Page 6
Chapter Six
A fortnight ago, Elizabeth Bennet had been a young lady of modest means but cheerful disposition, with expectations no more extraordinary than perhaps finding a gentleman of good character to wed when her heart was ready. Now, as she sat in the drawing room watching her mother measure lace with feverish enthusiasm, she contemplated how swiftly one’s fortunes could change. The banns would soon be called, announcing her impending marriage to Mr. Wickham, and Elizabeth found herself trading one set of expectations for another, each more stifling than the last.
“Oh, Lizzy! Do pay attention,” Mrs. Bennet chided, holding aloft a length of Belgian lace. “This will look divine on your wedding gown. Such fine work, Mrs. Long will be positively green with envy when she sees it!”
Elizabeth forced a smile that did not reach her eyes. “It is very pretty, Mama.”
“Pretty? It is exquisite! And at such a price! Your father may grumble, but I told him, I said, ‘Mr. Bennet, our Lizzy shall not be married looking anything less than a proper gentleman’s daughter.’ And Mr. Wickham, so handsome in his regimentals! What a striking couple you shall make.”
The very mention of that name caused Elizabeth’s stomach to clench painfully.
“We must discuss your trousseau, Lizzy. A new wife must have proper linens and at least three good new gowns. I have already spoken with the dressmaker in Meryton, she promised to work night and day if necessary. It is not every day a daughter of mine marries an officer! Perhaps it was wise after all to wait a month for the wedding, so that we have the time to outfit you properly.”
Elizabeth’s fingers twisted tightly in her lap, her knuckles whitening with the strain. “Perhaps something simple would…”
“Simple?” Mrs. Bennet looked scandalised. “I should think not! This is not some country farm girl’s wedding. You are a gentleman’s daughter marrying into respectability.” She held up fabric swatches with trembling excitement. “The blue would complement your complexion wonderfully, though the sage green has a certain elegance about it. What do you think, Lizzy?”
“Whichever you prefer, Mama.” Elizabeth’s voice was hollow.
Mrs. Bennet scarcely noticed her daughter’s lack of enthusiasm, continuing her soliloquy on wedding preparations as if Elizabeth had shown the proper appreciation for her efforts. “Lady Lucas will be beside herself when she sees your wedding breakfast. I shall spare no expense, though your father tried to insist on economy, as always. As if his daughter’s wedding day were an occasion for penny-pinching! I vow my nerves cannot bear his miserliness.”
Elizabeth’s attention drifted as her mother prattled on about cakes and jellies and the guest list; a litany of neighbours who would witness her humiliation. In truth, she cared nothing for gowns or lace or what Lady Lucas might think. Her thoughts were occupied with darker matters, dwelling on a lifetime tied to a man she neither loved nor trusted.
The sound of the front door opening drew Elizabeth from her reverie. Heavy footsteps in the hall announced her father’s return from Meryton, where he had gone to discuss marriage settlements with Mr. Burnley, the local magistrate. When Mr. Bennet appeared in the doorway, Elizabeth’s heart sank further. His countenance bore the unmistakable signs of a man who carried unwelcome news.
“Mr. Bennet!” cried his wife. “You are returned at last. Come and tell us what Mr. Burnley had to say about the settlements. Did you explain about Lizzy’s portion? It is small, to be sure, but with her beauty and accomplishments…”
“Mrs. Bennet,” he interrupted with unusual sharpness, “pray cease your chatter for a moment.”
Elizabeth rose from her chair, searching her father’s face. “What is it, Papa?”
He sighed heavily, removing his spectacles to polish them with his handkerchief, a nervous habit he displayed only in moments of great distress. “Where are your sisters? I would prefer to speak of this matter once only.”
Mrs. Bennet, sensing drama that might feed her appetite for domestic theatre, bustled to the bell-pull. “Hill! Fetch the girls at once! Mr. Bennet has news.”
The parlour soon filled with the remaining Bennet daughters. Jane came first, her lovely face clouded with concern as she took a seat beside Elizabeth, reaching for her sister’s hand with silent support. Mary entered with a book tucked under her arm, while Kitty and Lydia followed, giggling over some private jest that died on their lips at the sight of their father’s grave expression.
Once all were settled, Mr. Bennet cleared his throat. “I have spoken with Mr. Burnley regarding the Wickham affair.” His eyes flicked briefly to Elizabeth, who felt the weight of his gaze like a physical burden. “The colonel has granted Wickham leave from his duties with the militia. The banns will be read this Sunday, and the marriage will take place three weeks hence.”
