Mr. Darcy, for instance.
She did not doubt that he would stand up for her—had already stood up for her, in fact, in ways no one else would know.
If she pressed him—truly pressed him—he might even honor that absurd old promise. It would be done with integrity. Quiet efficiency. A lifetime of unwavering responsibility.
And she would resent every moment of it.
He knew too much. He had read her secrets on a page and recognized them without being told. He knew when she was bluffing. When she was proud. When she was afraid. And worst of all, he never tried to flatter her. He did not offer warmth unless he meant it.
No, it would never do.
Captain Marlowe, at least, had the good sense to worship her without reservation.
Her fingers brushed the edge of the note once more. “You shall do,” she murmured under her breath. “You shall do very well indeed.”
A rustle at the door interrupted her strategy. Jane entered, cheeks pink from the cold, her expression just shy of triumphant.
Elizabeth tucked the note quickly under the edge of her plate.
“Good morning, Lizzy,” Jane said, breezing in with the sort of radiant composure that made one believe she had never said anything scandalous in her life—let alone written it down.
Elizabeth glanced up. “The post has come?”
Jane nodded and crossed the room, her step just a little too light, her eyes just a little too bright. She held a small stack of correspondence in one hand—and in the other, a modest vase of white hyacinths and winter roses. Someone had been early. And hopeful. And rich enough to bribe the gardener at half-past eight.
Elizabeth gave her a slow, sidelong look.
“They arrived this morning,” Jane said quickly, as if the presence of artfully arranged florals in winter needed no further explanation. “Mr. Bingley has a great fondness for hyacinths. He once told me so himself.”
“I recall. He compared them to his favorite cravat,” Elizabeth said. “Which I think you will agree is the highest compliment Mr. Bingley is capable of offering.”
Jane blushed, but it was the sort of blush that spoke more of anticipation than embarrassment. “He was very kind yesterday. He asked after Kitty, and spoke warmly of Papa. He even inquired whether Mama was bearing the cold well.”
Elizabeth snorted. “Which is to say, he has already guessed she is complaining of chilblains.”
Jane laughed. “And draughts, and the ruin of her best bonnet. But he was very attentive. He seems… sincere.”
Elizabeth smiled warmly at her sister, though her stomach was roiling in disquiet.
Mr. Bingley’s attentions were becoming more obvious by the day, and if he had decided to quicken his pace, then Elizabeth would have to do the same—because Miss Bingley surely would.
If Jane’s courtship advanced too far, Caroline would have to act fast if she wanted to forestall it. Her leverage was growing stale. She would not wait long before casting it into the fire.
Elizabeth’s hand tightened around the note from Captain Marlowe.
Hemustbe secured.
She would smile and glide and let him talk about stars. She would praise his poetry, endure his compliments, and make herself agreeable in precisely the ways most unnatural to her. Because Jane had flowers and a future. And Elizabeth had a pamphlet waiting to destroy both.
“There is a letter from Charlotte,” Jane said, passing the folded paper across the table. “And one from Mama. Which do you want to read first?”
Elizabeth cleared her throat. She could do without her mother’s anxious fretting right now, for she was fretting enough on her own without help. “Charlotte’s, please.”
She broke the seal, unfolded the page, and began to read.
By the second line, her eyes narrowed. By the fifth, her mouth had gone dry.
Lizzy,
