Elizabeth lay awake in the quiet darkness of her chamber, the blankets drawn high beneath her chin. The room was still, but her mind was a storm—full of too many thoughts to settle.
She had always considered herself steady, rational, unflinching. She had devoured her father’s books, kept a level head when Lydia threw tantrums, and comforted Kitty during thunderstorms. But tonight, she felt as though the ground beneath her feet had shifted in ways she did not understand.
She had heard everything her father said. And she believed all of his words about the events in question.
But believing was not the same as understanding.
She turned on her side and buried her face in the pillow. Her thoughts darted from one memory to another:
Stephens working hard to mend her favorite boots that she had left out in a rainstorm, or sneaking her an extra biscuit or two when she had been sent to her room without supper.
Her father murmuring poetry to her mother during her confinement with Lydia.
The long, warm evenings when they had all sat together with books and laughter and the dogs snoring beneath the table.
She had always felt safe in this house.
And yet—what she had learned tonight had unmoored something in her.
She tried to picture it. Her father… and Stephens. Together. Not just as companions, but with the same sort of closeness she had imagined for herself one day with a man—tender glances, whispered affection, a kiss. She had, after all, idly imagined what it might be like to kiss John Lucas when she was thirteen; and later, at age fourteen, she had daydreamed of the tanner’s son with the quick smile and crooked nose.
Her thoughts shifted—cautiously, almost against her will—to Charlotte Lucas.
She tried to imagine pressing her lips to Charlotte’s cheek, to her mouth…
And at once, her stomach turned. She felt vaguely ill at the thought, repulsed in a way she could not quite explain. She sat up briefly, pressing a hand to her middle. No, she could never love a girl like that. She knew it with certainty.
So how, then—how could her father love a man?
She did not know. And that frightened her. He had always seemed so knowable, so constant. And yet this part of him had lived, hidden and deep, for decades.
Although she had known about it for five years, she had pushed it from her mind. Willing herself to believe it was all a mistake, that she was erring in her recollection.
But no, he was a sinner, one of the worst.
And yet…
He had married her mother when she was disgraced and alone. Raised another man’s daughter as his own. Provided for them all. Loved them all. Carried the guilt of one inaction so heavily that he had remade his entire life around atonement.
What kind of man did that?
A good man, her heart whispered.
Yes, a very, very good man.
She turned onto her back and stared at the ceiling.
And he believed in God. Deeply. Devoutly. Not in the performative way many of the gentry did—parading into pews with polished boots and memorized responses—but in the quiet, personal way that could not be faked.
He prayed. She had seen him. Alone, before the hearth, his lips moving, his brow furrowed.
And he had not turned away from faith out of bitterness. He had not said, “They think I am damned anyway, so I may as well give up.” No—he had tried. Day after day. Year after year. To be the kind of man he believed God might still look on with grace.
Tears prickled unexpectedly at her eyes.
She turned onto her side again and pressed her hands together beneath her cheek.
For the first time in her life, she did not repeat the catechism out of habit or whisper the Lord’s Prayer as an obligation.
