Dinner passed in a daze. Elizabeth could scarcely remember what she ate—if she ate at all. The lively conversation that usually brightened their evening meals was merely a buzz in the background. Jane cast worried glances across the table, but Elizabeth offered only faint smiles in return.
She could not speak of it. Not yet.
Besides, no one else knows about Papa.
When tea was brought in, her father invited her to a game of chess. She accepted with a grateful nod—anything to quiet the tumult of her mind—but her fingers moved without strategy, her thoughts too muddled to remember which pieces had been taken or how many turns had passed. He defeated her soundly in fewer than twenty moves.
Mr. Bennet leaned back in his chair, examining her carefully. “You are not yourself tonight, my dear.”
She offered a weak smile. “My arm aches, perhaps more than I realized.”
He nodded, clearly unconvinced. “Then you must retire early and rest it. I shall send up some willow bark tea.”
“Thank you, Papa.”
“Try to sleep, Lizzy,” he said, his voice unusually gentle. “You carry too much in that head of yours. Let it rest a while.”
She curtsied and left the room, the murmur of conversation behind her fading into silence. As she climbed the stairs, one hand brushing the banister absently, she pressed the other lightly to her bandaged arm—though the wound did not pain her nearly so much as the hollow in her chest. She had not expected to quarrel with Mr. Darcy. She had not expected to feel so deeply unsettled by it.
Elizabeth entered her chamber and closed the door softly behind her. The fire had been banked low, but it still gave a modest warmth. The maid was already waiting, and Elizabeth stood still as her gown was unfastened, each hook at the back slipping free beneath the maid’s fingers. Her stays came next, and with their release, she drew a deeper breath at last.
Still, the constriction in her chest remained.
Her limbs ached with exhaustion, but her mind refused to rest. She dipped her hands in the basin, the water now lukewarm, and dabbed at her face with a cloth. The sting of cool linen against her brow did nothing to soothe the tightening in her chest.
She changed into her nightdress and reached for the shawl she had folded atop the chair—just a moment to hold it, to press it to her face. The scent of rosewater clung to it faintly. She would be grateful for the willow bark tea. But even that small comfort felt distant, irrelevant.
Seated at her small writing desk in the corner, she reached for the hair ribbon to bind her braid for the night. Her fingers moved mechanically, but her thoughts did not.
Could she marry a man like Mr. Darcy?
She had once thought the question impossible. But now—now it was not some idle fancy nor the prideful speculation of a gentleman’s interest. It was real. He had spoken with her father. He had asked to court her.
And she had said yes.
Well—almost yes.
But would he still wish for it if he knew the truth about Papa?
She pressed her lips together, the ribbon slipping from her fingers.When would I tell him?she thought, rising from her chair and walking slowly across the room to bank the fire. The poker scraped softly as she shifted the coals.Should I tell him before we are betrothed? Or wait until after? But if I wait—if I keep it secret—and he finds out…
She sank onto the edge of her bed, twisting her fingers in her lap.
I do not want to be dishonest. I do not want to build something false. But if I tell him—
Her heart gave a painful squeeze.
If I tell him, will he turn away? Will he be angry I did not say something sooner? Will he be disgusted? Will he—
She shut her eyes.
Would he end it?
There was always the possibility of waiting until after they married to tell him.
But would he be angry with me for withholding the truth? Or worse still, would he forbid me from ever seeing Papa again?
The thought made her stomach twist. Her father’s laugh, his dry wit, the quiet evenings playing chess—how could she ever bear such a loss?
