Chapter Text
Elizabeth could have laughed at the idea that happiness might prove so undramatic. Of course it did not arrive with any great revelation, nor with the certainty she had always assumed would accompany it. Instead, it crept in through interludes of intimacy.
Mornings often began with Fitzwilliam still beside her, the early light softening his features into something less guarded than the man the world knew. Familiarity had not dulled desire, rather it had steadied it. There was less hesitation now, less careful restraint born of habit rather than inclination. Affection moved between them easily, without explanation or ceremony, and Elizabeth found that she liked the person she became in its presence.
It was after one such morning that she asked Georgiana to join her for breakfast. The invitation was made lightly, as though it were no more than a passing preference, but Georgiana’s response betrayed its novelty. Surprise crossed her face before composure returned.
“If you wish, sister,” she said.
“I do,” Elizabeth replied. “Very much.”
Their breakfast was taken in the morning room, where the light fell softly across the table and lingered on the pale wood of the floor. The windows stood high and clear, admitting the muted winter sun without glare, and the room held the quiet ease of one already lived in rather than newly claimed.
Conversation had moved easily between them. Georgiana with increasing confidence, her hands resting lightly at the edge of the table, her voice steadier then when she was in other company. Elizabeth found herself struck, more than once, by the thoughtfulness beneath Georgiana’s modesty, by how readily knowledge of a wide variety emerged when it was not pressed for display.
It was during a lull, when cups were being refilled and the clink of porcelain softened the silence, that Georgiana spoke again.
“You know my brother wrote about you in his letters,” she said. The words were offered without ceremony, yet they landed with unexpected weight.
Elizabeth looked up from her cup, surprise lighting her expression before she could temper it. “Did he?”
A small nod accompanied the answer. Georgiana’s fingers traced the rim of her cup as she turned it slowly, a habitual motion that appeared whenever she spoke of anything personal. “Often.”
That drew a fractional lift of Elizabeth’s brows, amusement stirring at once. “That is not something he ever thought to mention,” she noted, smiling into her cup.
“No, he would not have.” After a brief pause, as though deciding how much to reveal, she added, “The first letter was written after the assembly at Meryton when he first arrived with Charles.”
Soft laughter escaped Elizabeth before she could stop it, edged with an amusement she made no effort to disguise. She leaned back slightly in her chair, the memory returning with vivid clarity. “How fascinating.”
Georgiana straightened at once, earnestness rising instinctively to her defense. “He found you remarkable.”
“Indeed?” Elizabeth said lightly, though her eyes sparkled now. “That will come as news to the gentleman who declared me barely tolerable.” The irony was delivered without bitterness, but with unmistakable relish.
Disbelief crossed Georgiana’s face, swift and sincere. “He said that?”
“In my hearing,” Elizabeth replied, lifting her cup again. “On the very same evening, as it happens.”
For a moment, Georgiana was silent. Then she shook her head, not in denial, but in quiet correction. “He wrote that you were the most handsome woman in the room,” she said. “And that your wit distinguished you from everyone present.” Her gaze lifted, steady and certain.
Elizabeth leaned back slightly, the memory returning with new color. The stiffness. The restraint. The way his attention had lingered despite himself. “Well,” she said at last, smiling, “then he was kinder in ink than in conversation.”
Her new sister answered with a gentle smile, touched with fond familiarity.
Elizabeth studied her then, this quiet, devoted sister whose confidence in her brother was neither blind nor exaggerated, but shaped by years of constancy. Fitzwilliam, in Georgiana’s world, was not merely admired. He was trusted.
The realization carried an unexpected weight. Whatever regard Fitzwilliam had once felt for Elizabeth had not lived solely between them. It had been spoken, remembered, and cherished elsewhere. She was not merely his wife now, but part of the inner history by which his sister understood the world.
And beneath it all, she felt the quiet pleasure of realizing that she was, already, being woven into this family’s shared understanding of itself.
The ease of the moment lingered, delicate but real. Georgiana reached again for her cup, her movements unhurried now, shoulders no longer held quite so carefully. Sunlight slipped across the tablecloth in pale bands, catching at the rim of porcelain and the curve of her hand. The morning room seemed to breathe with them, content to hold conversation without pressing it forward.
