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With greater consequence than one might suppose did February pass away.

It was now March, and Elizabeth, having at last received Charlotte’s invitation, was preparing to depart for Hunsford.

Her thoughts, as she readied herself for the journey, were of a restless and mixed character—tinged with apprehension, shaded with resolve, but ultimately coloured by a singular hope.

She longed to see Fitzwilliam again, to speak with him, to be near him—even if the intimacy of their former connection must be cloaked in the distant civility of acquaintance.

To travel with Sir William Lucas and his second daughter, Maria, was no hardship; for though Sir William was, as ever, inclined to grand speeches and provincial pomp, his intentions were kindly and his manner easy to bear.

Maria, being young and good-humoured, was a companion unobjectionable enough, and seemed pleased by the prospect of seeing a new part of the world.

The improvement of the plan by spending a night in London, at the Gardiners’ home, was a source of considerable delight to Elizabeth.

Her affection for her uncle and aunt, coupled with the respite from Longbourn’s familiar but wearying scenes, made the visit doubly welcome.

Yet it was not without a certain melancholy that Elizabeth prepared to leave.

The parting from Mary, in particular, was more affecting than she had anticipated.

Though theirs had never been a friendship marked by easy confidence, recent months had drawn them closer together.

In Mary’s solemn manner and oft-misunderstood reflections, Elizabeth had found something akin to wisdom—clouded, perhaps, by inexperience and habit, but sincere and earnest.

"You must write to me," Mary had said, her voice more fervent than usual, as she handed Elizabeth a small volume of collected sermons she thought might be of comfort. "Tell me what you observe. And do not forget to study the company you keep. There is much to learn, even in the follies of others."

Elizabeth smiled and promised she would, though her thoughts were not likely to incline toward the moralising when once she found herself again in Fitzwilliam Darcy’s presence. Still, she took the book with care and expressed her gratitude in a manner that pleased her sister greatly.

Thus fortified with good wishes, a sound plan, and a heart full of mingled hope and anxiety, Elizabeth left Longbourn behind, bound for the parsonage at Hunsford and all that it might bring.

First, she was to travel only twenty-four miles, and they began it so early as to be in Gracechurch Street by noon.

As they drove to Mr. Gardiner's door, Jane was at a drawing-room window watching their arrival, and on the step stood a troop of little boys and girls, whose eagerness for their cousin's appearance would not allow them to wait with propriety in the parlour.

Their merry cries and stamping feet filled the street as the carriage rolled to a stop.

No sooner had Elizabeth alighted than she was surrounded by her young cousins, clamouring for attention and kisses. Jane descended with a beaming smile and warm embrace, and soon Elizabeth was ushered inside, where a cheerful fire and warm welcomes made her feel at once at home.

Elizabeth contrived to sit beside her aunt in the parlour, and with the children momentarily distracted by sweets and stories, the two ladies turned to a quieter conversation. Their first subject was, naturally, her sister Lydia—and the farce that had played out in Meryton the previous month.

"A comedy of errors, if ever there was one," Elizabeth said, with a wry smile.

Mrs. Gardiner arched a brow. "You promised to tell me all. I only received a taste of the affair in your last letter."

Elizabeth leaned in a little. "Well, the downfall of Mr. Wickham was as ridiculous as it was deserved. First, his line of credit at the Meryton shops dried up entirely—largely thanks to Mary suggesting to Mr. Wentworth that it was unlikely he could pay off his debts, and that perhaps his interest in Miss Wentworth’s new bonnet was less than honourable. "

Mrs. Gardiner laughed. "Not Mary!"

"Indeed, it was. She has grown rather shrewd in her observations. But then, the real blow came when Mary King received her little windfall. "

"I recall mention of her inheritance."

"Yes, and Mr. Wickham turned his attentions upon her like a moth to a candle. But—" Elizabeth grinned mischievously, "—your niece whispered a word or two to her guardian. Nothing overt, just enough to suggest caution. The attentions ceased soon after."

Mrs. Gardiner chuckled. "And he returned to Lydia?"

