Page 36 of Honor Requires

Autumn had come gradually to Longbourn, not with the brilliance of summer’s height nor the starkness of winter’s approach, but with a subdued gentleness that seemed to settle over the house and its inhabitants alike. The trees beyond the windows had begun their slow transformation, leaves turning in shades of amber and gold, drifting down in spirals whenever the wind stirred. The air held a crispness that spoke of change, of endings and beginnings alike, but, within the walls of Longbourn, there lingered a stillness that was neither restful nor content.

Elizabeth Bennet had not found comfort in the passing months. She moved through her days as one who fulfilled her duties from habit rather than inclination, her former liveliness subdued into something else, something more restrained. Her laughter, once so readily given, had become rare, and when it did appear, it lacked the easy warmth that had once defined it. Bruno followed her around like a shadow, his melancholy matching her own. The dog’s presence soothed her aching heart. His behavior, that of a puppy just a short while ago, quickly matured into that of a well-trained dog. Every time he was offered bacon in reward for good behavior, another stab of pain shot through Elizabeth’s heart.

Her family observed the change in differing degrees—her mother with irritation, her father with concern thinly veiled by humor, and her sisters with varying levels of understanding—but it was Jane who saw most clearly. Jane, who had always known her best.

It was on a morning marked by pale light and the faint scent of fallen leaves that Jane at last sought her out. Elizabeth sat near the window in her bedchamber, her work lying idle in her lap, her gaze fixed upon nothing in particular. The world beyond the glass moved as it always had, unchanged and indifferent, while within her all seemed altered beyond recognition.

“Lizzy,” Jane addressed her gently as she entered, closing the door behind her with care. “May I sit with you?”

Elizabeth started, recalled from her musings.

“Of course.”

Jane crossed the room and took the seat beside her, studying her sister’s face with a tenderness that was wholly without intrusion.

“You have not been yourself these many weeks,” she said. “I would not press you if you wished for silence, but I cannot remain easy while you bear something so evidently alone.”

Elizabeth’s fingers tightened upon the fabric in her lap. “It is nothing that can be mended by speaking of it.”

“Perhaps not,” Jane replied. “But it may be lessened.”

Elizabeth turned her head then, meeting her sister’s gaze. There was no curiosity there that sought to pry, no impatience—only sincere concern.

For an instant, she hesitated. She had kept it hidden so carefully. Even in her letters home from Ramsgate, she had made no mention of Mr. Darcy beyond the most passing civility, unwilling to expose what was still so new, so fragile, to the scrutiny and speculation of her mother. She had told herself there would be time enough when all was settled—when he had spoken to her father, when their future was no longer a matter of understanding but acknowledged certainty.

There had been no time.

“He is dead,” Elizabeth said. She had said it. And now it could not be recalled. The words fell plainly between them. They felt unnatural even as she spoke them—too final, too absolute for something her heart still resisted.

Jane stilled. “Who?” she asked, though something in her expression had already begun to shift.

Elizabeth’s voice faltered only a little. “Mr. Darcy.”

Jane’s breath caught. “Mr. Darcy—of Ramsgate? You mentioned him and his sister once or twice in your letters.”

Elizabeth nodded. “He was attacked upon the road,” she stated, her tone steady through effort alone. “Set upon by highwaymen. He did not survive.”

Jane’s hand came to rest over her own. “My dear Lizzy…”

“We were very nearly engaged.” Saying it aloud made the loss sharper, like it had only just occurred. The admission seemed to alter the very air of the room.

Jane’s eyes widened, not in shock, but in dawning understanding.

“I did not write of him,” Elizabeth went on, her gaze dropping. “I could not. Mama would have made a spectacle of it, and nothing had been formally settled. I wished to wait until he had spoken to my father. Until it was…real.”

“It was real,” Jane said soothingly.

Elizabeth shook her head, a faint, bitter motion. “It was everything.”

Silence followed—heavy and inescapable.

“I loved him,” she said at last, the words lower now, no less certain. “I love him still.”

The admission did not relieve her. It only fixed the truth more firmly in place.

Jane’s eyes filled, though her composure did not break. “Lizzy,” she murmured, “you cannot think yourself alone in such sorrow. Others have loved and lost, and though it feels now as though nothing may ease it, time—”

Elizabeth shook her head again, more firmly. “No.”