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Elizabeth spent the greater part of the next morning in quiet contemplation, wandering the gardens and weighing within herself whether she ought to confide in Jane.

The temptation to share the truth was great; not merely to unburden herself, but to prepare her sister for all that might follow.

And yet, as always, with Jane came the hesitation — the dread that the knowledge might trouble her, unsettle her gentle peace, and prove a burden she should not be made to carry.

It was in this spirit of internal conflict that she sought Mary’s counsel once more.

They were sitting beneath the great elm that stood on the edge of the orchard, its leaves fluttering softly in the spring breeze.

Mary had brought out her volume — some lesser-known tract on virtue and the responsibilities of the soul — but it remained unopened in her lap.

"I do not know whether I ought to tell Jane," Elizabeth said at last, her voice low and uncertain.

Mary glanced at her, solemn and steady. "Do you fear her judgment?"

"No," Elizabeth answered quickly. "No, never that. But I fear to distress her. She is so happy just now. And she hides it so poorly when she is troubled — she would fret over me, and then she would speak to Mr. Bingley, and it would all spiral out of my control."

Mary nodded, absorbing the words. There was a long silence between them before she spoke again.

"Still," she said, carefully, "if anyone deserves the truth — if anyone would seek to understand it with compassion rather than suspicion — it is Jane."

Elizabeth looked down at her hands, folded tightly in her lap.

"I know. And I mean to do it. I think I must."

Mary gave a small nod of approval, but her expression remained curiously unreadable. Her eyes fixed on a distant part of the orchard. Elizabeth studied her a moment.

"Mary," she said gently, "you do not seem pleased."

Mary turned her head slightly but did not meet Elizabeth’s eyes. "I am — I am glad. It is right that you should tell her. "

And yet the tone was too clipped, the words too precisely chosen. Elizabeth, who in another life might have overlooked the nuance, was no longer that girl. The lessons of Pemberley had taught her the importance of tone, of glance, of what was not said as much as what was.

She waited a beat longer. "But...?"

There was a pause, heavy and telling. At length, Mary spoke again, her voice barely above a whisper.

"I am not one for secrets. And yet this — this knowledge, this strange, impossible truth of yours — it has bound me in a way nothing ever has before. It is not only the knowledge itself, though I confess it unsettles me still. It is... it is the intimacy of it."

Elizabeth tilted her head, trying to understand.

Mary continued, almost mechanically, as if the words were being drawn from her against her will.

"You turned to me. Not Jane. Not Charlotte. Not even our aunt. Me. And I—I have never been anyone’s confidante before.

Not by accident of being near, like Jane.

Not by indulgence or affection, like Lydia. But because you thought me worthy."

Now Elizabeth’s face softened entirely.

"Mary..."

"It is wrong to feel as I do," Mary said quickly.

"Envy is a sin, and I know it. But I cannot help the fear — that if Jane knows, she will become your confidante, and I will no longer be needed.

That you will return to the world where I am only ever seen in the corner of the room with a book in hand. "

Elizabeth reached for her hand, her voice tender. "I will never forget what you have done for me — what you are to me now. No one could replace you."

Mary shook her head. "I believe you. And yet... my heart is small. I find I do not wish to share you."

Elizabeth smiled faintly, though her eyes shimmered. "Then it is good that your heart is also honest, and kind."

Mary managed a smile of her own, albeit small and flickering. "I have prayed. Not to banish the feeling — for I know I am not so virtuous — but to keep it hidden. It would not do to be seen as petty. Not to you. And not to Jane."

The breeze shifted then, rustling the leaves above them like a hush from the heavens .

"You have my love," Elizabeth said quietly. "And my trust. No one could take that from you."

They sat in silence for some moments, letting the sun warm them and the understanding settle between them. At last, Elizabeth stood.

"Then I will speak to her. Tonight, perhaps. When the house is still."

Mary nodded. "It is right."

But her eyes, though resolute, shimmered with a sadness that Elizabeth could not quite erase. She would speak to Jane. She would do what was right. But she would do it remembering the cost, and the quiet grace of the sister who had shared her burden with no expectation of reward.