“Lydia, of course, was thrilled. She had already convinced herself she was his great love and would one day nurse him through poverty with ribbons and reckless spending. And so, when he whispered to her of escape, of love unbound by society—she agreed without hesitation.”

Her aunt blinked. “Escape? Where was he planning to take her?”

Elizabeth paused for effect. “London.”

Mrs. Gardiner sat back, mouth parted. “London? With Lydia? In February?”

“I know,” Elizabeth said, grimly amused. “Romance with frostbite. He claimed they would marry immediately, stay with a friend in Chelsea, and live simply.”

“Which means squalidly,” her aunt muttered.

“Precisely. Lydia saw only candlelit scandal and the thrill of stolen freedom. She packed two bonnets and one volume of The Mysteries of Udolpho. And she would have gone, too—except for one small, uncooperative detail.”

Mrs. Gardiner leaned in eagerly. “Which was?”

Elizabeth grinned. “Mama.”

Her aunt stared. “Your mother?”

“Yes. She overheard Lydia humming some nonsense about London and lace and decided—heaven knows why—that an elopement would be a delightful family outing.”

Mrs. Gardiner covered her mouth, shoulders shaking.

“She burst in the next morning,” Elizabeth continued, “announced that no daughter of hers would travel unchaperoned, and insisted she accompany them. She said it would be 'good fun' and that she hadn’t had a proper jaunt in years.”

“Please tell me she began packing.”

“Oh, indeed. She selected her green taffeta, ordered Kitty to press gloves, and wrote a letter to Aunt Philips to say she was off to see Lydia married—‘in the modern way,’ she called it. Wickham was visibly horrified. I have never seen a man re-evaluate his choices so swiftly.”

Mrs. Gardiner was now laughing outright. “He fled, didn’t he?”

“Vanished before supper. Left a note claiming urgent business in the north and, naturally, unpaid bills behind him. The innkeeper is still cursing his name.”

“And Lydia?”

“Declared she had changed her mind,” Elizabeth said with a smirk. “Told everyone she had refused him, that he had wept at her feet, and that she would never love again—until she found someone taller with a carriage.”

"Oh, Lizzy," her aunt said between giggles, "you must write this all down one day. It would make a most delightful tale."

Elizabeth laughed, feeling the warm humour of the story take the edge off what might have been calamity. "Perhaps I shall. But only once it is far enough in the past to be viewed with proper amusement."

Their laughter joined that of the children playing in the next room, and for the moment, the troubles of the past month seemed less burdensome.

It was then that Mrs. Gardiner, smiling still, laid aside her sewing and turned to Elizabeth with a familiar sparkle in her eye.

"Now, Lizzy, we must speak of our plans.

Your uncle and I are resolved to take our tour to the North come summer—Derbyshire, Cumberland, perhaps even a glimpse of the Lakes if the weather proves fair. What say you to joining us?"

Elizabeth's heart gave a small flutter. She had known this question would come—had indeed looked forward to it—and yet the weight of all it implied caught her unprepared. She smiled warmly and said, "I should like it of all things. It would be delightful to explore the North in your company."

Mrs. Gardiner looked pleased. "Then it is settled. We shall write to your father."

Elizabeth inclined her head, her smile unwavering, but her thoughts ran far afield.

To her aunt, she showed only glad anticipation for hills and rivers and ancient market towns.

But inwardly, she was not quite so certain.

Would the journey north be necessary at all?

Might things change before the summer came?

If Fitzwilliam—Mr. Darcy—should speak at Hunsford, if he should look upon her with the same feeling she had glimpsed once or twice before, would she have the strength to say no?

The thought was both frightening and thrilling. Yet for now, she could not let such hopes sway her outward manner. "I am quite beside myself with anticipation," she said, feigning gaiety. "To think of all the romantic vistas and rustic cottages! I only hope I can bear to leave them behind."

Mrs. Gardiner laughed again, unaware of the quiet storm beneath her niece’s composed exterior. And Elizabeth, with a glance toward the window and the pale March sky beyond, wondered if the summer would bring clearer skies in more ways than one.