Elizabeth closed her eyes briefly, though the news was expected. The announcement made it real in a way that all her mother’s chatter about lace and linens had not.
“Oh! How wonderful!” Mrs. Bennet clapped her hands together. “Three weeks is hardly time enough to prepare, but we shall manage splendidly. Will the officers attend in their regimentals? It would make such a spectacular sight.”
“There is more,” Mr. Bennet continued, ignoring his wife’s exclamations. “After the wedding, Wickham is to rejoin his regiment in Brighton. Elizabeth, you will be expected to accompany him there.”
“Brighton!” Lydia cried, springing to her feet. “But that is not fair! I have been begging to go to Brighton, and now Lizzy, who cares nothing for officers or sea-bathing, is to go instead?”
“Lydia, control yourself,” Mr. Bennet snapped. “This is not a pleasure trip, but a duty of matrimony. The rest of the regiment leaves in two weeks as scheduled,” he continued, his voice weary. “Wickham has been granted special dispensation only for the wedding. I am sorry, Elizabeth.”
Elizabeth nodded, unable to form words past the tightness in her throat. Brighton, a fashionable watering place full of military men and their pursuits, seemed a particularly cruel destination for her matrimonial exile.
“Brighton!” Mrs. Bennet’s eyes gleamed. “How very distinguished. You shall need seaside clothes, of course, and perhaps a new bonnet with ribbons. Mrs. Wickham at Brighton, how well that sounds!”
“I should like to be excused,” Elizabeth said quietly, rising from her seat.
“But we’ve not finished discussing the wedding breakfast!” her mother protested.
“Let her go,” Mr. Bennet said, and something in his tone silenced even Mrs. Bennet’s objections.
Later that evening, after a dinner during which Elizabeth merely pushed food around her plate, she sought out her father in his study. She found him seated in his favourite chair, a book open in his lap, though his eyes were fixed on the middle distance rather than the printed page.
“Papa,” she said softly, closing the door behind her.
Mr. Bennet looked up, his expression softening at the sight of her. “Ah, Lizzy. Come in, my dear.”
Elizabeth settled into the chair opposite his desk, folding her hands in her lap. “Is there truly no other way?”
Her father’s sigh held the accumulated weight of his powerlessness. “I have exhausted every avenue, examined every possibility. Your reputation…” he faltered, the words seeming to catch in his throat.
“My reputation,” Elizabeth repeated, bitterness edging her voice. “That fragile thing upon which a woman’s entire future hangs.”
“Would that it were not so,” Mr. Bennet replied, removing his spectacles to rub the bridge of his nose. “But we live in the world as it is, not as we might wish it to be.”
“I did not invite his company,” Elizabeth said, though they had covered this ground before.
“I know, child. But Wickham has declared himself willing to do the honourable thing…”
“Honourable,” Elizabeth scoffed softly. “There is nothing honourable about him.”
“Perhaps not,” her father conceded. “But in the eyes of society, his offer of marriage rectifies the situation. Without it, your sisters’ prospects would be damaged beyond repair. Even Jane…”
The mention of Jane’s potential suffering quelled Elizabeth’s protests. She would sacrifice her own happiness a thousand times over to protect Jane.
“Brighton,” she said at last, testing the word as one might probe a wound to ascertain its depth.
“The sea air is said to be exceedingly healthful,” Mr. Bennet offered lamely.
Elizabeth managed a wan smile for her father’s benefit. “I shall endeavour to find comfort in that thought.”
They sat in silence for several minutes, the ticking of the mantel clock marking the passage of time that seemed simultaneously too slow and too swift.
“There is more, is there not?” Elizabeth said finally. “Your expression when you came home…”
“He has debts.” Mr. Bennet did not look at her. “I have already been approached, by a number of the tradesmen here in Meryton. I have instructed them to extend him no further credit, and as we are well known to them, they have been gracious enough to accept extended terms for payment.”
Hot tears stung at the back of Elizabeth’s eyes. She did not ask how much this would cost her father; she could not bear to know it.