Elizabeth had just begun to respond with some light remark when the sound reached her.
Footsteps in the corridor. They were not hurried, nor were they softened by indecision. Each step landed with measured certainty, spaced evenly, announcing presence without apology. Elizabeth had already learned the language of the house well enough to distinguish them: not a servant moving about their duties, not Fitzwilliam’s longer stride, nor Mrs. Reynolds’s efficient pace.
Before the doorway filled, Georgiana felt it. Her fingers paused against the handle of her teacup. The porcelain did not rattle, but the stillness was unmistakable. Her shoulders drew back with practiced precision and her spine aligned as though guided by habit rather than thought. The easy angle of her posture corrected itself, smoothing into something neater, quieter, less her own.
Elizabeth noticed before she consciously looked for the cause.
Miss Grant appeared in the doorway without hesitation. She did not hover at the threshold nor pause to take in the room. Her presence settled into place with immediate authority, as though the space had always been waiting for her. The sober grey of her gown absorbed the light rather than reflecting it, and her hands were folded with exactness, fingers aligned, posture unyielding.
Her eyes went to Georgiana. “Miss Darcy,” she said, her voice even and controlled, neither sharp nor indulgent, “your music lesson is scheduled to begin shortly.” The statement was not framed as instruction. It was expectation.
Georgiana inclined her head at once. “Yes.”
Elizabeth noted the absence of any qualifier. No question. No request for delay. No softening of tone.
Miss Grant’s gaze flicked briefly, almost incidentally, toward Elizabeth. The look was neither rude nor kind, merely appraising, before returning to Georgiana. “If you have finished your breakfast.”
“I have,” Georgiana replied, already setting her napkin aside. The movement was careful, exact, as though she were conscious not only of what she did but how quickly she did it.
Elizabeth rose with her, the motion unforced. “I have enjoyed our morning very much,” she said, her tone easy, genuine. “I should like to repeat it.”
For a heartbeat, Georgiana’s composure faltered. Color touched her cheeks, faint and fleeting, and her eyes lifted with quiet hope. “I should like that,” she said softly.
As Georgiana stepped past her, Elizabeth caught it—the smallest interruption in movement. Not fear or reluctance, but something more reflexive. A tightening at the jaw. A breath adjusted before being taken. The moment was so brief it might have been imagined, yet Elizabeth was certain of it. Then it was gone.
Georgiana followed the governess from the room, her steps light, her posture restored to careful order. Elizabeth remained where she was, standing within the warmth of the morning room, watching until they disappeared down the corridor.
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In attempting to understand the household, Elizabeth began at the edges.
She had spoken first with the women whose labor set the pace for everyone else, and with the outdoor staff when weather and duties allowed. It seemed only reasonable to understand how the estate functioned from the ground up before concerning herself with how it appeared.
By the time she reached the upper ranks, the house no longer felt like a structure she inhabited, rather more like a system she was beginning to understand.
Pemberly's storied cook was shown into the study just before noon by the first footman, David.
Elizabeth had learned early that the household preferred a summons to an unexpected visit. It was not resistance, only order. Work done well depended on rhythm, and interruption unsettled more than it helped. A proper request preserved dignity on both sides.
Mrs. Birse entered with a brief curtsey, her movements brisk and assured. She was a solid woman, broad through the shoulders, her hair already streaked with grey and drawn back without ornament. Heat and flour clung faintly to her sleeves, the sort of marks earned rather than neglected. This was a woman accustomed to command where copper and fire ruled.
Elizabeth rose at once. “Mrs. Birse, thank you for coming. I hope I have not taken you from anything pressing.”
“No, ma’am,” Mrs. Birse replied, easing herself into the chair opposite with care. Sitting was clearly not her habit unless there was cause for it. Her voice carried a northern cadence, the vowels broader, the consonants firm. “The kitchen’s set till the servants’ dinner. Yon lot will manage fine a while.”
