She lowered her gaze.
“I do not know that I feel called to convert myself,” she admitted. “I have not examined those doctrines deeply.”
“And you need not pretend conviction where none exists,” he replied calmly. “But to permit your children to be raised in a tradition that emphasizes reverence, moral discipline, and devotion to Christ—there is no sin in that.”
Her thoughts turned inward.
She had grown accustomed to religion as habit. Attendance. Form. She could not recall her father leading family prayer with any consistency, nor pressing moral instruction beyond wit and irony. She loved him—but she knew the want of firm guidance in her own household.
She thought of Darcy—earnest, steady, unwilling to abandon what he believed.
She would rather her children be led by a man who took God seriously.
“I thank you,” she said softly.
Mr. Harding smiled. “Follow your conscience, Miss Elizabeth. God is not waiting to ensnare you in error. He guides those who seek Him.”
She rose, steadier than she had been when she entered.
As she stepped back into the winter air, Elizabeth felt no sudden blaze of certainty. She did not know whether she would ever seek baptism herself.
But she knew this much:
To marry Darcy would not be a betrayal of God.
And to allow their children to share in the faith that had shaped him would not condemn her soul.
The path ahead remained complex.
Yet for the first time since that morning’s walk, her heart felt lighter.
She could answer him now—honestly, without fear that love and righteousness stood opposed.
Chapter 25
Once Elizabeth had come to a decision, she could scarcely wait to see Darcy again and discuss it with him.
The heavens, however, appeared indifferent to her urgency.
The rain began that very night—slow at first, then steady, then unrelenting. It soaked the lanes, swelled the streams, and rendered the road between Longbourn and Netherfield a discouraging mire. No one paid calls. No one ventured abroad without necessity.
For three days, the clouds refused to lift.
Elizabeth found herself pacing the length of the drawing room more often than sitting in it. Each time a carriage passed in the distance, her heart leaped—only to subside again.
The household, meanwhile, revolved almost exclusively around Mary.
The banns had been read for the first time on Sunday.
Mr. Collins, with solemn satisfaction, announced his intention of remaining at Longbourn until the wedding itself, which was fixed for a fortnight after the ball.
Mrs. Bennet vacillated hourly between urgency and ambition.
“We must not delay,” she declared one morning. “A gentleman may be persuaded otherwise if given too much time!”
By afternoon she would reverse herself. “But if we wait, we might secure a larger breakfast! I shall not have my daughter married with fewer than three tiers upon the cake.”
Mary bore it all with sanctimonious composure.
