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Elizabeth was surprised—though not displeased—when her father informed Lydia, with uncharacteristic resolve, that she would not be going to Brighton.

That it had been done promptly, with no further ado, was perhaps the greater astonishment.

Yet even as she marvelled at the rare firmness of his decision, the responses of her mother and Lydia were so violent, so shrill, and so entirely predictable that Elizabeth found herself suspended between weary resignation and reluctant understanding.

Jane, ever gentle, attempted to soothe them both. Her voice was low and coaxing, her manner composed. “Mamma, Lydia—you must see that Papa has only your best interests at heart.”

Mrs. Bennet, flushed and fuming, fanned herself with dramatic energy. “Best interest! To deny Lydia such an opportunity? When Colonel Forster and his wife have offered their care? When every girl in Meryton was green with envy—and now it is all for nothing? It is wickedness, I say! ”

“It is Elizabeth!” Lydia shrieked, her face blotched with rage. “She turned Papa against me! She always does—she hates me! She and Mary both!”

Elizabeth said nothing. There was no use in arguing with a child who believed herself wronged by the existence of consequence.

The storm—Mrs. Bennet’s shrieking, Lydia’s tears, Kitty’s hesitation—felt all too familiar.

It was the echo of a household long left unguarded, of tempers indulged and boundaries erased.

“Indeed,” Mrs. Bennet declared, casting a scornful glance toward her second eldest. “Ever since Jane’s engagement, she has done nothing but spread gloom. Determined to make all of us miserable, that one.”

Mary, seated in her usual corner of the table, said nothing, but her hands were tightly folded, her shoulders squared with visible restraint.

Elizabeth met her gaze and found not hurt, but something quieter—sharper.

A silent reckoning. Kitty, too, glanced between their mother and Lydia, her lips parted as if to speak—but no sound came.

Her fingers twisted in her lap, restless.

Loyalty and weariness warred in her expression, and Elizabeth—watching closely—thought the balance might just be shifting.

“Kitty,” Lydia implored, her voice pitched high with urgency, “say you will come to town with me at least! Harriet says there is to be a dinner party before they leave Meryton—all the officers will be there! I cannot miss it!”

When Kitty hesitated, Lydia’s tone turned sharp. “You must! You always do what I say!”

Kitty looked down at her plate, her napkin clenched tightly in her fingers.

Across the table, her shoulders hunched, as if shrinking from the weight of the room.

Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, she said, “I did not say no.” A small voice.

But not a silent one. Her eyes flicked—just briefly—to Elizabeth, and in them was something like apology.

Or perhaps the earliest seed of discernment.

Elizabeth felt a quiet pang. She had hoped Kitty had begun to see more clearly, to discern right from wrong.

But Lydia’s pull was powerful, and familiarity persuasive.

In the din of protest and tantrum, Mr. Bennet was nowhere to be found.

He had made his pronouncement at breakfast and then promptly retreated to his bookroom, taking every subsequent meal there as if to avoid the storm he had unleashed.

For all his wit and cleverness, he bore conflict as little as any man.

Elizabeth could not quite blame him for removing himself—indeed, she had often wished for the same freedom—but the consequences of his distance lay heavy on her mind. Her mother and Lydia wailed because no one had ever demanded they behave otherwise .

A true father might have curbed Lydia’s worst impulses long ago.

A better husband might have taught her mother not to indulge them.

But Mr. Bennet, for all his intelligence and charm, had chosen the comfort of irony and books over the harder task of raising daughters—and now they all bore the cost of his retreat.

Still, she thought with a sigh, he had done what was needed this time. For that, at least, she was grateful.

Her gaze drifted once more to Kitty, who had not resumed eating.

The odd look had returned—thoughtful, uneasy.

Elizabeth made a quiet note to speak with her alone, though she could not say what she meant to ask, nor what Kitty might say.

But she would speak to her nonetheless. Some part of her—small and stubborn—still believed it was not too late.

At length, the chaos was gently diverted by Jane, who, with a soft blush, mentioned Mr. Bingley’s expected return.

Mrs. Bennet brightened at once, declaring that her nerves must be soothed and her complexion revived if she was to be the mother of the bride.

With many declarations of needing quiet and time, she swept Jane from the room and into her parlour, where the wedding plans would commence in earnest.

Lydia, after much coaxing and a flurry of whispered inducements, finally persuaded Kitty to accompany her into town. Elizabeth, though disappointed to see her sister fall once more under Lydia’s sway, felt a small, guilty measure of relief at the girl’s departure.

Mary, standing at the window with her hands folded before her, turned without prompting. “We may speak freely now, I believe.”