She smoothed her apron once and folded her hands in her lap. They were broad, work-worn hands, the knuckles faintly reddened, the nails kept short. Even still, they looked ready.
“I have been speaking with the household,” Elizabeth said once the chair had settled. “Only to understand how things are done here.”
Mrs. Birse gave a small nod. “Aye. Mrs. Reynolds mentioned it. Said you like to ken how things run.”
“I do,” Elizabeth said, smiling. “It seems the sensible place to begin.”
“That it is,” Mrs. Birse agreed. “A body can tell much by how folk are fed, and when.”
“It is my understanding you have been here a long while.”
“Near on twenty years now,” Mrs. Birse said. “Came down from Perthshire when I was no more than a wee slip of a lass. Started in scullery, same as most. Learned under Mrs. Hayward when she still kept the kitchen. Took her place when she stepped aside.” A pause, then, “You learn quick, or you’re sent back north again.”
Elizabeth’s interest sharpened. “That is no small rise.”
Mrs. Birse shrugged, one shoulder lifting more than the other. “You do the work that’s before you. House like this, it tells you soon enough if you’re fit for it.”
Elizabeth’s mouth curved faintly. “And what do you find most difficult?”
Mrs. Birse did not answer at once. Her gaze dropped to her folded hands, thumbs pressing together and releasing in a slow, habitual motion, as though she were setting her thoughts in order before laying them out. The pause felt practical rather than evasive.
“Keeping the hours straight,” she said at last. “Meals taken at different times, trays up and down the stair. Plates coming back near as quick as they went.” A brief glance lifted, then settled again. “Miss Darcy’s appetite shifts.”
Elizabeth rested her hands on the edge of the desk, the wood cool beneath her palms. “Miss Darcy’s appetite shifts,” she repeated. “How so?”
Mrs. Birse’s fingers stilled. When she spoke again, her voice remained even, the words chosen with care. “Some days she eats fine enough,” she said. “Better if she’s had her music, or a turn about the grounds. Comes in with color to her. Other days she’ll pick a bit, leave the rest. Says she’s no hunger for it.”
Elizabeth inclined her head, listening without interruption.
The chair gave a soft creak as Mrs. Birse adjusted her weight. One hand slid to the edge of her apron, rubbing at a seam worn smooth by years of heat and soap. “She’s never been one for fuss or dainties,” she added, eyes still lowered. “Eats what’s set before her, so long as she’s easy in herself.”
“When she’s easy,” Elizabeth repeated, quietly, marking the phrase rather than questioning it.
Mrs. Birse lifted her gaze for a brief moment. The look was steady, unembellished, and gone almost at once. “Aye, ma’am.”
Elizabeth leaned back a fraction, not withdrawing but making space. The edge of the desk pressed lightly at her elbow, papers stacked there in neat disorder, none of them touched. “And when is she not?”
The answer did not come at once. Mrs. Birse drew a breath through her nose, slow and measured, as though weighing what might be said without stepping beyond it. One shoulder rose and settled again, the movement small but telling.
“Lesson days,” she said at last. “Or after there’s been upset. Anything that puts the day a wee bit out of line.”
Her mouth tightened faintly at one corner before smoothing again. The words had been chosen carefully, shaped to fit the truth without enlarging it.
Elizabeth did not rush to fill the silence. She watched the cook’s hands instead, the way one thumb pressed briefly against the other, then stilled.
“And does she tell you so?” Elizabeth asked, her tone even, the question offered rather than pressed.
Mrs. Birse looked down again, this time nodding once, almost to herself. “Nay,” she said. “Miss Darcy’s no one to make complaint. You see it in what’s left on the plate, or how she takes her tea. Appetite comes and goes wi’ the rest of it.”
The words settled into the room, quiet and unadorned, carrying more weight than any declaration could have done. Mrs. Birse folded her hands again, careful and composed, as though she had already said as much as she meant to.
“I am obliged to you, Mrs. Birse,” Elizabeth said. “It helps me to understand how the house truly runs, rather than how it is supposed to.”
Accepting the remark without ceremony, Mrs. Birse inclined her head.