Though Elizabeth resolved in her heart to speak to Jane before bed, the day unfolded with interruptions enough to put that intention to rout.

Chief among them was Lydia, who burst into the drawing room with all the exuberance and heedless joy of a child who had never once been denied a pleasure.

In her hand, she waved a note — wrinkled from much unfolding and re-folding — and declared, with no small delight, that she had received an invitation to Brighton.

"Harriet says I must come! The colonel is so agreeable and the officers have such spirits — she says there is not a dull moment in the entire camp!"

Mrs. Bennet, who at the start knew nothing more than that her youngest was to be included in a plan involving the sea, officers, and perhaps new gowns, was initially transported by the notion.

Her features lit with the glow of maternal ambition — the kind that sought happiness in marriages rather than morals.

"To Brighton, my dear girl! Why, that is a very genteel thing, indeed.

You must write at once and say you shall come.

Just think to dine with all those officers, and perhaps find one who has five or six thousand a year — yes, a new wardrobe is a must!

Your father must provide for such necessities; he cannot expect you to make so long a journey underdressed, especially in company so fine as the Fosters'. "

Elizabeth watched this celebration with increasing unease.

Lydia was beaming, speaking at a speed that made her difficult to follow, and already imagining herself the belle of every encampment ball.

Kitty, of course, was not far behind, casting hopeful glances between her mother and sister, as though trying to discern whether she might be included in this pleasure.

Elizabeth’s thoughts, however, were elsewhere .

It was not Brighton that concerned her, nor the officers there — not exactly.

It was Lydia’s very nature: impulsive, vain, thoughtless, and heedless of consequence.

Elizabeth knew too well the dangers such folly could court.

And though Wickham no longer posed a threat in Meryton or Brighton that did not mean another man, equally base but far less known, might not find in Lydia the same easy target.

She thought of Fitzwilliam — her Fitzwilliam — and his anguish when Georgiana had nearly been deceived.

She remembered, too, his grave expression when he spoke of Lydia’s disgrace the first time through, of how he had feared she would cast blame upon him.

That had puzzled her then. Blame? For what?

For not saving a girl whose family he scarcely knew?

But now she saw more clearly. Fitzwilliam had stood too close to one sister's ruin already; how could he have borne witness to another?

Elizabeth’s fingers curled around the embroidery she had long since abandoned in her lap. No, Lydia must not go to Brighton.

Her father would not intervene. Of that, she had little doubt. He would smile his slow smile, retreat to his library, and say something arch about letting fools rush where angels dare not tread. Her mother, blinded by Lydia's charms and the glories of officers’ attention, would fight for the plan.

The only path forward lay in redirecting her mother’s energies.

Elizabeth would have to be subtle — persuasive without being obvious.

She had succeeded once before by chance and desperation.

This time, it must be by skill. And she was not altogether certain she possessed the art to sway her mother from such determined partiality.

But for now, she listened. Lydia flounced about the room with the invitation still clutched in hand, dreaming aloud of bonnets, of flirtations, of sea air and scarlet coats.

Mrs. Bennet clapped her hands with glee, already devising a scheme to make the trip happen, and likely to fund it out of the wedding fund for Jane.

Elizabeth’s silence was noticed by neither of them. Yet inwardly, her thoughts surged with urgency: she must not let this come to pass. No matter how charming the officers, nor how strong her mother’s resolve, Lydia must not go to Brighton.

She tried first the gentler road. “Mama,” Elizabeth began, keeping her voice as pleasant as she could manage, “would you wish for Lydia to miss Jane’s wedding?”

Mrs. Bennet, who was already consulting with Lydia over patterns for summer muslins, waved the notion aside with the ease of one brushing off a bothersome gnat.

“Miss it? Fiddlesticks, child! Jane will not marry until at least Michaelmas—more likely Christmas. It takes months and months to prepare a proper wedding. Lydia can have her little holiday and be back in plenty of time—and who knows? Perhaps engaged herself! ”

Elizabeth’s eyes widened. “Engaged?”

Mrs. Bennet chuckled. “Why not? Brighton is full of young men with good prospects. Lydia is lively, and her figure has always been admired. If she plays her cards right, she may catch someone with five or six thousand a year.”