“Wickham requested that I make it possible for him to leave the regiment… that I provide a living for him. I made it clear that this was not a possibility and he would need to remain gainfully employed.” Mr. Bennet shook his head. “Were it possible, I would have agreed, even to such a wastrel, because it would have meant that you might stay close, Lizzy, but you understand our situation. We would need to put a tenant out in order to provide you a home, and…”
Elizabeth held up her hand to stop him. “You need say no more, Papa. I understand.” It was a comfort that her father had even wished to do it, had probably thought through all the implications and attempted to find a solution, but she well knew that it was impossible.
“Mr. Burnley and I have made arrangements for a small allowance to be paid monthly to you, and to you alone.” Mr. Bennet reached across the desk to take her hand. “You have always been the cleverest of my children, Lizzy. Use that clever mind to make the best of this situation. And remember, whatever happens, you will always have a home here at Longbourn.”
Elizabeth squeezed his hand, then rose to leave, knowing that if she remained, she might give way to tears, a luxury she could not presently afford. At the door, she paused, looking back at the stooped figure of her father, suddenly appearing older than his years.
“Goodnight, Papa.”
“Goodnight, my Lizzy,” he replied, and in those three words lay all the sorrow and regret he could not otherwise express.
As she climbed the stairs to the bedchamber she shared with Jane, Elizabeth steeled herself against the rising tide of despair. Three weeks remained before she would become Mrs. Wickham. Three weeks of freedom before her fate was sealed. She would not waste them in lamentation.
The breakfast table at Longbourn had become, in recent days, a stage for the most curious of family performances. Elizabeth, seated with her teacup poised midway to her lips, observed her youngest sister’s theatrical sighs with a composed countenance that belied her inner turmoil. Lydia, having spent the previous evening in floods of tears over her denied Brighton adventure, now employed the silent but expressive language of martyrdom; downcast eyes that periodically flashed with resentment, shoulders slumped in exaggerated dejection, and the occasional gusty sigh that caused her mother to pat her hand in distracted sympathy.
“More tea, Lydia?” Jane offered, her gentle voice a balm against the brittle atmosphere.
Lydia pushed her cup forward with the air of one making a tremendous sacrifice. “I suppose I shall need something to sustain me through the tedium of another day at Longbourn while Lizzy prepares to enjoy Brighton.”
“Enjoy Brighton?” Elizabeth could not help the sharp edge that crept into her voice. “I assure you, there is no pleasure anticipated in my journey.”
Mrs. Bennet, parsing a letter from their aunt Gardiner, glanced up with a frown. “Now, Lizzy, that is no way to speak of your wedding trip. Many young ladies would be delighted at the prospect of a seaside holiday with a new husband. And such a handsome one, too!”
“I merely meant that the purpose of the journey is not leisure,” Elizabeth amended, careful to moderate her tone. The last thing she required was another lecture on proper bridal enthusiasm.
Mr. Bennet, sheltered behind his newspaper, lowered it a fraction to cast a knowing glance at his second daughter before retreating once more behind the printed pages.
“Well, I think it unutterably cruel,” Lydia announced, abandoning her pose of suffering for one of active protest. “Brighton will be full of officers and parties and sea-bathing, and I am to miss it all. Lizzy schemed to capture Wickham, she could at least invite me to join her on her wedding trip!”
Elizabeth set down her cup with careful precision, unwilling to betray how deeply her sister’s childish complaints wounded her. The notion that she had somehow schemed to “capture” Wickham was so far removed from the truth that she might have laughed had the circumstances been less dire.
“The plans of military men are not arranged for the convenience of young ladies,” Mr. Bennet observed dryly, folding his newspaper and rising from the table. “Particularly young ladies who have demonstrated no particular talent for sensible behaviour.”
Lydia’s lower lip protruded in a manner reminiscent of her six-year-old self. “It is not fair. Everyone has adventures but me.”
“Marriage is hardly an adventure, Lydia,” Elizabeth said quietly. “It is a solemn undertaking that will shape the remainder of one’s life.”
Mrs. Bennet clucked her tongue. “Such serious talk! One would think you were marching to your execution rather than your wedding, Lizzy. Why, when I was a bride…”
She was interrupted by Hill’s entrance, announcing that Mr. Wickham had arrived to pay his respects to the family. Elizabeth’s stomach twisted into a knot of dread, but her features remained composed as she carefully folded her napkin.
In a moment he appeared in the doorway, resplendent in his red coat, his smile as practiced and perfect as ever. Elizabeth had once thought that smile charming; now she saw only the cold calculation behind it, the way it remained fixed while his eyes assessed each person in the room for their usefulness to him.
