Page 69 of Honor Requires

There was a brief pause. “He has accepted an invitation to dine,” Bramley added.

Jane’s expression brightened. “How delightful!”

Elizabeth felt, rather than thought, her response. I shall see him again.

The understanding that she had observed the count on her walk occurred to her. It was something like excitement and anticipation…something she did not fully understand.

She rose after a moment, moving toward the window without conscious intent.

Across the street, Ashcombe House stood as before—silent, composed, unremarkable to any casual observer.

Elizabeth rested her hand lightly against the glass, her gaze fixed upon the closed door.

What is it? she wondered. Why does this matter?

She had no answer.

Elizabeth had only just dismissed her maid for the morning when the knock came.

It was a low sound, scarcely more than a courtesy, and she turned at once from the small writing desk where she had been sorting through a handful of notes and invitations. The hour was not so early as to make interruption improper, but there was something in the timing that gave her pause.

“Come in.”

The door opened, and a footman entered, bearing a single letter upon a small tray.

“This arrived but moments ago, Miss Bennet.”

Elizabeth stepped forward, her gaze already fixed upon the familiar hand.

“Thank you.”

The servant withdrew, leaving her alone once more.

For a time, she did not move. The seal was unremarkable, the paper of good quality but not extravagant. Nothing in its appearance would have distinguished it from any other letter she might receive in the course of a week. She knew it at once. Mrs. Wickham—Georgiana.

Elizabeth broke the seal with careful fingers and unfolded the letter. Her eyes moved swiftly over the first lines, then slowed, her attention sharpening as she read more closely.

My dear Miss Bennet,

It has been too long since I last wrote, and I must beg your forgiveness for my silence. Time, which I had once thought would ease the ache of absence, has instead passed with a most perplexing swiftness, leaving me scarcely aware of its progress until I find myself wondering how so many weeks have gone without word between us.

You must not think me negligent in my affection, for I assure you that I think of you often—more often, perhaps, than is quite proper, though I cannot bring myself to regret it. You remain, as ever, one of my dearest connections to a time that now feels very distant indeed.

Elizabeth paused, her breath catching.

The words were warm. Affectionate. Still, there seemed to be something beneath them. She could not have said what. Only that the tone felt…strained.

Or am I imagining it? she wondered. Do I look too closely, and find fault where none exists?

She read on.

Our life here continues in a manner that is, I believe, considered most satisfactory. The estate is well attended, and I am assured—frequently—that all is as it ought to be. There is a great deal of quiet, which I have endeavored to make a comfort rather than a trial, though I confess that I sometimes long for the livelier society we once enjoyed.

My dear husband is much occupied and is often called away to Town, where his affairs require his attention. He is most diligent in all things, and I am, of course, grateful for his care and consideration in ensuring that I am well provided for in his absence.

Elizabeth’s brow drew together slightly. The phrasing was…peculiar.

I am assured—frequently—that all is as it ought to be.