“You have my word it shall not become a habit.”
“A fair promise, for?—”
She did not finish.
The maid had come back to the door.
It was Hannah, the girl who had brought up their dinners allthe week. She was scarlet to the roots of her hair and twisting her apron in both hands.
“I beg your pardon, miss. I beg it most sincerely. I did not know how I came to do such a thing?—”
“Whatever is the matter?”
“The letters, Miss Bennet.” The girl produced two letters from her apron pocket, both directed in Jane’s hand, both still sealed. “They came yesterday by the post, the both of them. You was out, so I set them by on the side table to give you, and I clean forgot them till I was cleaning up the breakfast just now and saw them still sitting there. A whole day. I am that ashamed. If there was anything in them as wanted answering?—”
“You are not to fret about it,” said Elizabeth, taking them. “A day is nothing. There. It is forgotten already.”
Hannah did not look convinced, but she dropped a curtsy and fled.
Elizabeth looked down at the letters. Jane’s hand. Two of them. Both still sealed. One of them very difficult to read.
The sight of them brought the rest of the world back with uncomfortable speed. Her aunt and uncle would return at any moment. The door had only just closed behind Hannah. Mr. Darcy still stood near enough that she could feel the warmth of him, and neither of them, she suspected, looked as composed as they ought.
“I suppose I should read them,” she said, assessing the hand. “This one was delayed at first.”
“Of course,” said Mr. Darcy. “I shall give you the room.”
“No.” The word came too quickly.
He stopped.
She looked down at the letters, suddenly shy of what she had betrayed. “I mean—there is no need. They are only from Jane. And my aunt and uncle will be back directly.”
His expression softened. “Then I shall stand here and pretend to examine the inn’s mantelpiece until we are both under better regulation.”
Despite everything, she almost smiled.
“I wish you success. It is not a very interesting mantelpiece.”
“I shall endeavour to find it so.”
He moved away from her, but not far, turning with great seriousness towards the mantel. Elizabeth sat again, the letters on the table before her.
She broke the first seal. This was Jane’s script at its most careful, which Elizabeth had long ago learned to read as her sister at her most frightened. She read, and for several lines could not understand what Jane was saying. She read them again.
Lydia was gone from Brighton. Gone in the night, and not alone. Gone with Mr. Wickham.
There was hope, Jane wrote at once—Jane, who could not bear to leave such news unsoftened—that they had gone to Scotland. That all would yet be made right by marriage. Colonel Forster had set out after them, had come personally to tell her father, Elizabeth was not to be too anxious. All might still be well.
Elizabeth fumbled with the second letter.
Here, Jane had given up the pretence. The couple were not gone to Scotland. They had been traced as far as London and no farther. There was no marriage, and no longer any reasonable expectation of one. Even Jane could not deny the ugly truth. Mr. Wickham’s character was such that it was doubtful he had ever intended to marry Lydia at all.
Papa had gone to town to search. Mamma had taken to her bed. Jane begged her uncle’s assistance and for all of them to return to Longbourn.
Elizabeth read it once. She read it again, but could not catch her breath, so she stood with two sheets of paper in her hand while understanding that the foundation of her life had very quietly given way.
“Elizabeth?”