Do you remember when we spoke of choosing affection over advantage? I have not forgotten. I hold that belief close, even when others speak to me of alliances and expectations. I nod, I listen—but in my heart, I reserve the right to decide for myself. They may call that stubbornness. I call it survival.
Please write again soon, and tell me everything—who you have seen, what you have read, what made you laugh, and what made you cross. Your letters remind me that there is a world beyond these walls, and that one day, somehow, I shall step into it on my own terms.
Your devoted sister, always
Charlotte
Elizabeth wondered briefly how a certain Prince Regent would react to his daughter’s subtle hints at stubbornness. Prince George did not like defiance. Elizabeth had learned as much over years of continued proximity to the royal family. The displeasure of powerful men, she knew, was rarely loud at first; it arrived subtly, through restriction and withdrawal, through doors closed rather than slammed.
I confess, I am eager to see Charlotte again.It had been some time, and Elizabeth liked the young girl very much. Charlotte had a fire smoldering within her just aching to be ignited—an intelligence that refused to be dulled, a will that bent only so far.She takes after her mother in that way.The thought made Elizabeth smile faintly, tinged with worry. Stubbornness was a dangerous inheritance in certain families.
With a sigh, she set the letters aside, intending to contemplate the contents before replying. Early afternoon sun streamed through her window, catching motes of dust in its golden beams and warming the polished wood of the escritoire. The quiet pressed upon her, thick with thought. Elizabeth resolved to take a walk to clear her head, trusting movement to do what reflection could not.
She rang for Baker to help her change, exchanging her indoor gown for one more suited to brisk air and uneven paths. Baker moved with practiced efficiency, fastening hooks and smoothing fabric, murmuring approval at Elizabeth’s choice of cloak. Elizabeth then sent a message to Jones and Weston to meet her. In fifteen minutes, bundled in a warm cloak, muff, and bonnet, she stepped out of Longbourn and into the sunlight, the house closing behind her with familiar comfort.
Elizabeth drew in a deep breath of clean, fresh air and set off at a brisk pace. The autumn light sharpened the edges of the world: hedgerows etched in green and gold, the distant line of trees standing in quiet dignity. Her footmen fell into step behind her,far enough back to give her the illusion of privacy, close enough to reassure any watcher that she was not unguarded.
Foremost on her mind was her aunt’s information about Mr. Darcy. She did not doubt the veracity of it. In fact, everything in the letter confirmed what she had already supposed. Mr. Darcy was one of the first circle which believed that wealth and status made one better than their fellow men, that circumstance conferred wisdom as surely as it did power. He believed his own logic and understanding to be infallible. Elizabeth challenged his beliefs regularly—perhaps too readily—and she felt certain he despised her for it.
And yet he seeks me out,she thought with a wry twist of amusement.What a contradiction you are, sir.
The climb up Oakham Mount warmed her from the inside out. Elizabeth’s breathing was steady, though labored, her steps purposeful as she welcomed the exertion. When she reached the top, she paused and moved away from the path, gratified that her minders faded into the tree line, positioning themselves where they could see her without intruding. The view stretched wide and generous below her: fields partitioned by hedges, cattle grazing with unhurried calm, the distant roofs of farm buildings catching the sun.
She had solitude for less than ten minutes.
As she gazed out over the fields, she noted a rider approaching quickly along the lower track. At first, she thought little of it—riders were not uncommon here—but it soon became apparent that he was headed her way. The horse’s pace was purposeful, the line of travel unmistakable. It was another few moments before recognition struck.
It was Mr. Darcy.
How strange it is. It is as if my thoughts summoned the gentleman.She knew it was ridiculous, the sort of fancy that belonged in novels rather than life, but she railed against theintrusion all the same. She did not turn away; to do so would be childish. Instead, she squared her shoulders and waited.
“Miss Elizabeth.” He nodded as he reined his horse to a stop and dismounted with ease. “A very good afternoon to you.”
He seemed very cheerful, and Elizabeth swore his usual somber expression had softened into a grin—if only for a moment—before he composed himself. The change unsettled her more than his severity ever had. “Good day, sir,” she replied, curtsying with measured grace.
“You are alone?” He glanced about, surprise—and, if Elizabeth was not mistaken, a note of concern—entering his voice.
“On the contrary. Jones and Weston are in the trees. They like to give me some semblance of privacy.” She nodded in the direction of her footmen, who then moved forward slightly so they could be observed within the shadow of the trees, hats tipped, presence unmistakable.
Mr. Darcy frowned at them but said nothing more on the subject. His gaze lingered a moment, thoughtful, before returning to her. “I found myself in need of fresh air,” he said unsolicited. “My horse also needed exercise.” The beast bent its head and nibbled the grass with contented indifference, as though the conversation held no interest for him whatsoever.
“He is a fine creature,” Elizabeth said, sincere admiration warming her tone. She had admired Mr. Darcy’s mount when last they rode together—the animal was well-conditioned, responsive, and carried himself with quiet confidence.
“Your bay is also a remarkable animal,” he returned. “Where did your uncle purchase it?”
Elizabeth almost laughed aloud, though she restrained herself. “I purchased the animal, sir, with the help of my aunt.” Princess Caroline had taken Elizabeth to view suitable mounts in a private showing, insisting upon discretion and excellence in equal measure.
The gelding had not been acquired by chance or vanity. Princess Caroline had insisted upon bloodlines as carefully traced as any family pedigree, and the horse Elizabeth now rode was bred from one of Sir Charles Bunbury’s most respected lines—stock long praised for intelligence, soundness, and a smooth, enduring stride rather than mere speed. The arrangements had been conducted with admirable efficiency: a private viewing arranged through trusted agents, the animal transported from her breeder’s stud under careful supervision, and the purchase settled without public notice or vulgar display. Elizabeth had been permitted to observe, to ask questions, to understand—not merely to choose a pretty creature but to select a partner suited to long rides and steady confidence. The result was a horse of rare balance and gentle spirit, one whose lineage was spoken of with respect in the best sporting circles, yet whose manners were as unassuming as her own.
Mr. Darcy looked confused. “Your Aunt Bennet?”
Elizabeth caught the probing nature of the question at once and chose her words with care. “No, sir. My Aunt Caroline helped me. I live with her in Town for much of the year.” She offered nothing further, her expression pleasant but closed.
“She has no country estate then?”
She frowned, irritation pricking despite her resolve. “My aunt is a respectable lady, sir. What does it matter if she has a country estate?” In truth, she and Princess Charlotte had occasionally frequented an estate in the country, and many would consider Montague House at Blackheath—their primary residence—to be in the country. The question, however, was not about geography. It was about rank, and Elizabeth resented the implication.
“Will you return to her soon?”
