sounds the soft notes of Mary’s playing and the distant voice of Mrs. Bennet issuing instructions to Hill about dinner.

“Jane,” Elizabeth said suddenly, her voice barely above a whisper, “do you ever think about what might have happened if Mr. Bingley had not left Netherfield so abruptly?”

Jane’s face grew still, her eyes turning to the window where the landscape stretched green with spring life in the bright sunshine. “Sometimes,” she admitted. “But it does no good to dwell on what cannot be changed.”

“I wonder if we shall ever see any of the Netherfield party again,” Elizabeth mused, thinking not of Bingley but of Darcy, and the letter that had changed everything too late.

“I think it unlikely,” Jane replied with soft resignation. “But life continues, does it not? We must look forward, not back.”

Elizabeth nodded, though in her heart she knew that her future, stretching before her as Mrs. Wickham, was a prospect she could not bear to contemplate. For now, she would focus only on surviving each day, each social engagement, each moment in Wickham’s company. The banns would buy her time, if nothing else, time to gather her strength for whatever lay ahead.

“Yes,” she agreed, placing her hand over Jane’s. “We must look forward.”

The arrival of Mr. Collins two hours later was as unexpected as it was unwelcome. Elizabeth had been sitting quietly with Jane in the front parlour, attempting to focus on her needlework while her thoughts tumbled in endless circles of despair, when Hill announced their cousin’s presence. The clergyman stood in the doorway, his round face arranged in an expression of solemn condemnation that told Elizabeth immediately the purpose of his visit. News of her disgrace had clearly reached Hunsford, carried no doubt by the eager pen of Lady Lucas to her daughter Charlotte.

“Cousin Elizabeth, Miss Bennet,” Mr. Collins intoned, bowing with what he clearly believed to be grave dignity. “I trust I find you both in good health, despite the... unfortunate circumstances that bring me hence.”

Elizabeth rose, her hands clenched tightly around her embroidery hoop. “Mr. Collins. This is indeed a surprise. We had no word of your coming to Hertfordshire.”

“The urgency of the situation demanded my immediate departure,” he replied, advancing into the room with measured steps. “I felt it my Christian duty to offer spiritual guidance in this time of family crisis.”

Elizabeth exchanged a quick glance with Jane, wishing fervently that their parents were not both from home, their father having gone to speak with Mr. Burnley about the wedding settlements, and their mother visiting Mrs. Phillips to finalize arrangements for the dinner that evening.

“Lady Lucas wrote to Charlotte of your... predicament,” Mr. Collins continued, fixing Elizabeth with a stare that managed to be both pitying and triumphant. “My dear Charlotte was most distressed to hear of your fall from virtue, though I confess it came as less of a surprise to me, given your previously displayed tendencies toward headstrong behaviour and impropriety.”

Elizabeth felt her cheeks burn, but years of practice in maintaining composure allowed her to respond with outward calm. “How is Charlotte? I trust she is well?” she asked, hoping against hope that she might be able to divert Mr. Collins from his obvious purpose of berating and chastising her.

“She enjoys the robust health that comes from a virtuous and well-ordered life,” he replied pointedly. “Her position as my wife and the mistress of a respectable parsonage has provided her with both security and standing in the community, blessings that become all the more apparent when one observes the consequences of imprudent behaviour.”

The barb struck home, as he had no doubt intended. Elizabeth sank back into her chair, taking up her needlework again if only to have something to occupy her hands, and to be able to avoid his condemnatory glare. “Please, Mr. Collins, be seated. If you have travelled all this way, you must be fatigued.”

He settled his bulky frame into a chair facing the sisters, arranging his coat with fussy precision. “My primary concern, Cousin Elizabeth, is for the spiritual welfare of your immortal soul. To have given in to the baser passions of the flesh, and with a man to whom you were not united in holy matrimony, represents a grievous sin that requires sincere repentance.”

Elizabeth stared at her embroidery, each stitch becoming a small act of control as she fought to maintain her composure. She could feel Jane’s tension beside her, though her sister had always been adept at concealing distress.

“I understand,” Mr. Collins pressed on, clearly interpreting her silence as shame rather than restraint, “that arrangements have been made for you to marry this... Lieutenant Wickham. While such a step may partially restore your worldly reputation, I must emphasize that the stain upon your character cannot be so easily removed in the eyes of the Almighty, nor indeed in the estimation of respectable society.”

“Mr. Collins,” Jane began gently, “I believe...”

But the clergyman was not to be diverted from his prepared sermon. “It is at times like these that one must reflect upon the paths not taken, the opportunities spurned through pride and wilfulness.” He leaned forward, his small eyes gleaming with self-importance. “Had you accepted my proposal of marriage, Cousin Elizabeth, you would now be established as a respectable clergyman’s wife, enjoying the particular notice of the esteemed Lady Catherine de Bourgh, rather than facing the ignominy of a hasty marriage to a man of questionable character and limited prospects.”

The injustice of this assessment, coming from a man who had no knowledge of the true circumstances, burned in Elizabeth’s chest. Yet what defence could she offer? To explain that she had been deliberately compromised would only invite further lectures on her na?vety and poor judgment.

“I am aware that my counsel at this juncture may seem harsh,” Mr. Collins continued, warming to his theme, “but it is offered in the spirit of Christian charity. The path of righteousness is often difficult, particularly for those of a naturally rebellious disposition. Your current tribulations might be viewed as divine correction, a means of subduing that unseemly independence of spirit which has led you into error.”

