Page 55

The morning sun crept timidly through the curtains at Longbourn, casting a pale glow over the modest chamber. Elizabeth stirred first, blinking against the light, the heaviness of her restless thoughts clinging to her as surely as the blankets .

From the other bed, Jane’s gentle voice roused her fully.

"Lizzy," she said softly, "how are you this morning?"

Elizabeth sat up, brushing a hand through her tangled curls. "As well as can be expected," she replied with a small smile. "Hopeful, at least."

Jane hesitated, then spoke with even greater tenderness. "Will you not share your own sorrows with me, dearest? I worry so for you—my dear little sister."

Elizabeth’s impatience to acquaint Jane with the particulars of her time at Hunsford could no longer be overcome.

Resolving to suppress every detail that might unnecessarily alarm her, she gathered her courage, and at length, prepared Jane to be surprised.

With careful words, she related the chief of what had passed between herself and Mr. Darcy.

Miss Bennet’s astonishment was at first very great; but it was soon lessened by that strong sisterly affection which rendered any admiration of Elizabeth perfectly natural.

All surprise was shortly lost in more tender feelings.

She was grieved that Elizabeth should have borne such a burden alone, and still more that her brave confession had not yet been rewarded by certainty.

"To have lived with such knowledge and said nothing!" cried Jane, pressing Elizabeth’s hand with tearful earnestness. "Dearest Lizzy, how much you must have suffered."

Elizabeth smiled faintly. "I do not think I could have borne it at all without you."

Jane, overcome by a sudden memory, exclaimed, "But I interrupted you in London!" Her cheeks flushed with regret. "I came to you so thoughtlessly that afternoon—speaking only of my own happiness—when you and Mr. Darcy—oh, Lizzy, I see it all now. I might have ruined everything!"

"Nonsense," Elizabeth said warmly, brushing aside her sister’s distress with a smile. "You brought me joy, Jane. The news of your engagement was a balm to my heart. I would not have exchanged that moment—your happiness—for all the explanations in the world."

Jane still looked troubled, but at Elizabeth’s gentle encouragement, she gathered herself and said, "You do not blame me, then?"

"Blame you!" repeated Elizabeth, laughing a little, though her voice trembled with emotion. "Oh no. I never could."

"And I do not blame you," Jane added softly, her voice steady with conviction. "You did only what love and duty demanded. And your confession to Mr. Darcy was the same. "

Elizabeth looked away, blinking hard against the sting of unshed tears. "But what if... what if by speaking, I have altered everything beyond repair?"

"You must not think so," said Jane, with the same sweet solemnity that had soothed her since girlhood. "You must have faith, as I do, that James and Clare will still be born, and that happiness will find you again. Surely heaven would not punish such courage."

Elizabeth, overcome, could only nod, her heart too full for words.

"And now," Jane said, her voice brightening with a gentle cheer, "I know you will be as pleased as I am that Mr. Bingley and Mr. Darcy are expected at Netherfield within a few days. Mama says they are to dine with us soon, and that an invitation will shortly follow."

Elizabeth gave a small laugh, pressing a hand to her heart as if to steady its wild beating. "I suppose I must prepare myself for every eventuality."

"Hope, Lizzy," Jane whispered, squeezing her hand. "Hope."

The sisters came down to breakfast arm-in-arm, laughing softly in a manner that recalled the happiest days of their youth, when the world had seemed a much simpler and more generous place.

Elizabeth, her cheeks slightly flushed with the exertion of emotion and renewed intimacy, leaned affectionately towards Jane, whose gentleness had ever been the balm to her more impetuous spirit.

Mary, already seated with a book before her—though she had not turned a page in some minutes—looked up as they entered.

A faint, uncertain smile touched her lips.

She knew at once they had spoken, and the easy affection between them, the soft glances, the shared whispers, struck her with a pang she could not entirely suppress.

Yet even as jealousy stirred in her breast, Mary fought to master it.

She had guided Elizabeth towards her confession; she had done what was right, though it cost her something dear.

She must not, she told herself sternly, fall into selfish resentments.

Thus, with a deep, steadying breath, Mary put on a brave face and turned her eyes back to her book, though her heart was not in the reading.