“There is one matter I have been curious about,” Elizabeth went on, settling more comfortably in her chair. “Not as a complaint. Merely as something I should like to understand better. What do the servants take for their meals, day by day?”
A brief tightening crossed Mrs. Birse’s mouth, not from offense but consideration. “Much the same as most houses,” she said. “Soups made to stretch. Roasts when there’s one on, carried over the next day. Pudding if there’s time for it. Bread, always bread.”
Elizabeth inclined her head slightly. “And meat?” The question followed easily, as though the subject had not shifted at all.
“In winter, more than summer,” Mrs. Birse answered. “Not every day for everyone. The men get it more often than the maids. Hard work needs seeing to.” She paused, then added with quiet finality, “That’s how it’s long been.”
Beyond the window, the kitchen gardens lay in their winter order, bare but carefully kept. Elizabeth glanced that way before speaking. “I should like to see more meat when it is sensible,” she said, “and vegetables when they are in season, not held back for convenience alone.”
For a moment, Mrs. Birse only regarded her, eyes narrowing slightly as though weighing intent rather than feasibility. “That would sit well with the staff,” she said at last. “Folk work better when they’re properly fed. There’s no harm in saying it.”
The conversation moved on without effort, as though the ground had been cleared.
“The holidays,” Elizabeth continued, turning the page of the conversation as naturally as one might a leaf. “How do they usually pass below stairs?”
Mrs. Birse’s shoulders eased, the subject clearly a familiar one. “If there’s no company, the pace slackens some,” she said. “Half a day at Christmas for most. New Year’s Eve evening free. Enough time for a bite, or a visit down the village if family’s near.”
Elizabeth hesitated only a moment before continuing. “I have also been told that the servants’ meals are taken before the family’s breakfast and luncheon, and after the family’s dinner.”
“Aye,” Mrs. Draper said. “Always has been.”
“And does that serve you well?” Elizabeth asked, not pressing, simply inviting.
A thoughtful shift in the chair preceded Mrs. Birse’s reply, the movement measured rather than defensive. “Breakfast and dinner work well enough,” she said. “But luncheon might run smoother if it came after the family’s. There’s clearing to be done, and preparations waiting on it. The kitchen’s often caught between two things at once.”
The image assembled itself readily. Heat banked too long. Dishes waiting to be cleared. Hands pausing mid-task while another demand pressed in. Habit, useful once, now working against ease.
“It is worth discussing,” Elizabeth said at last. “I will speak with Mrs. Reynolds.”
A second incline of Mrs. Birse’s head followed, this one carrying quiet approval. “Much obliged.”
Rising signaled the close of the meeting without haste or dismissal. “Thank you, Mrs. Birse. I am glad to have had the chance to speak with you.”
Mrs. Birse stood as well, smoothing her apron out of habit. “Thank you for listening, ma’am.”
Once the door closed behind her, Elizabeth remained where she was, hands resting loosely at her sides. The satisfaction that settled was not triumph, but order. This, she thought, was how change ought to begin. With attention given before decisions made.
Pemberley, she was learning, answered best to that kind of care.
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Dinner was taken that evening in the smaller dining room, at a circular table drawn close to the hearth. Candlelight pooled at its center and softened the paneling beyond, blurring the room’s edges until it felt contained, intentional. With only two places set opposite one another, the space invited conversation rather than ceremony.
Fitzwilliam sat with easy composure, his chair angled slightly back, one arm resting loosely against its curve when he was not eating. The formality of his coat remained, but the stiffness did not. Elizabeth noticed how naturally he occupied the room, how the habitual weight of responsibility sat with him without pressing.
The conversation first turned to the estate.
He spoke of the tenant farmers whose harvest had suffered under a difficult season. Late rains, an early frost. Nothing ruinous, but enough to press hard on families who could not easily absorb the loss. As he spoke, he rested his hand against the table’s edge, marking distinctions with quiet precision rather than gesture. Fields were named as familiars. People as individuals.