Elizabeth paused with her needle mid-stitch. She raised her eyes to find Mr. Collins regarding her with such an expression of such smug superiority that it required every ounce of her self-control not to respond with the sharp retort that rose to her lips.

“Indeed,” he continued, apparently encouraged by her attention, “Lady Catherine herself remarked, when I informed her of these developments, that this was the natural consequence of improper upbringing and insufficient parental guidance. ‘A young woman raised without proper respect for authority,’ she observed, ‘will inevitably fall prey to her own undisciplined nature.’”

The mention of Lady Catherine and her judgment proved almost too much for Elizabeth’s composure. That this woman, who barely knew Elizabeth herself and who knew nothing of her family beyond what Mr. Collins had no doubt reported with his usual obsequious distortion, should pass such definitive condemnation, struck her as the height of offensive presumption.

“It is, perhaps, fortunate that this Lieutenant Wickham has offered to make you his wife, though one must question what manner of man would willingly tie himself to a woman of compromised virtue. I can only assume that your father’s position, modest though it may be, offers some inducement in the absence of more substantial attractions.”

Jane’s hand, which had been quietly working at her own embroidery, suddenly stilled. Elizabeth glanced at her sister, surprised to see spots of colour appearing high on Jane’s normally pale cheeks.

“Mr. Collins,” Jane said, her voice soft but carrying an unusual firmness that drew the clergyman’s attention. “I believe you have said quite enough on this matter.”

Mr. Collins blinked, clearly startled by this interruption from the gentlest of the Bennet sisters. “I beg your pardon, Miss Bennet, but as a man of the cloth, it is my duty to...”

“Your duty as a Christian minister,” Jane continued, setting aside her work and fixing him with a steady gaze, “would surely encompass compassion rather than judgment. ‘Judge not, lest ye be judged,’ I believe is the scriptural instruction.”

Elizabeth watched in astonishment as her sweet, gentle sister, who had never before been known to challenge anyone directly, rose from her seat and stood facing their cousin with quiet dignity.

“Elizabeth has endured sufficient distress without the addition of your censure,” Jane said. “If you truly came to offer comfort in a time of trial, you have failed most decidedly in your purpose.”

Mr. Collins gaped, his mouth opening and closing like a fish suddenly removed from water. “I, I merely sought to provide the spiritual guidance that is clearly lacking in this household! If my words seem harsh, it is only because the situation demands plain speaking.”

“What the situation demands,” Jane replied, with a composure that belied the unusual colour in her cheeks, “is kindness and understanding from those who profess to be family. As neither appears forthcoming from you, I think perhaps it would be best if you did not remain in ‘a house of such scandal,’ as you put it.”

Elizabeth could scarcely believe what she was hearing. Jane, her sweet, accommodating sister who never spoke an unkind word about anyone, was effectively dismissing Mr. Collins from their home.

The clergyman’s face flushed an unflattering shade of puce. “I see that my Christian concern is not appreciated,” he sputtered, rising awkwardly to his feet. “Lady Catherine was quite right about the improper attitudes cultivated in this family. Charlotte will be most distressed to hear of the reception her husband received while attempting to fulfil his pastoral obligations.”

“Please convey our warmest regards to Charlotte,” Jane said, moving toward the bell pull. “Hill will show you out.”

Mr. Collins drew himself up to his full, if unimpressive, height. “That will not be necessary. I know my way, having been made sufficiently unwelcome in a house where I am, I remind you, the legal heir.”

With a final disapproving glance at Elizabeth, he turned and marched from the room, his footsteps heavy with indignation.

When the front door closed behind him with a decisive thud, Elizabeth found herself unable to speak for a moment, overcome by the shock of Jane’s unexpected intervention and the relief of Mr. Collins’ departure.

“Jane,” she finally managed, looking up at her sister who remained standing, a faint tremor in her hands the only sign of agitation. “I have never seen you speak so... decidedly to anyone.”

Jane returned to her seat, her colour gradually subsiding. “I could not bear to hear him speak to you in such a manner,” she said simply. “As if he took pleasure in your distress.”

“I believe he did,” Elizabeth replied, a shaky laugh escaping her. “What sweet vindication for my rejection of his proposal, to see me brought so low.”

“You are not brought low,” Jane said firmly, reaching out to take Elizabeth’s hand. “You have been wronged, but that does not diminish your worth or your character.”

Elizabeth felt tears pricking at her eyes, touched beyond measure by her sister’s unwavering faith. “What would I do without you, Jane? When even our parents can offer little comfort, you alone stand by me without question or reproach.”

“I know you,” Jane said softly. “I know your heart and your principles.”

Elizabeth squeezed her sister’s hand, unable to express the depth of her gratitude. Jane’s support was given freely, without requiring explanations or justifications.

“I will never abandon or berate you, Lizzy,” Jane promised steadily, her expression utterly sincere, her returning handclasp warm and firm. “Whatever comes, we shall face it together.”

As they sat hand in hand in the quiet parlour, Elizabeth felt, for the first time since her world had collapsed around her, a small flicker of hope. Not for escape from her fate, perhaps, but for the strength to endure it with dignity. With Jane beside her, unwavering in her support, she might yet find the courage to face whatever the future held.