“I believe,” she said, her gaze turning to him, “that a man’s actions should carry more weight than the denomination he professes. If a person lives honorably, works diligently, and treats others with kindness, I find I care very little for whether they kneel in a church, a chapel, or not at all.”
Mrs. Hurst shifted uncomfortably. “But surely the King is appointed by God to lead the Church. That is why we must have one religion—to be unified under God’s law.”
Elizabeth tilted her head. “If the King is appointed by God, then one might also wonder why God allowed His Majesty to go mad and leave us in the hands of a prince who disdains the Church’s teachings entirely.” She arched a brow. “I would rather have a modest dissenter making laws than a peer with seven mistresses and no sense of justice.”
Bingley nearly choked on his wine. “Miss Elizabeth! That sounds a great deal like treason.”
She laughed. “Only the best kind—spoken quietly over roast lamb with trusted company.”
Everyone chuckled, including Mrs. Hurst, though her smile was still tinged with unease.
The conversation moved swiftly after that, darting toward safer topics: the weather, the latest rumors from Town, the virtues of Derbyshire cheese.
Darcy remained silent for some time, though his mind was anything but quiet.
She had spoken boldly, yes—but not out of recklessness. There was reason in her words, conviction behind them. Notidle rebellion for the sake of display, but sincere belief in liberty, in dignity, in principle.
He was baptized Catholic. He was also baptized Anglican. He attended church with the rest of his class and made no public demonstration of the faith handed down through centuries of Darcys who had risked life and land for it. But in that moment, listening to her defend the right of any man to worship—or not—in peace, he felt something stir. Not just admiration.
Solidarity.
Darcy looked at her across the table, her eyes alight, her smile playful, her bearing proud.
She would have stood with Étienne D’Arcy in the marshes of Hastings,he thought.She would have prayed beside Edward before the hearth. She would have wept with Sarah before a hidden priest.
And perhaps—if he dared—she might one day do the same him.
∞∞∞
As soon as dinner ended, Elizabeth made her excuses to return upstairs to Jane. Inside, the room was warm and softly scented by lavender. Jane lay asleep, her face still flushed with the remnants of her illness, but her breathing was deep and even. Elizabeth smiled, setting the candle down and brushing a few golden curls from her sister’s brow.
“You are improving,” she whispered. “Thank Heaven.”
She lingered a moment, as she always did—long enough to be sure Jane was truly resting, not simply lying still to avoid concern. Then, satisfied, she slipped out, closing the door behind her and retreating to her own borrowed chamber.
The room was still and quiet. She changed slowly, her mind too busy to rush the motions. Bits and fragments of conversation from dinner still floated through her memory. Mr. Hurst’s offensive mutterings, Mrs. Hurst’s wary glances, Mr. Bingley’s half-frantic attempts to steer the conversation away from anything approaching controversy.
And Mr. Darcy.
She had noticed it—of course she had—the way he had stilled when Mr. Hurst mentioned popery, the tension in his jaw, the way his eyes had fixed on her when she spoke up. He had said very little himself, but what hehadsaid had been precise. Intentional. He had been watching not only her, but the entire table. Weighing every reaction. Measuring responses.
He was a man of secrets, she thought, as she sat before the small dressing table and began pulling the pins from her hair. Not deceitful, but private. Guarded. Not merely by temperament, but by necessity. Something about the way he had spoken—so carefully, with such control—made her suspect that this was not just an abstract discussion to him.
He had been quiet after her final remark—quiet, but not disapproving. There had been something else in his expression. Something close to—
Relief?
Could it be that he…?Her eyes narrowed as she recalled the subtle signs. A glance, a pause, a stillness. Not the sort of silence born from disdain, but from recognition.
Is he Catholic?she wondered, startled by the thought. It was rare—but not impossible. And if so, it would explain much. His discomfort. His reserve. His studied distance from the loudest voices in the room.
And his interest inherwords.
But the idea did not alarm her—only intrigued her. She had never met someone who professed a different faith. Everyonein her circle, in Meryton, in Hertfordshire more broadly, adhered to the Church of England. It was the water they swam in, unexamined and ever-present.
What must it be like, to hold beliefs that required concealment? To live quietly in the face of so much prejudice and idle mockery?
She found herself curious—not necessarily about doctrine, but abouthim. His choices. His past. The weight he seemed to carry. It was not the faith itself that piqued her interest, but the man who held it. And for the first time, she found herself wondering what else lay beneath his austere surface.