Elizabeth listened with the focused attention of someone being trusted with substance rather than summary. Seated across from him, she leaned forward slightly without noticing, her hands resting near her plate, her expression intent rather than deferential.
“They will need some relief,” he said, setting his knife aside. The movement cleared the space between them, as though the matter required no distraction. “Adjusted rents through the winter, at least. I would rather preserve steadiness than press for recovery too quickly.”
“That seems wise,” Elizabeth said. “If they feel supported now, they are far more likely to recover well when conditions improve.”
His gaze met hers directly. The faint shift at the corner of his mouth carried recognition rather than surprise. “That was my thought.”
She did not remark on the satisfaction she felt at the alignment. The ease with which he included her told her enough. He expected her judgment to matter, and the expectation felt grounding rather than heavy.
When she spoke of the greenhouse, it was with the same measured calm.
“Mr. Taylor and I walked the grounds this afternoon,” she said. “The structure of the greenhouse has held longer than expected, but not without strain. Several panes are cracked, and the supports are beginning to warp.”
Fitzwilliam’s brow furrowed slightly as he considered it. Seated opposite her, he shifted back in his chair, one hand lifting his glass though he did not yet drink. “I was told the previous repairs would suffice for many years to come.”
“They have,” Elizabeth replied. “But patching will only grow more costly. Rebuilding in the spring would likely serve the estate better in the long term as we could expand and focus on crops not offered by the tenant farmers or in nearby villages.”
He turned the glass once between his fingers, the candlelight catching along its rim. “Do you have figures?”
“Not yet. I’ve asked Mr. Taylor to prepare them. I wanted to understand the scope before troubling you with numbers.”
The glass was set down again. A restrained but genuine smile softened his concentration. “You are not troubling me.”
They lingered over practicalities a while longer. Staffing adjustments. Supply routes. Small efficiencies that mattered precisely because they were addressed before they became urgent. Across the small table, their attention moved easily between them, conversation passing without effort or display.
Elizabeth found herself engaged in a way she had not expected to enjoy quite so much. This, she realized, was partnership in its truest sense.
Only when the last plate had been removed and the servants withdrew did the room loosen its formality. Candlelight steadied, no longer interrupted by motion, and the quiet that followed was serene. Fitzwilliam simply rose and offered his arm and Elizabeth accepted immediately.
They crossed into the family drawing room together. Elizabeth settled onto the settee near the fire, its cushions already warmed by the day’s embers. Fitzwilliam released her arm only long enough to take the chair positioned beside it, angled naturally toward her, close enough that the space between them felt intentional rather than incidental. One hand rested along the chair’s arm, the other loose at his knee, his posture relaxed but attentive.
“There is something else,” she said, lightly enough that it did not sound like a preface. “An observation.”
His attention shifted at once with the quiet care he gave to matters he took seriously. “Of course.”
Elizabeth folded her hands in her lap, the movement unhurried, more thoughtful than guarded. Firelight traced the edge of her sleeve as she spoke. “I have spent a great deal of time with Georgiana these past weeks.”
A warmth touched his expression, brief but unmistakable. “She is most taken with you.”
“I believe she feels at ease,” Elizabeth said, choosing the word deliberately, “when she is allowed to forget herself.”
He considered that, his gaze lowering for a moment toward the fire. “That has always been her way,” he said quietly.
The pause that followed was not empty. The fire shifted; an ember flared, then settled again. Somewhere deeper in the house, a door closed with muted finality.
“I have also noticed,” Elizabeth continued at last, her tone unchanged, “that this ease diminishes in certain company.”
Understanding crossed his face almost at once, then steadied into something practiced. “You are speaking of her governess.”
“I am,” Elizabeth replied, inclining her head.
He leaned back slightly, considering. “She has been with Georgiana since she was a child. My parents trusted her. She knows my sister’s habits, her sensitivities, her limits.”
Elizabeth met his gaze, her expression thoughtful rather than challenging. “And I understand your instinct, and yet,” she said gently, “I sometimes wonder whether Georgiana’s reserve is learned rather than natural.”
