Page 51 of The Longbourn Bloodline

There was neither signature nor date. The letter began without address and ended without name, as though he had written it in the middle of a conversation with himself and could not find the edges. Elizabeth’s eyes blurred. She read it until the words stopped being marks on paper and became his voice—low, rough, the voice that had broken in the parlor when he said “But you wished me to be gone”—and then she folded the letter along the creases he had made, matching them exactly because she owed it to him to preserve the shape of his hand on the paper. Owed him answers to all three of his questions.

Yes. Yes. Yes.

And then she repeated the postscript. And I still love you. Present tense. Carefully, she put the folded letter in her pocket, knowing she would answer every question if he should give her the chance.

“Come on, Cleo, let us go home for Christmas.” She picked up the empty basket and gathered Cleo into her arms. Her hands trembled, and she stroked the cat’s fur to steady them, then walked out of the cottage, having received the gift of his heart. The answer she sought and the answers she owed.

The drawing room was warm and bright when Elizabeth returned, filled with the mingled scents of pine and cinnamon. The promise of roasting goose and the cheer of Christmas carols greeted her along with Mrs. Bennet’s triumphant voice informing Lady Lucas that her entire family would have a home with the Bennets, all due to Jane’s generosity. Elizabeth counted the Lucas children and winked at Charlotte, who shrugged at the ridiculous notion.

Jane, as serene and beautiful as a Christmas angel, greeted her with an embrace and a kiss. “Happy Christmas, dear sister. I see you’ve found Cleo.”

“Yes, she was in the steward’s cottage, no doubt waiting for the gentlemen.” She set the cat down near the fire.

“Foolish creature,” Mrs. Bennet sniffed. “As if Mr. Darcy would return for a cat.”

Elizabeth offered no reply. Her hand drifted to her pocket, fingers tracing the outline of the letter through her gown.

Mr. Bennet caught her eye from across the room. “Are you well, Lizzy?”

She nodded once, unable to speak without betraying her choked emotions. Holding her father’s gaze, she hoped he could see that she had changed, that the daughter who had walked out of this house an hour ago was no longer the same.

“Come, Lizzy.” Jane guided her to the pianoforte. “Mary, perhaps you might greet Uncle and Aunt Philips and practice the art of deflecting domestic inquiries with agreeable platitudes.”

“You mean inane and insipid observations without edification to the listeners,” Mary said.

“Yes, you might find, as Mrs. Beaumont observes, that a well-placed pleasantry serves as both a shield against village gossip and a polite dismissal of unwelcome curiosity.”

Mary nevertheless ceded the pianoforte to Elizabeth.

“Something happened at the cottage,” Jane whispered, and Elizabeth nodded. But the room was crowded and festive, and so Jane said, “Would you play a carol for us? We have had all our merry gentlemen quite rested all week.”

“Oh, Lizzy, that carol was so tiresome with no gentlemen to be found,” Mrs. Bennet said about the last refrain of God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen that Mary was playing when Elizabeth arrived. “Play one that means something this season.”

“I believe I shall, Mamma. Happy Christmas to all.” Elizabeth settled her fingers on the keys, but the carols felt wrong—too full of angels and shepherds and heavenly hosts. Her hand drifted to her pocket, touching the folded paper there, and she found herself playing the opening notes of something else entirely. Bright and spritely.

“Oh!” Mrs. Bennet’s face pinched. “That is not a carol, Lizzy.”

“Mary has exhausted the carols, Mamma. I thought a song might serve just as well.” Elizabeth did not look up from the keys. “It was a favorite of Grandmamma’s, although she sang it as Eileen Aroon.”

This was true. Elizabeth had copied the sheet music years ago, the pages soft with handling, and had learned it without quite understanding why the melody caught in her throat.

She understood now.

What’s this dull town to me?

He is not near⁠—

What was’t I wish’d to see,

What wish’d to hear?

Her voice was steady, but the ache in her chest was not. She felt Jane’s gaze on her, felt Charlotte shift in her seat, and the room hush more than a Christmas gathering ought to be.

Where’s all the joy and mirth

Made life a heaven on earth?

O! they’re all fled with thee…