Elizabeth leaned forward, her voice lowering. “Tell me plainly, Jane. What will you do?”
Jane looked toward the candle flame as if it might offer guidance. “I will do nothing that I ought not,” she said at last. “Mr. Bingley has been attentive, but he has not asked Papa for permission to court me. He has not spoken to me of intentions. He has no claim.”
Elizabeth nodded slowly. “No claim,” she echoed, approving.
Jane’s hands unclasped and then re-clasped, a small sign of the emotion she rarely displayed. “If he wishes to be thought honorable, he must behave honorably. I cannot—Lizzy, I cannot encourage a gentleman to feel entitled to me when he has not done what is proper.”
Elizabeth’s throat tightened with a mingling of pride and concern. “You are wise,” she said. “Wiser than most. But wisdom is not always convenient.”
Jane’s smile was faint. “No.”
Elizabeth reached across the space between them and covered Jane’s hand with her own. “Then let us agree upon something,” she said gently. “Guard your heart until you understand his.”
Jane’s eyes softened, and for a moment, Elizabeth saw the vulnerability Jane so carefully hid—hope, longing, and the fear of being foolish for possessing either.
“I will,” Jane promised.
“And if he is truly good,” Elizabeth added, unable to resist offering what comfort she could, “he will make amends without being asked. He will not need to be taught kindness, because he will already know it.”
Jane squeezed her hand lightly. “I hope so.”
Elizabeth managed a small, wry smile. “If not, I shall be forced to glare at him until he improves.”
That earned a quiet laugh at last, the tension easing from Jane’s face. She rose, smoothing her gown.
“Thank you, Lizzy,” she said softly.
“For what?”
“For saying what I knew you would say,” Jane replied, affection shining in her eyes. “And for reminding me that propriety is not cruelty.”
Elizabeth stood and kissed her sister’s cheek. “It is protection,” she murmured. “For you, most of all.”
Jane nodded, then took up her candle. At the door she paused, looking back with a faint smile that held both sweetness and resolve.
“Good night,” she said.
“Good night,” Elizabeth returned, watching until the door closed.
Only then did Elizabeth let her own thoughts spill free—thoughts of Bingley’s careless jealousy, of Fitzwilliam’s easy courtesy, and of Jane, who deserved devotion without possessiveness.
And, because her mind refused to be governed, thoughts of Mr. Darcy as well—of the way his gaze had found her in thecrowd as though by instinct, and how, when he looked at her, the world seemed to steady for one quiet moment.
If only steadiness were enough,she thought, and extinguished the candle.
The fire in the small withdrawing room burned low, casting a mellow glow over the shelves of books Darcy had insisted upon unpacking despite Bingley’s protests that no one everreadafter supper. Richard Fitzwilliam lounged in a chair opposite Darcy, one boot propped easily on a stool, a glass of wine balanced loosely in his hand. The posture was relaxed, but his eyes were sharp—observant in a way that had once kept men alive under fire.
“Well,” Richard said at last, breaking a thoughtful silence, “you have neglected to tell me something of consequence.”
Darcy looked up from the papers he had been pretending to review. “Have I?”
“Yes.” Richard’s mouth curved. “You have told me about the estate, your concerns regarding Bingley’s finances, the peculiar enthusiasm of the neighborhood for digging holes in the ground, and Miss Bingley’s many talents for vexation. What you have not told me is why Miss Elizabeth Bennet commands your attention so completely.”
Darcy stiffened, then relaxed again. There was little point in fencing with Richard, but he intended to toy with him nonetheless. His cousin had always seen too much. Besides, was that not a large part of why he wished Fitzwilliam to join him here?
“I have said nothing improper,” Darcy replied evenly.
“True,” Richard agreed. “But you have said very little else.” He took a sip of wine. “Which is far more revealing.”
