Page 70 of Honor Requires

My dear husband…is often called away…

She could not say why the sentences unsettled her, only that they did. Georgiana had been married for nearly seven years now. Was her husband so often gone from Pemberley?

“Her words are ordinary enough,” she murmured aloud. Still, they did not feel so. They never did.

She continued.

I have lately taken to walking in the gardens when the weather permits, and I find a certain peace in the regularity of it. The grounds remain as beautiful as ever, though I sometimes think they might benefit from a lighter hand. There is a great deal of industry now where once there was only silence, and though I am told it is necessary, I cannot help but feel that something of its former character has been altered.

Elizabeth’s hand tightened upon the page.

Darcy’s voice rose in her memory, as clear as though he stood beside her still—his pride in the estate, his care for its lands, his determination that it should remain as it had always been: well managed, well preserved, never exploited beyond reason.

He would not have approved. The thought came unbidden but with assurance. And with it, a sharp, familiar ache. She opened her eyes and forced herself to read on.

You must not be uneasy on my account, for I am in good health, and I am surrounded by those who attend to my comfort with the greatest diligence. I lack for nothing that can be provided, and I endeavor to be content with that which is within my reach.

I hope that you, too, are well, and that your days are filled with the society and occupation that best suit you. I cannot tell you how often I think of our conversations, nor how much I value the continuation of them through our letters. There are few to whom I may write with such ease, and I count myself fortunate in that regard.

Elizabeth’s gaze lingered upon the words.

I endeavor to be content… It was not the phrase itself. It was—Everything surrounding it.

She does not sound unhappy, Elizabeth thought slowly. But neither does she sound…free. She does not write as if she enjoys the freedoms of a married woman.

A faint unease settled over her.

She had never before questioned Georgiana’s letters beyond her understanding that her friend was required to be circumspect in her correspondence. The missives had always been affectionate, always written with care, always carrying some echo of the gentle disposition Elizabeth remembered so well.

Pray give my compliments to your sister and to Lord Bramley, and accept, I beg you, my continued affection and regard.

I remain,

Your sincere friend,

Georgiana Wickham

Elizabeth lowered the letter slowly. She crossed to the chair near the fire and sat, the paper still in her hand, her gaze fixed upon the flames as they flickered and shifted.

Georgiana Wickham. The name had never ceased to jar her. Even now, after years of repetition, it felt wrong upon her thoughts.

She writes as she always has, Elizabeth told herself. There is nothing here to alarm you.

She lifted the letter once more, reading certain lines again, more carefully.

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

I endeavor to be content…

My dear husband is much occupied…

Elizabeth’s lips pressed together. “She is not unhappy,” she said. But the words rang hollow. Not unhappy. Not content. Not—what? Not anything she could name with certainty.

What is it you are trying to say? she wondered, her gaze tracing the careful strokes of Georgiana’s hand. And why do you not say it plainly?

She folded the letter with deliberate care and placed it upon the small table beside her.

Her hand drifted, almost unconsciously, to the shell at her throat.