And still, February crept closer.
17 January
“Ibelieve it isto rain again,” Captain Marlowe said, eyeing the window as if it might open some path of escape.
Elizabeth turned a page of her embroidery with deliberate calm. “How very enterprising of the sky. One might hope it will find some novelty in sleet next.”
He offered a smile. It did not reach his eyes. “Quite so. Though I confess, I would sooner endure a storm than another fortnight in London.”
She nodded, even as the silence resumed. This was their third visit in as many weeks, and each one had grown shorter, more stilted. He used to bring her bits of verse and speak warmly ofnaval exploits. Now, he mostly stared at the carpet. Fussing with his gloves. Smoothing his coat. Avoiding her gaze.
There had once been an ease between them—however shallow. Now, every exchange scraped awkwardly against the last.
“You have not called for the Admiral’s reply,” she said, attempting some cheer. “Did your letter reach Cadiz?”
His brow furrowed, and he adjusted his posture. “It did. He was… encouraging.”
“But not definitive.”
“No.”
Elizabeth pressed a stitch firmly through the fabric. “Well. It would be most unwise to demand clarity from a man who commands squadrons.”
This earned a genuine chuckle. It vanished almost immediately.
She had once thought she could like him. Not love, never love—but respect, at least. Trust. Now she wondered if even that was possible. He had grown so very quiet, so palpably uneasy, as though marriage to her might constitute its own court-martial.
And always—always—her mind circled back to another. One who would never sit this still. One who would have matched her tone, challenged her wit, pushed her buttons just for the satisfaction of watching her react.
It did not signify. It could not.
A sudden knock sounded at the door.
Elizabeth blinked. “Were you expecting anyone?”
“I do not know, but I have perhaps overstayed,” Marlowe said, rising. “Shall I—”
But Mrs. Gardiner had already swept in from the hall. Her expression was composed. Too composed.
“Lizzy,” she said, carefully. “You have callers.”
Elizabeth looked up, puzzled. “Callers?”
Before she could rise, the door opened wider and in came Mr. Bingley—flushed, stiff-backed—and behind him, unmistakably, Miss Bingley.
Jane gasped softly.
Captain Marlowe turned immediately, startled. “Sir—madam—”
Mr. Bingley gave him a nod. “Captain. Forgive the interruption. It was not… anticipated.”
Miss Bingley did not speak. Her chin dipped in greeting—barely. Her gaze flicked over Jane, Elizabeth, and the furnishings in a single sweep. Her mouth tightened.
Marlowe glanced between them all. “I believe I had best take my leave.”
He was already at the door. Elizabeth stood, confused. “You need not—”
But he bowed to her, then to Mrs. Gardiner. “My respects. Until next time.”