It was Elizabeth who, noticing her subdued air, drew her forcibly back into their circle. She crossed the room at once, her arm still linked with Jane's, and lightly touched Mary's shoulder.

"Come, Mary," she said with playful warmth. "You must not be allowed to sequester yourself this morning. We were just debating whether we ought to walk to Oakham Mount or to the meadows beyond Meryton; we cannot come to a decision without your judgement. "

Mary blinked, startled, but a flush of grateful feeling rose in her cheeks. With a nod, she closed her book and set it aside, joining her sisters with a hesitating smile.

Before more could be said, however, the door burst open, and Kitty and Lydia tumbled in, as noisy and heedless as ever.

"Oh, how dreadfully dull it is now!" cried Lydia, throwing herself into a chair with an air of theatrical despair. "There is nothing to do—nothing! The officers are all gone! I shall die of ennui if something does not happen soon!"

"Indeed, Lydia," said Kitty, though with less spirit, "there is hardly anyone left in Meryton worth looking at."

Elizabeth and Jane exchanged a glance, amused despite themselves. Mary, whose sensibilities were too well-governed to express irritation aloud, merely pressed her lips together and looked steadfastly out of the window.

"Perhaps, Lydia," Elizabeth said, her voice sweet but dry, "you might seek a new diversion in the pages of a book."

Lydia made a face. "Books! I would rather have another ball. I declare I have not danced in an age."

"And yet," said Jane, smiling kindly, "we are to have company at Netherfield very soon. That must be excitement enough, surely."

This reminder brought a slight smile to Lydia’s lips, though it quickly faded. "As long as they bring some gentlemen with them," she muttered.

Elizabeth laughed, unable to help herself, and drew Mary more firmly into the group.

She would not allow her sister to feel herself forgotten or set aside.

If their family must be a chaos of noisy complaint and quiet endurance, then Elizabeth was determined that, for once, Mary should not bear the worst of it alone.

The sun had risen with a gentle warmth that morning, and by the time the sisters had finished breakfast, the weather had become so inviting that a walk was proposed and unanimously agreed upon.

Elizabeth, Jane, and Mary set out along the familiar lanes, the spring air scented faintly with blooming hawthorn and early roses.

Their conversation was light, but within it, Elizabeth felt the ease and natural pleasure of companionship restored, particularly with Jane.

Mary, though quieter than the others, walked steadily beside them, sometimes offering observations on the flora, and sometimes smiling—truly smiling—at her sisters' teasing banter .

They had just begun to return from the far meadow path, laughing about something Jane had said about Mr. Collins’ notion of poetry, when Elizabeth halted, her brow creasing.

"Is that Kitty?" she asked, pointing toward a figure walking slowly along the lane ahead.

Jane shaded her eyes, then gasped softly. "It is. But she looks—oh, Lizzy, she looks upset."

Within moments they reached her, and Kitty, though clearly embarrassed to be discovered, could not hide the tears threatening at the corners of her eyes.

"Kitty, dear, what has happened?" Jane asked, placing a gentle hand upon her sister’s arm.

Kitty hesitated, but her frustration bubbled over.

"It’s Lydia," she burst out. "She told Aunt Philips she’d promised to help prepare the parlor for when the officers visit again. She said it would be improper for both of us to stay—and somehow I ended up being the one sent home. I had to walk all the way by myself. She didn’t even ask if I minded. It was like I wasn’t there at all."

Elizabeth, with a look to Jane and Mary, gave a soft nod. "Mary, Jane, will you walk ahead? I shall be along shortly."

Jane glanced between them, then smiled and took Mary’s arm without protest. Mary, though curious, followed willingly.

Elizabeth turned to Kitty. "Come, let us sit a moment."

Kitty sniffed, still flustered, but allowed herself to be led to the low stone wall that bordered the lane.

For a moment, they sat in silence.

Then Kitty said, more bitterly than Elizabeth had expected, "You’ve changed. Everyone sees it. Even Mama says you are not the same."

Elizabeth blinked. "Have I?"