Elizabeth crossed the room and joined her, her voice low with thought. “I must confess myself astonished. I did not believe my father would truly do it. I expected him to smile, perhaps to jest, but not to act.”

“And yet he did,” Mary said simply.

“Yes,” Elizabeth murmured. “But I fear it was my words that shocked him into it—not any belief in their truth. Were he to reflect more deeply... I do not know what he would do.”

Mary considered this. “Do you think he will reflect?”

Elizabeth gave a soft, almost sad laugh. “No. He loves his peace above all things. If he can silence a problem with a closed door and a bit of irony, he will always choose that path. He has done so for years. ”

She turned her face toward the light, the faintest smile touching her lips. “It means I must be more cautious with my words in future.”

Mary didn’t answer, and the room fell still. Sunlight shifted on the floorboards. Somewhere below, the clock chimed the hour.

“It’s strange,” Elizabeth said at last, “to win an argument and feel no triumph.”

Mary’s voice was quiet. “Because you have not won. You have only bought us time.”

Elizabeth closed her eyes. “Then let us not waste it.”

They stood in companionable silence, side by side. After a moment, Mary spoke again—gently, almost hesitantly. “Did you speak to Jane last night?”

Elizabeth let out a breath. "I had half hoped that the drama with Lydia might have distracted you enough to forget my promise."

Mary turned toward her, the ghost of a smile on her lips. "I am not so distractible as Kitty."

"Indeed not."

Mary's tone softened. "Elizabeth, you said you would tell Jane. And I still believe you must."

Elizabeth sighed and looked away. "I know. But the closer Mr. Bingley's arrival draws, the more I fear it. What if it changes things? What if it shifts some delicate thread that must not be touched?"

Mary studied her sister quietly. "Then trust Jane to bear it."

Elizabeth shook her head. "I trust Jane to forgive anything. That is precisely what makes me hesitate."

Mary reached out, gently touching her sister’s hand. "Even so, she deserves to know. And you will feel better once it is spoken."

Elizabeth said nothing more, but in her silence, she conceded the point. The morning had been long, but the day was far from done.

As the household settled into its various pursuits, Elizabeth found herself standing near the drawing-room window.

Her mother and Jane had left some time ago in a flurry of bustle and excitement.

From above, muffled exclamations could be heard, and a maid passed by bearing a tea tray—its destination unmistakable.

Mrs. Bennet’s private parlour, situated just beyond the upstairs chambers, had clearly become the seat of bridal consultation.

The clinking of china and the occasional bursts of animated speech filtered down with all the clarity of high spirits and maternal fervour.

Elizabeth sighed. It would not be long before Jane was once more alone—and then, she must speak.

She dreaded it more than she cared to admit.

It was not a question of trust. Elizabeth loved Jane with all the devotion of a grateful heart and trusted her above any other living soul.

But it was the burden she hesitated to place—the weight of knowledge which, once shared, could not be recalled.

She had carried it alone for many weeks, and she knew how it pressed upon every thought, shaded every decision, coloured even the smallest hopes with caution.

Jane, newly engaged, was radiant—so light, so untouched.

Elizabeth had hastened Bingley’s return and, in doing so, had stolen months of sorrow from her sister.

She had acted swiftly, and only later—when she had nearly lost her own happiness—had she realised how fragile the course of events truly was.

It was Mary who had guessed the truth—or near enough—and had pressed her, gently but firmly, to speak.

Her arguments had been prudent, even wise.

Mary could bear such knowledge; her mind was steady, her judgment quiet.

But Jane’s generous spirit was another matter.

If Elizabeth spoke, there could be no retreat.

To know the future was not only to possess power—it was to bear the responsibility of every action taken, or left undone.

And Jane... Jane would carry that burden as Elizabeth had, but with none of her sister’s hardened resolve.

Still, Elizabeth had promised—and she meant to keep it. She had delayed as long as she dared.

In less than three days, Mr. Darcy and Mr. Bingley would arrive.

That thought gave her courage. At Hunsford, she had shared the barest outline of her secret with Fitzwilliam, and in London, he had begun to ask for more—only to be interrupted by the joyous news of Jane’s engagement.

That he had wished to hear more, that he had not dismissed her out of hand, had kindled a fragile but growing hope.

She trusted him to believe her fully in time—trusted him with a certainty she could not quite explain.

And yet, even with that comfort ahead, the hours before her stretched long and heavy. Each moment brought her closer to the conversation she most dreaded. Jane’s happiness was unclouded now—how could she be the one to dim it ?

She rested her forehead against the cool windowpane and closed her eyes.

There was no more avoiding it. Only the quiet ticking of time until the words were spoken—and the course of everything changed.