Elizabeth made a soft sound in her throat, not quite agreement.
He went on, mistaking her quiet for invitation. “I knew a man once—Lieutenant Evans—who claimed weddings were the best time to see how a family really behaved. All the stress and expense. Bring out the true natures.”
She did not laugh. She could not. Not with that tower glinting gold in the distance. The bell had not yet rung.
“You are cold,” Marlowe said, noticing the shiver that passed through her. He paused and shifted her arm closer to his side.
“I am many things,” she replied, “but never frozen.” She adjusted her scarf and added, “Besides, I have grown quite fond of discomfort. We are practically engaged. It is nothing.”
It was everything. The press of his arm felt wrong—gentle, yes, but distant. He looked straight ahead, unaware that each careful step together only made her feel more alone.
If he were Darcy, he would have said something foolish by now. Arrogant. Infuriating. But sincere.
Captain Marlowe did not speak from the heart. He spoke from habit.
Elizabeth swallowed against the dryness in her throat. She did not glance at the church as they passed it—but she felt it. The silence surrounding the building was heavy, expectant. And inside, she imagined flowers. Guests. A groom.
She kept walking.
They walked for another block in silence, their steps slow but not leisurely. Elizabeth could feel the tension in the captain’sposture—he was preparing to say something. She had seen it before, usually when he intended to compliment her gown or offer some stiff reassurance that “everything would turn out well in the end.” This felt different. Deliberate. Rehearsed.
At last, as they reached a low iron gate bordering the square, he stopped.
She followed his gaze toward a cluster of children chasing each other along the frozen path. Their shrieks of laughter rang oddly in the air, too sharp against the dull gray sky.
“Miss Bennet,” he began.
She turned her face toward him, though her thoughts were still adrift—wandering down a Mayfair aisle, searching for a groom who wore everything too neatly and felt too much in silence.
He cleared his throat. “There has been… a change in my circumstances.”
There always was. That was the thing about men with letters in their breast pockets—they never brought good news.
He continued, face politely composed. “I have accepted a post in Gibraltar. It is not a promotion—not yet—but it is a strategic appointment. It places me in good standing with the admiralty. Their eyes are on that region. I believe it will serve me well, in time.”
Gibraltar.
Farther than Eastbourne. Farther than Penzance. Far enough, certainly, to unmake a courtship.
“I see,” she said.
He shifted, glancing down at his gloved hands. “When I first approached your uncle to enquire after your hand, it was with a certain plan. A respectable alliance. A household. An impression of stability. Admirals like a man who looks settled. Engaged. Reputable.” He winced slightly. “It sounds mercenary now.”
“It sounded mercenary then,” she retorted. “You simply phrased it with better diction.”
He flushed. “I never meant to deceive you.”
“I doubt you could if you did wish to,” she replied, lifting her chin. “You only hoped I would deceive myself.”
The words landed more sharply than she intended, but he did not flinch. He nodded, once.
“This posting changes things,” he said. “It is not… convenient for a new wife. The heat. The distance. The suddenness. I had not expected the orders to come so soon.”
“And now that they have,” she asked, “do you still wish to marry me?”
His mouth opened. Closed.
It was answer enough.
