Page 43 of Moments of Truth

A week later, Elizabeth resolved that the time had come to return home to Longbourn with Maria Lucas, after remaining at Hunsford Parsonage for many weeks.

Lady Catherine had, to Elizabeth’s mingled astonishment and amusement, grown to appreciate Miss Bennet’s spirited conversation, lively intelligence, and steady frankness of opinion, even when those opinions trespassed upon her ladyship’s sense of propriety and sometimes appeared uncommonly bold.

Her ladyship urged the young ladies to prolong their stay by a further two or three weeks, proposing that they accompany her on her annual spring journey to London—a ritual she observed with unfailing regularity—in the de Bourgh carriage, at least as far as half the way.

But Elizabeth’s decision was firm. She had already written to her father and her aunt in Gracechurch Street, London, and it was settled that her uncle would send his carriage and a servant to escort them.

Their first stop must necessarily be London.

Yet of Jane, Elizabeth had written not a word of the extraordinary events in Kent—for such a disclosure was too weighty for a letter, and must be spoken of only when they met face to face .

Mr. Darcy’s astonishing proposal episode was left for their hours of intimate reflections.

After taking leave of their hosts with all proper civility, Elizabeth Bennet and Maria Lucas quitted Hunsford Parsonage with hearts full of mingled relief and anticipation.

As their carriage rolled from the gate, Elizabeth cast one last glance toward the imposing stone walls of Rosings Park, rising solemn and proud above the humble parsonage.

The April air was crisp, carrying the fragrant promise of lilacs and budding roses from the gardens left behind.

This departure marked the close of an eventful season, filled alike with Lady Catherine’s formidable surveillance and with the unexpected, disquieting proposal of Mr. Darcy.

Though her mind was not yet composed, Elizabeth felt as though each turn of the wheel carried her further from perplexity, and a measure of liberty returned to her spirits.

Beside her, Maria Lucas chattered with untempered delight of the journey to London, her innocent prattle about ribbons, shops, and playhouses contrasting sharply with Elizabeth’s pensive silence.

Maria’s youthful vivacity was untouched by recollection, while Elizabeth’s thoughts circled restlessly back to the revelations of Kent—the proud confession of Mr. Darcy, the shameful duplicity of Mr. Wickham, and her own rash credulity.

She felt within herself a strange mingling of regret, curiosity, and reluctant admiration: regret for the swiftness of her judgment, curiosity for the true depths of Mr. Darcy’s character, and admiration—though reluctant still—for his frankness in laying open his heart and history to her.

What was she to make of a man so proud, yet so candid?

Was there any chance that she might ever see him again, and if so, in what light would he regard her?

By the time the carriage reached Bromley, where they paused to rest the horses and refresh themselves with a simple meal, Elizabeth had turned her mind toward the days to come.

London promised a blessed change of scene—an end to Lady Catherine’s unrelenting scrutiny, and the comfort of her aunt’s household.

Yet the nearer she drew to Gracechurch Street, the more impatient grew her longing for Jane—the only being to whom she could safely confide her bewilderment and unburden her heart without fear of judgment.

The miles seemed both too swift and too slow: too swift in carrying her towards the inevitable, yet not swift enough to bring the solace of her sister.

After five hours of travel, broken by brief halts, the carriage at last rumbled to a stop before the familiar brick front of Gracechurch Street.

Elizabeth, weary from the road, stepped down with a heart that beat quicker at the thought of her sister within.

Maria fluttered about with their packages, her hands trembling with nervous energy, until Elizabeth steadied her with a gentle touch.

In the next instant a merry chorus rang from the doorway— “Cousin Lizzy! Cousin Lizzy!”—and four eager children came tumbling out in joyous welcome.

Elizabeth bent to receive them, pressing kisses upon their rosy cheeks and exclaiming over how they had grown, her heart warmed by their innocent affection.

Rising, she was instantly folded in the lavender-scented embrace of her Aunt Gardiner, whose gentle eyes shone with fondness.

“Welcome, my dear. You have been much missed. Your uncle will soon be with us.” Over her aunt’s shoulder, Elizabeth glimpsed a figure she longed for most: Jane, standing with hands clasped, her countenance glowing with tender eagerness.

“Jane!” Elizabeth cried, breaking free and rushing forward.

