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A s September turned into October, the weather became everything lovely.

The air was cool, with no threat of frost or rain; the flowers were still blooming, but the leaves of the trees had begun their annual colour show – red, yellow, orange, copper, saffron, gold!

This was Elizabeth’s favourite time of year, but she had no heart to appreciate it just now.

The thought of her marriage to Mr. Darcy being an instrument of Georgiana’s downfall in society weighed on her heavily.

She knew Georgiana would protest that she would want for nothing if only Elizabeth would be her sister, but what if Georgiana fell in love with someone who would not marry her because of Elizabeth’s reputation?

Elizabeth knew she could not live with herself if she caused such misery to that sweetest of girls.

On the other hand, she could not imagine her life without Mr. Darcy.

He was her reason for rising each morning, her first thought upon opening her eyes, her last thought before falling asleep.

And he felt the same about her! Was it fair to either herself or Mr. Darcy to deny them their own marital bliss?

***

“Papa, we talked about telling the neighbours that Lydia is dead…” she began.

Her father looked up from his ledgers, irritation in his face. “Is that what you have come to discuss with me, Lizzy? If so, must it be right now? I am missing a shilling here somewhere, and I must find it before dinner.”

She shrugged and began to turn away, when her father stopped her. “Never mind, Lizzy, I am just in a mood. What about Lydia?”

“You know, of course, that Mr. Darcy’s relatives would be unhappy if he married a young lady with a stained reputation.”

“Yes.”

“But it is more than that; I now understand that my reputation, should it be soiled, could harm Georgiana when she comes out in society! I cannot allow that.”

“What would you have me do?”

“We talked about telling everyone that she is dead, but the difficulty was not being able to produce a body; you recall that?”

“Of course I do, Lizzy; it is not something I am likely to forget.”

“But what if we said that she died of something very contagious, and the doctor insisted on having her buried at once?”

“Good heavens, you have been reading too many novels, Lizzy.”

“But would that not solve the problem, Papa? And we could have some sort of notice printed in a London paper, saying that the Bennet family regrets the passing of Lydia Bennet, something like that!”

“I will consider it, Lizzy; but we have a good deal more time before you and Jane marry. Perhaps…” his voice trailed off.

“Perhaps Lydia will miraculously reappear?” Elizabeth could not keep the disbelief from her voice.

“I suppose I keep hoping that she will,” Mr. Bennet said, sadly. “Though I know it unlikely in the extreme.”

“Oh, Papa!” Elizabeth ran around the desk to hug her father. “I am sorry; I will not speak of it again until…well, until I must.”

***

That night at dinner, the Bennets spoke softly, haltingly, of Lydia. “It makes sense, I think, to say now that she is with the Gardiners,” Mr. Bennet said. “The story of her illness has gone on long enough.”

“I will write a letter in Lydia’s hand telling us of her journey there,” Kitty said.

“But can we keep this story believable long enough for Jane and Lizzy to marry?“ Mary asked. “You must wait until February, at least!”

“February,” Jane and Elizabeth said together.

“Yes, and it is just now October!” Mary finished. “Will we say that she is with the Gardiners until February? And then why does she not attend the wedding with the Gardiners?”

“Have you an alternative suggestion, Mary?” Kitty asked. “What else can we do? I believe we all understand that our future welfare depends on our sisters marrying these men.”

“I have been assured that the marriages will take place regardless of their reputations,” Mr. Bennet ventured. “Though Mr. Darcy is concerned about his family’s reaction.”

Elizabeth winced. “I do not want to bring disgrace to his family name, Papa, nor injure Georgiana.”

“Which is why we will do our best to keep the secret of Lydia’s disappearance as long as we can,” he replied.

“Papa, I do not think she is dead,” Kitty ventured, carefully.

“And on what do you base this opinion, Kitty?” he enquired, trying – and failing – to keep the sarcasm from his voice.

It was now Kitty’s turn to wince. “I just feel it, Papa. I feel she is alive. She must be.”

“You believe that if it gives you comfort, Kitty,” he said, his voice somber now. “I only wish I could believe it as well.”

***

Kitty and Mary stayed up quite late that night, composing a letter that ostensibly came from Lydia. After a good deal of thought and discussion with Mary, Kitty wrote:

Dear Kitty,

I am finally feeling better! It has been quite dreadful here in Brighton, being sick and not getting to spend time with my friends in the camp. If I am honest, I believe I have had quite enough of Brighton.

But, Kitty, I cannot bear to go to Longbourn with Mama gone!

I am certain that my spirits would never recover should I come home now and have to look at everyone’s sad faces.

I wrote to Aunt Gardiner, and she invited me to stay with them at Gracechurch Street, though she says I must wear black as the whole family is in mourning.

Aunt Gardiner will send a carriage for me.

I must go and pack.

Your loving and sad sister,

Lydia

“I am sorry to say that it sounds just like her,” Mary said.

Kitty just sighed as she sanded the paper.