“Yes,” Elizabeth whispered, looking down at her hands. “I know he loves me. I know he believed he was doing the right thing for his friend. I know he has apologised, but every time I look at you, and I remember the tears you shed, and the months of agony you endured... a part of me remains angry at him for playing God with your life.”
Jane did not speak immediately. She reached out, placing her hand over Elizabeth’s twisting fingers, stilling them.
“Lizzy. Look at me.”
Elizabeth raised her eyes.
“You must let it go,” Jane commanded. “You must surrender that resentment, because it is misplaced.”
“How can it be misplaced? He admitted to it!”
“He admitted to holding the door open,” Jane corrected, her tone devoid of bitterness. “He admitted to suggesting the path, but Lizzy, he is not the one who walked through the door.”
Elizabeth blinked, the stark truth of the metaphor hitting her.
“Mr Darcy was wrong to meddle,” Jane continued. “He was wrong to interfere, but he is not the one who hurt me. Miss Bingley is not the one who hurt me. Mrs Hurst is not the one who hurt me.”
Jane squeezed Elizabeth’s hands.
“It was Mr Bingley. It was Charles Bingley himself. He is a grown man, Lizzy. He is the master of his own fortune and his own fate. If he had the strength of character a true love requires, he would have thanked his friend for the advice and ridden back to Longbourn.”
Jane smiled, a sad but liberated expression.
“Mr Darcy merely offered an excuse,” Jane concluded. “Mr Bingley was the one who eagerly accepted it. Do not blame the friend for the weakness of the suitor.”
Elizabeth let out a shaky breath. The final, stubborn knot in her chest—the knot she had been clinging to out of love for her sister—began to unravel.
“You are so wise, Jane,” Elizabeth whispered, a tear slipping down her cheek. “When did you become the cynical one?”
“I am not cynical,” Jane laughed, wiping the tear from Elizabeth’s face. “I am just finally seeing clearly, and what I see is that you have found a man who would never, ever allow anyone to steer him away from you.”
“He would not,” Elizabeth admitted, a watery smile breaking through.
“Exactly!” Jane beamed. “He is steadfast, Lizzy. He is the rock you deserve. So, I absolve him of my broken heart. You must absolve him, too.”
Jane stood up, moving to pull back the quilts of the bed.
“Give him the chance he asks for, Lizzy,” she urged. “Because you deserve to be happy. And I intend to see you happy.”
Elizabeth stared at the firelight dancing in the grate, the anger gone. The resentment had burned away, leaving only an open path stretching forward into the future.
“I will,” Elizabeth promised, climbing into bed beside her sister. “I will give him every chance.”
As she lay in the dark, listening to the muffled sounds of the night, Elizabeth Bennet closed her eyes and smiled, perfectly at peace.
Chapter Fifteen: The Gospel of Mares and Geldings
FITZWILLIAM DARCY STOODby the tall, arched window of the morning room in Darcy House, nursing a cup of strong coffee and observing what could only be described as acoup d’état.
It had been precisely forty-seven minutes since his carriage had deposited them in Grosvenor Square. The journey from Kent had been a revelation. Anne de Bourgh had not requested a single hot brick for her feet. She had not wheezed. In fact, she had spent the last two hours of the journey interrogating him on the latest scandalous gossip of theton, demanding to know which peers had bankrupted themselves at faro since she had last been permitted to read a newspaper.
Now, comfortably installed in Darcy’s home, the heiress of Rosings Park was dominating his staff, and doing so with a level of competence that made Darcy very proud.
She was seated upright in his favourite leather armchair, not resembling a tragic invalid at all, but a conquering general.
“Mrs Crauford,” Anne was saying, addressing the housekeeper with an unblinking stare. “I understand from my cousin that your kitchen operates with an excess of cautionregarding spices. Let us be clear: I have subsisted on boiled chicken and tepid gruel for the better part of a decade. If a vegetable is served to me without butter, or if a piece of meat lacks a robust peppercorn crust, I shall consider it an act of personal hostility.”
Mrs Crauford, a woman who routinely fed visiting dukes, bowed her head. “It shall be as you say, Miss de Bourgh. Cook will be instructed to employ the spice cabinet.”
