“Perhaps not,” Elizabeth snapped. “But it is full of reminders, is it not? That you are not enough. That he did not choose you. That everything you did—quietly, perfectly, patiently—was still not enough.”
Jane’s face stiffened into a look of cold horror. “I never said that.”
“You do not have to. It must be infuriating.” Elizabeth rose and paced once across the rug, her skirts brushing too loud in the still room. “To try and try and be met with nothing but silence and implication.”
Jane looked down. Her voice, when it came, was tight. “You think I did not try? You think I sat there and waited for happiness to land in my lap?”
“That is not what I meant.”
“No? Because it sounds as though I have disappointed you. Again.”
Elizabeth froze. Jane rarely raised her voice. But her tone now had weight. Hurt.
The truth surged to the surface, sharp and urgent. The journal was gone. Caroline Bingley had it—she had to. Elizabeth was being dismantled one clever phrase at a time, and no one—no one—knew what she was losing, or how fast.
But the words stuck. She could not say them. Not now. Not to Jane, who already looked so near breaking.
“I meant,” she said, carefully now, “that I am angry. At them. At everything. Not at you.”
Jane looked away. Elizabeth sat back down, slower this time. She reached for Jane’s hand but did not grasp it tightly. “I should have protected you better.”
“I do not need protecting,” Jane mumbled. “I just need the truth.”
Elizabeth opened her mouth—she had no idea what was about to come out, but a knock split the silence.
Both sisters turned.
Elizabeth stood too quickly. “Yes?”
The door opened a cautious inch. The footman’s voice was tentative. “A message for Miss Elizabeth from the dowager Countess of Matlock.”
Oh, no. Not her again. Elizabeth crossed the room in two steps. “Leave it.”
He set it on the side table, bowed, and vanished. She stared at the seal, still breathing unevenly.
Jane bent to retrieve her sewing, eyes lowered. Elizabeth did not move.
Then, abruptly, she snatched the note and tore it open—not delicately, not like a lady. More like a ravenous fiend. She scanned the page with a flick of her eyes.
“A poetry evening,” she said flatly. “Thursday. Lady Strathmoor.”
Jane looked up, then back down. “Are we both invited?”
Elizabeth nibbled her upper lip and glanced down at the note again. “I suppose it could be read that way.”
“I ask because I would rather not attend. If I can remain behind without giving offense, I should rather do that.”
Elizabeth narrowed her eyes, trying to make sense of her sister’s reluctance. Jane had never been too bashful for a social occasion. But she was looking down now, studying her embroidery as passionately as Mary ever pounded away at a concerto. She appeared determined not to explain herself.
Elizabeth sniffed. “Perhaps I shall read something romantic and faint delicately into the arms of a major.”
Jane made a sound that might have been a laugh. Or not.
Elizabeth frowned. “Or perhaps I shall stay home and rewrite my will.” She folded the invitation once, twice, and pressed her thumb against the crease until the fold was sharp enough to cut her.
She did not need to see a guest list. She already knew who would be there, for it was inevitable.
“Will you accept Lady Matlock’s invitation?”