“Good morning, ladies,” he said with a slight bow. “Mr. Bennet. I trust I find you all well this fine day?”
“Mr. Wickham! How delightful to see you,” Mrs. Bennet gushed, rising to greet him with fluttering hands. “We were just discussing the wedding preparations. Such excitement! Do sit down and have some breakfast. Hill, bring fresh tea at once!”
“You are too kind, madam,” he replied, taking a seat that positioned him, Elizabeth noted with dismay, directly across from her. His eyes met hers briefly, a flash of something that might have been triumph passing through them before he turned his attention to Mrs. Bennet.
“I have just received official confirmation from Colonel Forster of my leave arrangements,” he announced. “All is proceeding as planned.”
“Excellent news!” Mrs. Bennet declared. “We were just speaking of Brighton, were we not, girls? Lydia is positively green with envy that Lizzy shall see it before she does.”
Wickham’s gaze slid to Lydia, who had transformed entirely at his arrival. Gone was the sulking child; in her place sat a young woman with brightened eyes and flushed cheeks, leaning forward eagerly.
“Is Brighton very gay, Mr. Wickham?” she asked, her voice pitched higher than usual. “I imagine the assembly rooms must be magnificent, and the officers’ mess so lively.”
“It is indeed a spirited place,” he answered with a smile that Elizabeth recognised as his particular mode of flattery, the one that suggested he found his conversational partner uniquely discerning. “The Prince Regent has made it quite the fashionable destination.”
“How thrilling,” Lydia sighed, propping her chin on her hand in a manner their mother had repeatedly discouraged as unladylike. “I shall die of boredom here while you and Lizzy enjoy all manner of diversions.”
Elizabeth stood abruptly. “If you will excuse me, I have some needlework that requires completion before the wedding.”
“But you’ve hardly touched your breakfast,” her mother protested.
“I find my appetite diminished this morning,” Elizabeth replied, not meeting Wickham’s eyes as she made her escape.
Outside in the garden, the spring air was fresh and clean, carrying the scent of apple blossoms. Elizabeth drew it deeply into her lungs, as if it might cleanse the discomfort that Wickham’s presence invariably produced. She settled on a bench partially concealed by a flowering shrub, but made no move to retrieve her needlework, which remained safely inside.
From her position, she could see through the dining room window. Wickham remained at the table, now seated beside Lydia, who laughed at something he said with a flirtatious tilt of her head. Elizabeth felt a cold dread settle in her stomach. How easily Lydia might have been in her position, or worse. Would he have even offered for impulsive, heedless Lydia, if there were no witnesses to compel him?
The thought was too terrible to contemplate. Perhaps this, at least, could be counted as a blessing in her current predicament; that her situation might spare one of her sisters a similar or worse fate.
“Lizzy?”
Elizabeth turned to find Jane approaching, a shawl in her hands. “I thought you might need this. The morning air still carries a chill.”
“Thank you,” Elizabeth replied, allowing her sister to drape the soft wool around her shoulders. “Though I find I’ve grown rather numbed to the cold of late.”
Jane sat beside her, taking Elizabeth’s hand between her own. “He will not remain much longer. Mama has invited him to dinner tomorrow, but today he mentioned having business with his colonel.”
“I suppose I must accustom myself to his company,” Elizabeth said with forced lightness. “It shall be my constant companion for the remainder of my days.”
“Oh, Lizzy.” Jane’s eyes filled with tears of sympathy. “I wish there were something I could do.”
They sat in silence for several moments, watching a pair of sparrows darting among the trees. In the house, Lydia’s laughter drifted through the open window, painfully carefree.
“I have been thinking,” Jane said at last, her voice hesitant. “Perhaps – and pray do not dismiss this immediately – perhaps we might write to Mr. Darcy.”
Elizabeth turned to her sister in astonishment. “Mr. Darcy? Whatever for?”
“He knows of Mr. Wickham’s character,” Jane continued, her words coming more quickly now. “You told me yourself what he revealed to you about Mr. Wickham’s attempted elopement with his sister. Surely he would not wish another young woman to suffer a similar fate.” There was hope on Jane’s face, hope Elizabeth hated to dash, but her sister was labouring under a misapprehension. Elizabeth was quite sure Mr. Darcy would not care a jot for Elizabeth’s present predicament.