“Last year,” he said, “my sister was persuaded to leave Pemberley without my knowledge.” His voice did not harden, but something in it tightened all the same. “She was told that the affection she bore her family was something imposed upon her, rather than freely given.”
Elizabeth remained still, listening.
“He spoke to her of love,” he said quietly. “He told her that if she truly wished to be free, she need only choose it—that he would take her away, protect her, and make her his wife.”
His fingers curled once against the arm of the chair, the movement brief but unmistakable.
“She believed him,” he said. “Not because she was foolish, but because she is young. He offered her independence dressed as romance, and she had no reason to recognize the difference.”
“Miss Grant pressed for greater structure,” Fitzwilliam continued. “Fewer liberties. More supervision.”
“I do not deny,” Fitzwilliam said after a moment, “that Georgiana is gentle. Nor that she requires guidance. But I also know my sister. I know her capacity for feeling, and for growth.” He exhaled slowly. “Miss Grant has experience. She has managed households, instructed young ladies, navigated difficulties I have not.”
“I know,” Elizabeth began, “that you have acted from care rather than control. That much is clear, but—”
“The man was Mr. Wickham.”
Elizabeth’s breath caught before she could prevent it. The fire snapped softly in the grate, a small sound that suddenly felt too loud. It took everything in her to hold his gaze, the instinctive inward turn of someone struck by a truth rearranging itself too quickly to be grasped.
He watched her closely. To him, it must have looked like comprehension settling into place. His shoulders eased by a fraction, the change slight but unmistakable, as though a burden long carried had at last been shared and therefore lightened.
The pattern completed itself. The charm. The grievance. The practiced intimacy. The way he had seemed so candid, so injured, so deserving of understanding. Elizabeth saw it now with brutal clarity, not as revelation but as indictment of him, and of herself.
Her husband appeared to wait, perhaps for reassurance, perhaps for indignation offered on his behalf. When none came, he spoke again, more gently, as though closing a matter he believed resolved. “I tell you this so you may understand why I am cautious,” he said. “Why I am slow to undo what has kept her safe.”
Mr. Wickham. The name settled heavily now, fastening itself to every remembered kindness, every easy confidence, every grievance offered with such apparent frankness. The deception had not been imposed upon her alone. She had met it halfway and accepted it because it flattered her judgment. And if she, who had believed herself clear-sighted, had been so readily misled, what of Kitty? Of Lydia, so open to admiration, so little guarded against it?
Elizabeth inclined her head, the movement controlled. “I do understand,” she said, and it was true, as far as it went, but beneath the composure, something colder had taken hold.
Fitzwilliam nodded, satisfied. He reached for her hand, his touch warm, grounding. “Thank you.”
Elizabeth allowed the contact, even returned it. She did not wish to wound him with doubt where none could yet be proved. This was not the moment for contention. He had trusted her with something costly, and she would not repay it with argument.
Yet even as she sat beside him, outwardly composed, resolve gathered quietly within her.
She must write at once. Not to betray confidence or revive danger. But to warn. To place truth, however sparely, where it might prevent harm.
The thought steadied her.
If Mr. Wickham had once nearly carried Georgiana away under the guise of love, he would not hesitate to attempt the same elsewhere. And Elizabeth would not be silent now that she saw him clearly.
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Sleep that evening did not come easily.
Elizabeth lay still beside Fitzwilliam, careful even of her breathing, listening to the steady rhythm of his beside her. He slept deeply, one hand resting where it had fallen, his expression unguarded in a way the day rarely permitted. She watched him for a moment, then turned her gaze toward the darkened room.
Her thoughts refused order.
They moved instead in repetitions. Georgiana’s softened voice at breakfast. Miss Grant’s look. Fitzwilliam’s certainty. And, threaded through it all, a single name she could not yet quiet.
Elizabeth shifted, testing the mattress for sound, then slipped free with practiced care. Fitzwilliam stirred only enough to adjust, his breathing unbroken. She gathered her robe, drew it about her, and crossed the room barefoot, the floor cool and smooth beneath her step.
The writing desk stood ready.