"Yes," Kitty snapped. "You speak differently. You act like you know more than the rest of us. And you look at us sometimes like we are children. You never did before."

Elizabeth felt the pang of truth behind the accusation. "Kitty," she began softly, "I—I never meant to make you feel small."

"Then why do you act like I’m stupid? "

Elizabeth turned fully to her, taking Kitty’s hand. "You are not stupid. And you are right. I have changed. But it is not a thing I can explain. Not yet. Not even to Jane. But I promise you this: I do not look down on you."

Kitty swallowed, watching her sister with uncertain eyes.

"You are cleverer than you believe. And kinder, too. And I know it is hard to feel as though no one sees you. But I do, Kitty. I promise I do."

Kitty gave a small nod, her chin trembling just a little. "Then why won’t you talk to me? Like before."

Elizabeth looked down at their joined hands. "Because I am still learning how. But I shall try. I promise."

Kitty managed a faint smile. "All right."

As they neared Longbourn, Jane and Mary—sensing the privacy Elizabeth and Kitty had required—walked slowly ahead to allow them to catch up. Elizabeth, still unsettled from her talk with Kitty, offered a brief smile to Jane as they drew level.

"You look as though the weather has burdened your thoughts more than the sun should permit," Jane said kindly, taking her sister’s hand.

Elizabeth shook her head. "Only the usual troubles we Bennet girls are accustomed to."

Mary glanced between them. "It is perhaps a blessing, then, that we are rarely allowed a moment without interruption."

Just then, as if summoned by prophecy, Mrs. Bennet’s high-pitched voice rang through the hallway.

"There you are, girls! Walking, walking—all you ever do is walk, and now Lydia is gone off to town, and the wedding plans must be managed without her.

I had much to discuss with Jane this morning, but now the time is lost."

Most in the room exchanged glances. Elizabeth raised an eyebrow at Jane, who merely pressed her lips together in good-natured resignation.

Mrs. Bennet continued with growing exasperation.

"And to make matters worse, your father is being entirely unreasonable about the wedding budget. He says he will not approve a single shilling until he has spoken to the gentleman—assuming he even comes at all, which is the most provoking tease. I had half a mind to ask you, Lizzy, to reason with him, but it seems since your odd spell you’ve quite lost his favour.

He listens to no one these days, locked away in that study. "

Elizabeth blinked, startled by the sting of her mother's words and the revelation of her father's withdrawal. She glanced toward the study door, her thoughts shifting—concern joining the many threads already weaving themselves into her heart.

It was true that she had noticed a difference these past months.

First, it was her refusal to allow him to tease Jane so heartlessly through the winter, and later her insistence that he not permit Lydia to chase after officers in Brighton.

At the time, she had seen his acquiescence as a small victory, a hopeful change.

Yet now, she recognized that it had only deepened his retreat from the family.

Living three years under the care of a responsible and dutiful husband had sharpened her awareness of her father's shortcomings.

She loved him still, and their conversations were sometimes companionable, but it was love tempered by regret.

The head of Longbourn, once merely indolent, now appeared almost willfully detached.

Yet he was a grown man, and if he chose this path despite her efforts, she would let him be.

It was her sisters who needed her more keenly now—Kitty, Mary, and even Lydia.

She had seen in Kitty a spark worth tending, a spirit clouded only by proximity to Lydia's heedless influence.

Mary, too, must not be allowed to withdraw again into solitude and silent longing.

If she could guide them—truly guide them—perhaps they would each grow into women of sense and steadiness.

Elizabeth resolved that she would not leave it to chance.

She would help Kitty to bloom, encourage Mary to remain engaged with them, and even Lydia, if kicking and screaming she must.

Jane had told her she only did what love and duty demanded, and Elizabeth now saw with clarity that this second chance demanded no less of her.

Her knowledge of the future was a burden and a blessing—a gift meant not merely for her own happiness but for the betterment of all those she held dear.

If love and duty had guided her once, they must guide her now more firmly, more wisely.

She had been given the chance to mend what had once been broken, and she would not squander it.

With renewed determination, Elizabeth rose and looked out the window toward the spring-bright fields. She would do her part. Come what may, she would not stand idle when so much could yet be saved.