In the next moment, the sisters were locked in a tearful embrace, all the weeks of separation melting into nothingness.

Elizabeth clung to her dearest companion, breathing in her familiar presence as if a missing piece of herself had at last been restored.

Jane, with trembling voice, cupped her sister’s face. “Dearest Lizzy! I have longed for this moment. You must tell me everything—every sight, every trial, every impression. I will hear it all.” Her blue eyes sparkled with anticipation, mingled with concern.

Elizabeth, laughing softly through her tears of joy, twined her arm through Jane’s as they crossed the threshold.

“All in good time! I warn you, my tales may prove more fatiguing than entertaining. But first let us seek refreshment, for after such a journey I am in sore need of both food and conversation.”

Buoyed by the love of her family and the promise of laying open her secret heart to her most trusted confidante, Elizabeth entered her aunt’s home with spirits lighter than they had been in many days. Whatever trials awaited, with Jane beside her, she felt equal to them all.

As the ladies settled in the drawing room, Aunt Gardiner poured the tea with practised elegance, her movements unhurried and serene, as though she meant to diffuse the lingering restlessness of the travellers by her composure.

The delicate clink of china mingled with the soft fragrance of freshly baked scones, filling the room with a domestic comfort Elizabeth had longed for these many weeks.

She sank into a deep armchair, allowing the cushions to enfold her weary frame, and felt for the first time since leaving Kent the sweet tranquillity of home and kindred spirits.

“Now, Lizzy,” Jane began, her tone gentle yet touched with eagerness, “pray tell us of your time in Kent. How did you find the company at Rosings? And our cousin Mr. Collins—I trust he and Charlotte are well?” Her gentle eyes rested on her sister with affectionate curiosity, anxious for every particular, yet unwilling to press too quickly.

Elizabeth sipped her tea, the warmth of it steadying her thoughts, for the memories of her visit stirred uneasily within her.

They rose before her in quick succession, a kaleidoscope of vexing encounters and unexpected revelations, from Lady Catherine’s incessant pronouncements to Mr. Darcy’s disconcerting attentions.

Where should she begin, and how much could she yet confide?

At last, she said, with a composed air, “Charlotte is very well, and appears content with her situation. She has settled with admirable serenity into her duties as mistress of the parsonage. Mr. Collins—” here Elizabeth paused, unable to resist a faint smile— “remains as singular as ever in his attentions and conversation.”

Jane’s brow creased in sympathy. “And Lady Catherine? Is she as formidable as rumour paints her?”

A wry smile played about Elizabeth’s lips. “Formidable, indeed. Her ladyship’s opinions are as numerous as they are unassailable. She holds court at Rosings with an iron authority, and woe betide anyone who dares contradict her.”

Maria Lucas, who had been listening in wide-eyed silence, ventured at last in a timid voice, “I thought it quite terrifying, Lizzy. I scarcely dared to breathe when she fixed her eyes on me.”

Elizabeth laughed softly, though with sympathy. “You were not alone, my dear Maria. Few can withstand such a gaze without wishing themselves invisible.”

Maria, twisting her hands in her lap, spoke hesitantly. “Yet I could not help but feel sorry for Miss de Bourgh. She looked so pale and weary, as if her mama’s words pressed on her as heavily as they did on the rest of us. I wished she might be allowed a little more ease, and a say of her own.”

Elizabeth’s expression softened at her young friend’s observation. “You are right, Maria. Poor Miss de Bourgh is hardly permitted to think or speak for herself. It is no wonder she seems so diminished in spirits.”

Mrs. Gardiner laughed softly, shaking her head. “A daunting prospect for a dinner companion, I should think.”

“Quite so,” Elizabeth agreed, reaching for a scone. “Yet I confess, I found no small diversion in the absurdity of her pronouncements—and the obsequious eagerness with which they were received. One must find amusement where one can, and at Rosings it was not in short supply.”

The conversation flowed easily, and the tension that had long weighed upon Elizabeth’s shoulders began at last to ease.

In the warmth of her family’s company, the trials of the past weeks seemed almost to fade.

Yet even as she laughed and spoke lightly, another presence haunted her inward thoughts.

The image of Mr. Darcy—his grave eyes, his abrupt declaration, his proud yet vulnerable manner—would not leave her.

How was she to reconcile the man she had believed him with the man he had revealed himself to be?