“Jane,” Elizabeth said gently, “I cannot imagine a less promising avenue of assistance. Mr. Darcy has no reason to involve himself in my affairs, quite the contrary! Our last meeting ended with his proposal of marriage being soundly rejected, accompanied by accusations that I now know to be unfounded. He would be within his rights to consider any communication from me an impertinence of the highest order.”
“But if he knew your circumstances…”
“He would likely consider them the natural consequence of my poor judgment,” Elizabeth finished. “And he would not be entirely wrong.” She sighed, watching a butterfly alight on a nearby blossom. “Besides, what could he possibly do? The situation has progressed too far. The entire neighbourhood knows of the engagement, the banns will be read on Sunday, and my reputation hangs in the balance. Mr. Darcy may be a great man at Pemberley, but he holds no sway over the gossips of Meryton or the facts of my compromise.”
Jane’s brow furrowed in thought. “Perhaps he might speak to Mr. Wickham, offer him some inducement to…”
“To what? Release me from our engagement? That would hardly restore my reputation.” Elizabeth shook her head. “No, Jane. Mr. Darcy has already done more than most men would in warning me of Wickham’s true nature. I failed to heed that warning, and now I must bear the consequences.”
The sisters sat in silence for a long moment, the weight of Elizabeth’s words settling between them.
“You are right, of course,” Jane admitted finally. “It was a foolish suggestion born of desperation. I cannot bear to see you so unhappy.”
Elizabeth squeezed her sister’s hand. “I shall endure. Women have made far worse matches and found ways to create contentment. I may never love Mr. Wickham, but I shall have a home of my own and a position in society. There are many with far less.”
“You deserve so much more than mere endurance,” Jane whispered.
Before Elizabeth could respond, they heard the front door open. Peering around the shrub, they saw Wickham taking his leave, bowing over Mrs. Bennet’s hand with practiced gallantry while Lydia hovered at her mother’s elbow.
“We should return inside,” Elizabeth said, rising from the bench. “I have avoided him for an acceptable interval, but I must not appear rude; the servants might observe if I do not even bother to take my leave of him. There has been gossip and scandal enough.”
They walked slowly toward the house, Elizabeth straightening her shoulders with each step as if preparing for battle. By the time they reached the door, Wickham was tipping his hat to the ladies as he prepared to depart.
“Until tomorrow, then,” he said, his eyes finding Elizabeth’s with a look that made her skin crawl.
She inclined her head slightly, her face a perfect mask of politeness. “Good day, Mr. Wickham.”
As he marched away, Lydia turned to Elizabeth with a petulant expression. “I do not see why you must be so cold to him, Lizzy. He is to be your husband in less than three weeks, yet you treat him like an unwelcome stranger.”
“Perhaps that is because the better one knows Mr. Wickham, the less welcome his company becomes,” Elizabeth replied before she could check the impulse.
“Lizzy!” her mother scolded. “What a thing to say about your intended! Mr. Wickham is a fine, handsome young man who has done you a great honour. Many girls would be thrilled by such an advantageous match.”
In that moment, Elizabeth would have gladly surrendered her position to any willing substitute, regardless of the damage to her pride. But the laws of society and propriety that had trapped her in this engagement would permit no such exchange. The path before her was fixed, and she must walk it with whatever dignity she could muster.
Jane’s warm hand slipped into hers, a silent reminder that whatever lay ahead, she would not face it entirely alone. With that small comfort, Elizabeth lifted her chin and stepped back into the house, where the walls seemed to draw closer with each passing day.
The darkness in the bedchamber was nearly complete, save for a sliver of moonlight that crept between the curtains to cast a pale stripe across the foot of the bed. Elizabeth lay perfectly still, her eyes tracing invisible patterns on the ceiling she could barely discern in the gloom. Beside her, Jane’s breathing had settled into the gentle rhythm that usually signalled sleep, though Elizabeth suspected her sister remained as wakeful as she. The house had fallen silent hours ago, yet sleep eluded Elizabeth with the same determination with which she had once pursued it on happier nights.
She shifted slightly, careful not to disturb the bedclothes too much. The sheets felt unusually crisp against her skin, as if her heightened senses had rendered even familiar textures somehow foreign. How many more nights would she spend in this bed, in this room that had sheltered her since childhood? Seventeen, by her calculation. Seventeen nights until she would lie in a different bed, in a strange room, beside a man whose touch she dreaded.
