Page 63 of Mr. Darcy’s Forgotten Heir (Pride and Prejudice Variations #1)
Elizabeth opened her mouth to retort, then closed it again as Mary’s words sank in.
She had indeed provided Darcy with precisely the facts that would lead him to that erroneous conclusion, while withholding the crucial information that would have corrected it.
She had allowed him to develop affections and encouraged his attentions to William without giving him the true context.
Had she, on some level, been testing him?
Expecting him to overcome his prejudices through sheer force of feeling?
“I was disappointed that he did not immediately recognize me that first day he appeared,” she admitted.
“I never considered it from his perspective.” Elizabeth studied her sister with new eyes, noting the quiet confidence that had replaced her former pedantry.
“The way you did, observing his actions with compassion and a strange kinship.”
Elizabeth realized she’d never considered Mary’s situation.
She had been so focused on her own trials—the scandal of her hasty marriage, Darcy’s long absence, the difficulties of raising William alone—that she had scarcely considered Mary’s journey.
To leave the security of Longbourn, however imperfect, for the isolation of Bellfield Grange had required courage and loyalty few would have expected from the middle Bennet sister .
“When did you become so adept at reading hearts, Mary?” she asked finally. “I do not recall such discernment being among your accomplishments at Longbourn.”
“Perhaps it was always there,” Mary replied, coming to stand beside her at the wall. “Hidden beneath quotations and moralizing because I feared my observations would not be valued.”
Elizabeth glanced at her sister, noting the quiet dignity that had replaced her former affectation. “I have underestimated you, it seems.”
“As you have underestimated yourself,” Mary countered. “Your capacity for forgiveness is greater than your pride, Lizzy, if you would only allow it expression.”
“Is that what you believe I should do?” Elizabeth asked. “Forgive Darcy his mistaken assumptions and insulting proposal?”
“I believe,” Mary said carefully, “that forgiveness is less about what others deserve and more about what we need to heal. In this case, both you and Mr. Darcy require grace rather than judgment.”
Elizabeth considered this, her fingers absently tracing patterns in the frost on the wall. The notion of grace—of unmerited favor freely given—was one that challenged her natural inclination toward justice and fairness. Yet there was wisdom in Mary’s words.
A thought occurred to Elizabeth then, one that brought a slight frown to her brow, yet another instance of her carelessness in trampling over the feelings of others. “What about your happiness, Mary? You speak with great insight about my situation, yet say little of your own feelings.”
Mary’s gaze drifted toward the sheep pens visible in the distance, where several of the farmhands were moving the pregnant ewes to more sheltered pastures. “My situation is quite different from yours.”
“In what respect?”
“I have no husband misplaced or otherwise,” Mary replied with a small smile. “No child depending upon me for security and guidance. My heart remains unencumbered by such complications.”
“Unencumbered,” Elizabeth repeated, following Mary’s gaze toward the distant figures moving among the sheep. “Yet not, I think, untouched.”
Mary’s cheeks definitely colored then, the blush visible even in the fading light. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“I believe you do,” Elizabeth countered gently. “Your interest in the sheep ledgers, your willingness to take on Graham’s duties in his absence, your precise knowledge of his systems and methods… these suggest more than casual observation.”
Mary’s composure faltered, her practiced serenity giving way to a vulnerability Elizabeth had rarely witnessed in her practical sister. “It is of no consequence,” she said. “Mr. Pullen’s affections lie elsewhere, as we both know.”
The quiet statement struck Elizabeth with fresh guilt as she recognized another dimension of her thoughtless cruelty.
She had allowed Graham’s devotion, had accepted his care and attention to William, had permitted him to hope for a future that her marriage to Darcy made impossible.
And Mary, observant Mary, had watched this unfold while developing her own feelings for the man who could never be hers while he remained devoted to her unattainable sister.
“Oh, Mary,” Elizabeth whispered, reaching for her sister’s hand. “I am so sorry. I never realized… I never considered…”
“That your encouragement of his regard might affect others?” Mary’s tone remained gentle, but Elizabeth detected a note of something sharper beneath the surface.
“No, I do not believe you did consider it. You have always been so focused on your own circumstances, your own feelings, that the effects of your actions on others sometimes escape your notice.”
She had indeed been so absorbed in her own trials that she had failed to see the collateral damage her choices had inflicted on others—Graham’s hopeless devotion, Mary’s unrequited love, even William’s confusion at the changing dynamics he was too young to understand.
“I have been selfish,” she said, the admission feeling like pulled teeth. “I had no idea?—”
“Nor should you have,” Mary interrupted firmly. “My feelings are my own to manage. I mention them now only to explain why I understand the complexity of your situation more fully than you might expect.”
Elizabeth studied her sister’s face, noting the quiet dignity with which she acknowledged her unrequited attachment. “You could have stayed in Meryton,” she observed. “Or gone to London with the Gardiners. You chose to follow me to this remote sheep farm instead. Why?”
Mary’s smile held a trace of genuine amusement. “For the intellectual stimulation and refined society, of course.”
The unexpected humor startled a laugh from Elizabeth. “Clearly. The sheep are renowned conversationalists, and Mrs. Honywood’s discussions of preserving techniques rival any London salon.”
