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“I shall pass along your kind concern,” Mrs Bennet had replied. “Lizzy has been much improved-I am sure she will be able to go about as good as new in no time at all.”

Mr Collins declared himself fatigued by the evening’s excitements and retired to bed. Mrs Bennet soon followed.

It was then that Lydia leaned in, eyes wide with significance. “Now that we are quite alone-wait until you hear what Mr Wickham told me. But you must not say anything with Mr Collins about. He would faint dead away.”

Elizabeth, who had been stroking Pudding’s ears absently, straightened at once. “What did he say? ”

“About Mr Darcy,” Lydia said, with theatrical relish. “He’s done the most dreadful things-you would not believe it! Mr Wickham says Darcy was jealous of him and stole a living that had been promised to him by Darcy’s own father!”

Elizabeth sat up straighter. “That is a serious accusation. Are you certain that is what he meant to imply?”

“Well-not exactly,” Lydia admitted, shrugging. “He did not say it in so many words, but it was perfectly clear. He looked so very melancholy, and yet so noble about it. I could have wept! You could see how much it pained him to speak of it.”

“Did he say Mr Darcy ignored the terms of a will?” Elizabeth asked, her mind already turning over the legal improbabilities. “Or simply chose not to honour a wish that was never formalised?”

“Oh, it was something like that,” said Lydia, waving a hand. “He said it was not written down in terms the law would help him with, but everyone knew what was meant. Mr Darcy just did not want to share.”

Elizabeth frowned, but said nothing. The story struck her as incomplete-and perhaps too convenient.

Kitty, now seated by the fire, chimed in, “She told us in the carriage on the way home. I never liked Mr Darcy, but now-oh, it’s too shocking.”

Mary looked uneasy. “One ought not to speak of private matters so lightly. Especially if they concern gentlemen not present to defend themselves.”

Elizabeth was silent for a moment.

“He was very gallant,” Lydia continued. “And he asked after you, Lizzy. Mr Denny had told him you’d been injured, and he said he hoped to call soon.”

Elizabeth exchanged a glance with Jane, who had entered quietly with her shawl still about her shoulders .

“There may be more to the story,” Jane said softly. “We must not assume too much on one account alone.”

“I still think it very romantic,” Lydia sighed. “A poor young man, cheated out of his future-so noble, so tragic. I hope he comes tomorrow.”

“I hope,” said Mary, “that we will remember not to spread such tales further.”

Elizabeth nodded faintly, but her thoughts were far from settled. The tale, vague though it was, had lodged itself firmly in her mind-and with it, a dozen questions she could not yet answer.

When Elizabeth and Jane were alone in their room, they talked more about what Lydia had heard.

“This story he told Lydia-it troubles me. Not just for what it implies, but because it was shared so lightly, so soon,” Elizabeth said while sitting on her bed.

“You believe there may be another side to it.” Jane was undoing her hair.

“I do,” Elizabeth said. “But I cannot pretend it has not unsettled me. If it is true, then Mr Darcy has done something very wrong. But if it’s not… why tell it?”

Jane was quiet for a long moment while brushing her hair. “People do not always speak with perfect accuracy when they are hurt. Or when they wish to make an impression.”

Elizabeth smiled faintly. “No, they do not.”

Jane plaited her hair, waiting for Elizabeth to finish the thought.

“I keep thinking of his expression,” she murmured after a moment. “Mr Darcy’s, I mean. When he looked at me yesterday. There was something-uneasy. Guarded.”

“You think it has to do with Mr Wickham?”

“I do not know. But now, with this story… I cannot help but wonder.” Elizabeth stared up at the canopy above her.

“He might be proud. He mi ght be reserved. But to act with such injustice? I cannot reconcile that with the man who stood in the rain to find me, or who sent an open carriage when I was afraid to travel.”

Elizabeth undid her dress, and Jane moved over to help with the ties.

“Maybe Mr Wickham misunderstood what Mr Darcy’s father left in his will,” Jane said.

Elizabeth pulled her dress off and dropped it on the chair by the window.

“I think that is very likely,” Elizabeth said, while removing her petticoats. Jane picked up Elizabeth’s dress and hung it up neatly. “Mr Darcy’s father would not have got a young man’s hopes up only to dash them.”

She hesitated, then added, “What did you think of Mr Wickham?”

Noticing Jane had hung up her dress, Elizabeth placed her petticoats more neatly on the chair before loosening her stays

Jane paused. “He seemed very pleasant. He smiled often, spoke easily, and made a point of including everyone in the conversation. Even Mary. He has a ready sort of charm.”

Elizabeth looked over, one brow raised. “But?”

“I do not know that there is a ‘but,’” Jane said gently, crossing to her own dressing table. “Only that I did not hear him say anything of much substance. He was friendly-very friendly-and I liked him. But it was only an evening.”

Elizabeth nodded slowly. “So it’s not just me. Something about his story does not quite sit right.”

Jane gave her a small smile in the mirror. “That does not mean he is untruthful. But perhaps-well, perhaps we do not know enough yet.”

Elizabeth let out a breath as she loosened the final ribbon of her stays. “That is just it. I feel as though I have been told too much and not nearly enough.”

Jane turned down the coverlet on her bed and looked toward Elizabeth. “Then wait, dearest. You are good at waiting-better than me.”

Elizabeth climbed into bed with a soft groan, propping her foot carefully against the pillow, before undoing her hair and running a brush through it a few times. “I am not sure I am as patient as you believe.”

Jane slipped beneath her own blankets and blew out the candle nearest her. “I think you are simply not accustomed to waiting on matters of the heart.”

Elizabeth laughed softly in the dark. “What a thing to say.”

“You were quiet about Mr Darcy for days, and now you cannot stop thinking of him.”

“Thinking is not the same as caring.”

“No,” Jane said, her voice barely above a whisper. “But sometimes… it is very near.”

“What age did you say he was?” Elizabeth said suddenly, an idea taking shape.

“I believe he is about thirty,” Jane said sleepily.

“Thirty is rather late to be just starting out in the world,” Elizabeth said, drawing the covers up and propping her pillows behind her.

“I keep thinking about what Wickham hoped to gain by telling Lydia,” Elizabeth said. “She’s a silly girl-she’d repeat it to everyone within five minutes-and believe every word twice over. What did he mean her to? Does he know Mr Darcy is in the neighbourhood?”

“Perhaps he simply needed to unburden himself,” Jane said.

“Or perhaps,” Elizabeth murmured, “he has told the tale before.”

Jane was silent.

Elizabeth turned her head toward the firelight and the quiet, purring shape of Pudding at her feet. The fire crackled softly, but Elizabeth’s mind was louder still-full of impressions, questions, and that same unreadable look in Mr Darcy’s eyes.

“I cannot sleep,” she said softly.

“Then try not to think about either of them,” Jane murmured, already half-asleep. “Let them trouble their own rest for a while.”

Elizabeth smiled, just a little. But her thoughts lingered on both men long after the fire burned low.