Mrs. Wickham. The name echoed in her mind with hollow resonance. Mrs. George Wickham, wife of a militia officer. She tried to envision herself in Brighton, walking arm-in-arm with her husband along the fashionable promenade. Would she wear a new bonnet, as her mother suggested? Would she smile and nod at the other officers’ wives, making polite conversation about the weather and the latest shipment of ribbons at the local shop? Would she stand proudly beside her husband at military functions, or would she detect the subtle shifts in conversation when they approached, the knowing glances exchanged behind fans?
Elizabeth was not na?ve. She understood that Wickham’s reputation among his fellow officers likely differed significantly from the charming persona he presented to the ladies of Meryton. Men who drank and gambled together shared confidences that never reached feminine ears. Did they know of his debts? His dalliances? His attempted elopement with Georgiana Darcy had been kept quiet for the young lady’s sake, but Elizabeth doubted it was his only indiscretion.
The memory of Mr. Darcy’s letter surfaced unbidden. She recalled his precise, measured handwriting as he detailed Wickham’s history of profligacy and vice. What else might Wickham be capable of that even Mr. Darcy did not know, or had chosen not to commit to paper?
Elizabeth pressed her fingers to her temples, as if the pressure might somehow reorganize her thoughts into a pattern she could bear. The practical aspects of marriage she could face with some equanimity; the management of whatever modest household they established, the social obligations of an officer’s wife, even the limited society of a military town. It was the intimate nature of matrimony that caused her throat to constrict with dread.
She would be expected to share her husband’s bed, to submit to his attentions as a wife’s duty demanded. The prospect of such intimacy with a man she now knew to be devoid of principle made her feel physically ill. Her mother’s circumspect explanation of marital relations, delivered with much humming and meaningful glances two days prior, had done nothing to alleviate her anxiety.
“It is a wife’s duty to provide comfort to her husband,” Mrs. Bennet had said, patting Elizabeth’s hand. “A sensible woman accommodates his needs with good grace, and in time, children will bless the union.”
Children . Elizabeth had always imagined motherhood as a distant, pleasant prospect; little ones with her eyes and the gentle temperament of a loving father. Now the thought of bearing Wickham’s children filled her with a complicated sorrow. Would they inherit his easy charm and self-interest? Would she see his calculating smile on an infant’s face? Or worse, would they grow to recognise their father’s true nature, as she had done too late, and pity her, trapped with him even as they were eventually able to escape into adulthood?
A future stretched before her, one day following another in an endless progression of small compromises and silent disappointments. Would she become hard and bitter over time, or would she learn to find contentment in lowered expectations? Would Wickham’s indifference to her happiness eventually become a blessing, allowing her some measure of freedom in exchange for her complaisance regarding his own pursuits?
Her father’s words from the previous afternoon returned to her. He had arranged for a small allowance to be paid directly to her, a gesture meant to provide some small measure of independence within her marriage. But would it be enough? Wickham’s history suggested he viewed money as something to be spent rather than preserved. How long might her modest funds last under his management? The law would grant him complete control over any property she brought to the marriage. Even letters from her family could be intercepted and read at his discretion, and he had already demonstrated his willingness to subject her to physical cruelty to get what he wanted. Fear made a tight not in her chest as she wondered; how far would he go? Would he beat her? Would she spend her days hiding her bruises, too ashamed to show her face?
Elizabeth was not conscious of the moment her silent rumination transformed into quiet weeping. Only when she felt the warm trail of tears sliding past her temples and into her hair did she realise she was crying. She lifted her hand to brush the moisture away, her movement careful and controlled to avoid disturbing Jane. The last thing she wanted was to burden her sister with a display of weakness that could be neither explained away nor remedied.
She pressed her lips together to suppress a sob that threatened to escape, holding her breath until the urge subsided. The silence of the room seemed to amplify every small sound; the whisper of her nightdress against the sheets as she turned her head, the faint creak of the bed frame, the muffled call of an owl somewhere beyond the window. Elizabeth focused on these minute disturbances, counting her breaths until she regained a measure of composure.
“Lizzy?”
Jane’s whisper startled her, though it was delivered so softly it barely disturbed the darkness.
“I thought you were asleep,” Elizabeth replied, quickly wiping away fresh tears.
“No.” The simple word carried a wealth of understanding. “I could not sleep, knowing you were awake beside me.”
“I am sorry to have disturbed you.”
“You have not,” Jane assured her. “I would far rather share your vigil than sleep while you suffer alone.”
The mattress shifted slightly as Jane turned to face her, though in the darkness Elizabeth could discern only the faintest outline of her sister’s features.
