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I write to acknowledge receipt of your letter explaining your sudden marriage.

While I cannot pretend to approve of either the manner or the timing of your decision, I must own that the Blackfriars match had begun to trouble my conscience.

Jonathan’s manner in the days before the wedding suggested a coldness of heart I had not previously perceived.

Nevertheless, to flee the church and marry a stranger shows a rashness of judgement I had not thought you possessed.

Your Mr Darcy has written separately, expressing his esteem for your character and assuring me of your comfort at Pemberley.

He has offered financial assistance, which I have declined.

Your Uncle Gardiner has arranged matters satisfactorily in that quarter, and I will not be further indebted to the gentleman who carried off my daughter without so much as a goodbye.

Your mother alternates between hysterics over the scandal and raptures over your wealthy match.

I shall not ask whether you find happiness in your choice, for I suspect neither of us wishes to examine that question too closely at present. Know that you remain, despite all, my favourite child, and that your old place in my library awaits should you ever wish to claim it.

Your disappointed father

Elizabeth lowered the letter to her lap, tears pricking at her eyes.

Her father’s cool restraint wounded her more deeply than her mother’s wild accusations.

He had been her champion, her confidant, the one person who had always understood her mind and spirit.

Now that connection was strained, perhaps permanently altered.

She glanced at Jane’s letter, still sealed. What reproaches might it contain? The thought of Jane, too, being disappointed in her was suddenly unbearable. Elizabeth set the letter aside unopened, unable to face the possibility of further pain before dinner.

She moved to the terrace, seeking fresh air to clear her thoughts.

The afternoon sun bathed the gardens in golden light, yet she hardly noticed the beauty before her.

Had she damaged her relationships with her family beyond repair?

Would there always be this new distance between them, this painful awareness of having failed their expectations?

Her mind still reeled from the discovery of Wickham’s portrait as well.

How strange that she should have met him in Meryton, and that he should have spoken so ill of Darcy.

Whose account was to be believed? The charming officer who had captivated the neighbourhood, or the loyal housekeeper who had known both men since childhood?

She was still standing thus, lost in thought, when Darcy found her. He paused in the doorway, taking in her dejected posture and the letters clutched in her hand.

“Forgive me,” he said. “I did not mean to intrude.”

Elizabeth hastily wiped her eyes. “Not at all. I was merely reading letters from home.”

Darcy approached, keeping a respectful distance. “I hope they bring no distressing news?”

“No distress beyond what I expected,” she replied, attempting a smile. “My family is well, though naturally surprised by the suddenness of our marriage.”

He nodded, studying her face. “You seem troubled, nonetheless.”

Elizabeth hesitated, uncertain how much to reveal. Their arrangement had been clear from the outset—a marriage of convenience with minimal entanglement in each other’s personal affairs. Yet who else could understand her current predicament?

“My father’s letter,” she began, then faltered. “He is disappointed in me.”

“And this troubles you?”

“I would rather bear the responsibility myself than have him shoulder it.”

Darcy considered this. “Perhaps the blame lies neither with you, nor your father, but with circumstances beyond either’s control.”

“A diplomatic assessment,” Elizabeth noted, “though not one my father would accept. He prides himself on seeing clearly, on being governed by reason rather than sentiment.”

“Yet he agreed to the Blackfriars match despite your evident distress,” Darcy observed. “That suggests his judgement was not entirely untouched by other considerations.”

“Financial necessity,” Elizabeth acknowledged. “Though my uncle had offered assistance he deemed insufficient—or too much like charity. Though he has accepted it now.”

“Would you care to discuss the letters further over dinner?” Darcy asked at length. “Or would you prefer solitude to compose your thoughts?”

The consideration in his tone touched her. He offered support without intrusion, understanding without pressure.

“I should welcome the opportunity to discuss them,” she admitted. “Though I would not burden you with family concerns that can hardly interest you.”

“On the contrary,” Darcy replied, his expression softening. “As your husband your family’s welfare cannot be a matter of indifference to me.”

With a slight bow, he departed, leaving Elizabeth to contemplate this unexpected extension of interest. That Darcy should concern himself with her family’s troubles—that he should wish to discuss them rather than maintain the polite distance they had agreed upon—suggested a shift in their relationship she had not anticipated.

As she gathered the letters to take to her chamber, Elizabeth wondered what manner of man she had married.

The reserved gentleman who had offered her escape from Jonathan Blackfriars was gradually revealing layers of character she had not glimpsed before: kindness, perception, and now a willingness to involve himself in matters that did not directly concern him.

And what of the mystery of George Wickham? Should she mention her acquaintance with him? Or would that revelation only strain the fragile understanding growing between herself and Darcy?

She paused at the doorway, glancing back at the terrace where they had spoken. Perhaps dinner would offer further insights into the enigma that was Fitzwilliam Darcy—and perhaps provide an opportunity to discover more about his history with the charming but possibly duplicitous Mr Wickham.