She sat, drew the chair in, and rested her hands on the blotter without reaching at once for the pen. For a moment she simply sat there, letting the act of having risen feel intentional rather than impulsive. She did not often write at such an hour. That alone told her something mattered.
At last, she took up the pen.
Dearest Jane,
I cannot decide whether I am more inclined to laugh or sigh as I begin this letter, for I am very happy, and yet very conscious that happiness, when examined too closely, has a way of appearing absurd. I shall therefore avoid examining it and tell you instead that I am well, content, and quite busily employed in ways I never entirely anticipated.
She paused, considering whether the admission was too much, then allowed it to stand. Jane, at least, would never mistake sincerity for excess.
Pemberley suits me better than I had the vanity to expect. I do not mean merely that it is handsome, though it certainly is, but that it is intelligible. Nothing is done for display alone, and everything seems to answer to some sensible purpose. I find myself oddly pleased by knowing which windows the sun reaches first, which rooms the housekeeper prefers to air before luncheon. Pray do not alarm yourself. I am not a different person! I am merely amused to discover that what I once thought tiresome is here treated as something rather valuable.
I shall not pretend indifference. It pleases me very much that Fitzwilliam insists upon consulting me in all manner of concerns, from tenants to turnips, and does so with such ease that I hardly notice the novelty of it until afterward and perhaps that is the greatest novelty of all.
To be asked, not as a courtesy, but as a matter of course. He speaks to me of such things as though it were the most natural arrangement in the world, and I find that I answer him in the same spirit, without ceremony or hesitation. Only later do I recall that there was a time when my opinions were offered chiefly for amusement rather than use.
She tilted her head, amused at herself.
I have spent a great deal of time lately with Fitzwilliam’s sister, Georgiana, and I like her exceedingly. She is quiet, but not dull, and far more observant than she allows. Music draws her out more than anything else, and when she forgets herself she is both lively and diverting. I hope I may be of some use to her, though I am careful not to insist upon it.
And now, Jane, I must turn to something less agreeable, though no less necessary.
Elizabeth’s pen slowed, the next lines chosen with greater care.
I have been obliged to reconsider an opinion I once held with far too much confidence. You will not be surprised to learn that this reflection concerns Mr. Wickham. I will say only this: that I was mistaken, thoroughly and humblingly so, and that his manners are a far better guide to his intentions than his principles ever were.
I cannot yet explain all I have learned, nor would it be proper to do so, but I entreat you to be cautious, and to encourage the same caution in my sisters. If I, who pride myself on discernment, could be so readily deceived, I tremble to think how easily others might be.
She let the ink dry before continuing, her tone softening again.
You must forgive the gravity of this situation. I promise not to persist in it.
Tell me everything in return. How is Netherfield? Is Mr. Bingley still there, and as cheerful as ever? I hope he has not quite forgotten us all in the press of his engagements, though I suspect forgetting anyone is not among his talents. And what of the season? Are there to be dinners, dances, or other festivities to recommend Christmas as particularly lively this year? I find myself wondering how it will all unfold from such a distance, which is a novelty in itself.
Give my love to my father, and to all my sisters, though you may distribute it as you see fit. I rely upon your judgment there, as in everything else.
Ever your affectionate sister,
Elizabeth
She pressed the fold once more, aligning the edges with care, then reached for the seal. The wax softened quickly beneath the flame, pooling obediently onto the paper. Elizabeth watched it cool before pressing her mark, firm and exact. The impression mattered less than the act itself. The letter was finished. It would go in the morning.
For a moment, she remained seated, hands resting flat upon the desk, as though anchoring herself there. The unease that had driven her from the bed had not vanished, but it had altered. It was no longer restless. It had direction. At last she rose swiftly and crossed back to the bed, moving with the same care she had used before. She slipped beneath the covers and lay still, allowing the familiar weight of the mattress to take her once more.
Fitzwilliam had shifted onto his side, his back to her now. His breathing deepened, adjusted, then steadied again, as though he sensed her return without waking to it. The closeness was reassuring, but it did not soften her resolve.
Staring into the darkness, her thoughts seemed to simmer down. And when sleep came at last, she greeted it.