“You are crying,” Jane observed, reaching out to touch Elizabeth’s cheek, her fingertips coming away damp.
“It is nothing,” Elizabeth lied. “A momentary weakness.”
“It is everything,” Jane corrected gently. “And you are the strongest person I know.”
Fresh tears welled at this undeserved praise, and Elizabeth no longer attempted to hide them. What purpose would pretence serve between sisters who had shared every confidence since childhood?
With wordless compassion, Jane shifted closer, her arm slipping around Elizabeth’s shoulders in a gesture so familiar and comforting that it only intensified her grief. They lay thus entwined, silent tears dampening the pillow they now shared, while the moon continued its slow journey across the night sky beyond their window.
Elizabeth could not have said how long they remained so, measuring time only by the gradual easing of the tightness in her chest. The tears eventually subsided, leaving behind a curious blend of exhaustion and clarity. Jane’s steady presence anchored her, as it had done throughout their lives.
“Do you remember,” Elizabeth whispered at last, “how we used to imagine our future husbands when we were girls? You were certain yours would be kind above all things.”
“And you insisted yours must make you laugh,” Jane replied, her voice equally soft. “You said you could forgive any fault in a man who could make you laugh until your sides ached.”
Elizabeth closed her eyes, painfully aware of how far her impending marriage fell from those innocent childhood dreams. “I was very young.”
“You were wise,” Jane countered. “Laughter sustains the spirit through hardship. Perhaps you will yet find it, even in unexpected places.”
“Perhaps.” Elizabeth could not bring herself to contradict her sister’s optimism, though she suspected the only laughter in her marriage would be Wickham’s, at her expense.
They fell silent again, the darkness a velvet shroud around them. In this shielded moment, Elizabeth could almost pretend the wedding was not approaching, that her future remained unwritten.
“Jane,” she said suddenly, “you will write to me, won’t you? Long letters, with every detail of home, even Mama’s complaints and Papa’s witticisms. I should like to imagine myself at Longbourn when I read them.”
“Of course I shall write. Every week without fail,” Jane promised. “Though I had hoped you might occasionally return to visit us. Brighton is not so very far.”
Elizabeth had considered this possibility, but Wickham’s eagerness to remove to Brighton suggested he had little intention of maintaining close ties with her family. “I shall certainly try,” she said, unwilling to diminish Jane’s hope, however slender it might be.
“And I might visit you,” Jane suggested. “I have never seen the sea.”
“I should like that very much.” The thought of Jane’s presence, even temporarily, in whatever home she might establish with Wickham offered a small glimpse of light in an otherwise shadowed future.
Jane’s arm tightened around her. “You will not be alone, Lizzy. Though miles may separate us, you carry my heart with you always.”
Such simple words, yet they provided more comfort than all her mother’s reassurances about fine bonnets and seaside air. Elizabeth turned her face into her sister’s shoulder, inhaling the familiar lavender scent of her nightdress.
“Thank you,” she whispered, the words wholly inadequate to express her gratitude.
They lapsed into silence once more, and gradually, Elizabeth felt the tension in her body begin to release. Sleep remained elusive, but the crushing weight of despair had lightened somewhat. She would endure, one day at a time, holding tight to the knowledge that she was loved, even if not by the man who would become her husband.
Outside, the faintest hint of dawn began to lighten the edges of the curtains, transforming the darkness to a softer grey. Birds stirred in the garden, their morning songs a tentative chorus that would soon swell to fill the air. The new day approached with inexorable certainty, one of the dwindling number that remained before her wedding.
But for now, in this liminal space between night and morning, Elizabeth allowed herself to draw strength from her sister’s unwavering support. Whatever the future held, this moment was real, and it was hers to carry forward.
As the first golden rays of sunlight pierced the gloom, Jane’s breathing gradually deepened into true sleep, her arm still protectively curved around Elizabeth’s shoulders. Elizabeth watched over her, memorizing the peaceful lines of her sister’s face, storing the image away like a talisman against darker days to come.
“I shall be brave,” she whispered, a promise to herself as much as to her sleeping sister. “I shall find a way to endure.”
The words hung in the air, neither prayer nor prophecy but something in between. A declaration of intent from a woman who, though cornered by circumstance, refused to surrender her essential self to despair. Elizabeth Bennet might soon become Mrs. Wickham, but in the secret chambers of her heart, she would remain forever free.