“I came because you needed me,” Mary said. “Because family means standing together in difficulty as well as prosperity. And perhaps… because I wished to be somewhere my presence might be valued rather than merely tolerated.”
The candid admission pierced Elizabeth’s heart with unexpected force.
How often had Mary been overlooked at Longbourn?
The plain, pedantic middle daughter, neither beautiful like Jane nor vivacious like Lydia, neither the eldest nor the youngest—just Mary, with her moralizing and her mediocre piano playing, the sister they all acknowledged but rarely truly saw.
“I do value you,” Elizabeth said softly. “More than I have properly expressed. Your steadiness, your loyalty, your willingness to speak truth even when I might prefer flattery—these are rare qualities, Mary, and I have not appreciated them as I should.”
Mary’s expression softened with evident surprise at this acknowledgment. “Thank you, Lizzy. That means a great deal to me.”
They stood in companionable silence for a moment, the bond between them strengthened by this unexpected exchange of vulnerabilities .
“We should return to the house,” Mary said eventually. “Mrs. Honywood will be wondering what became of her apples, and William will be looking for you.”
“In a moment,” Elizabeth replied, her hand moving to the chain around her neck. “There is something I must do first.”
With deliberate movements, she unfastened the chain and slid the signet ring free. The heavy gold felt both familiar and strange against her palm—a physical connection to Darcy that she had kept hidden since his arrival at Bellfield, just as she had hidden the truth of their marriage.
“What are you doing?” Mary asked, watching with curious eyes.
Elizabeth did not immediately respond. Instead, she slipped the ring onto her thumb—the only finger large enough to hold it securely—and studied the effect. The Darcy crest caught the dim sunlight, the engraved falcon gleaming with subtle brilliance against the polished gold.
“Acknowledging a truth I have tried to avoid,” she said. “That I have been unfair in my expectations and judgments, while demanding perfect understanding from a man whose memory was stolen through violence rather than choice.”
Mary’s expression held approval but no triumph. “It is a significant step,” she observed quietly.
“A small one,” Elizabeth corrected, flexing her hand experimentally. The weight of the ring felt right somehow, a tangible reminder of connections that transcended memory and misunderstanding. “The first of many, I suspect, if there is to be any hope of genuine reconciliation.”
“Do you wish for reconciliation, then?” Mary asked carefully. “Beyond the legal acknowledgment of your marriage?”
Elizabeth considered the question with honesty she had not permitted herself since Darcy’s arrival at Bellfield.
Did she want more than the formal recognition of their vows?
Did she still harbor feelings for the man who had offered her protection during a storm, who had seen her as worthy of respect when all others had turned away?
“I wish,” she said slowly, “for the opportunity to know this Darcy as he is now, rather than measuring him constantly against the man I remember. And perhaps… for him to know me as I am, rather than as the fallen woman he imagined or the perfect wife he has forgotten.”
A single tear escaped, tracing a path down her cheek before she could brush it away. “I wish I had allowed him to place this ring back on my finger before he departed,” she whispered, more to herself than to her sister. “Instead of maintaining my pride and distance until the last possible moment.”
Mary reached out to squeeze her hand gently, the gesture conveying more understanding than words could have done.
“He will return, Lizzy. And when he does, perhaps you will both be ready to begin again—not as you were at the Red Lion, but as you are now, with all the wisdom your separate journeys have brought you.”
“Perhaps,” Elizabeth agreed, though uncertainty still clouded her heart. “If he can forgive my pride as readily as I must forgive his prejudice.”
“That,” Mary said with unexpected confidence, “is the one outcome I would wager upon without hesitation. A man does not depart on a dangerous mission to secure his son’s inheritance if his heart remains untouched by the mother.”
“Mary, you are truly an angel.” Elizabeth embraced her sister, the one she had rarely regarded, the one who had stood solidly at her side and endured her trials.
“You deserve happiness, too. When they return, because surely they will, you shall open your heart to the possibility that Graham already recognizes your worth and yes, your beauty. I have seen the interest he takes in explaining all the intricacies of tending the sheep and the trust he placed in you by handing you his duties.”
“His duties, perhaps… but not his…” Mary choked on her words. “I am the plainest of all the Bennet sisters. I have neither your wit, Jane’s beauty, Lydia’s liveliness, nor Kitty’s softness.”
“You underestimate your attractions.” Elizabeth held onto Mary’s shoulders. “You are intelligent, loyal, possessed of genuine faith and moral courage. Any gentleman of sense would consider himself fortunate to earn your regard.”
“You are kind to say so, though I suspect such qualities hold less appeal for most gentlemen than conventional beauty or accomplished flirtation.”
“For some gentlemen, perhaps. But Graham Pullen has never struck me as a man who values surface attractions above substance.” Elizabeth smiled, remembering the steward’s patient guidance of William, his respectful attention to Mary’s questions about farm management, and the obvious pleasure he took in their thoughtful conversation.
“I believe you might be surprised by the direction of his affections. He does seem especially interested in the music room lately, not an endeavor I’ve observed earlier.
And didn’t he dance at least three sets with you at the harvest festival? ”
Mary’s blush returned with renewed intensity, and she attempted to heft the loaded basket by herself. “I believe I hear William calling for his mama and looking for apple tarts.”