Page 18 of Shadows Of Rosings Park: Part 2

"Do you remember the summer Mama forbade us conversation after the Meryton Fair incident? The notes we hid in books? Our acrostics?"

Recognition dawned. "The acrostic. Yes. I remember."

"If I write too much about gardens and flowers, read down the openings. The message will be for you alone."

Jane's hand tightened on her arm. "Lizzy. What danger threatens that requires such measures?"

"I cannot explain completely. But know this: neither my marriage nor Charlotte's situation developed from circumstances as simple as they appear."

They walked the rest of the way to Longbourn in a silence full of trust. They had spent their lives reading each other's silence as fluently as speech.

At the door, Jane turned to her. "I'll watch for the flowers."

"Thank you, Jane."

They went inside. Mrs. Bennet was in the parlour, making lists. Kitty was arguing with Lydia about a ribbon.

Elizabeth sat on the stairs before going in. Her legs had stopped working. Not a swoon or collapse, only the mute refusal of a body that had smiled for too many hours. She pressed her palms against the worn carpet and breathed until her legs obeyed again. Then she stood, smoothed her skirts, and went in.

Mr. Bennet was waiting for her in the library.

Not behind his desk this time, standing, which was unusual enough to make Elizabeth's pulse quicken. He held a letter in his hand. Sealed, addressed, unposted. He withheld it. He held it as one holds evidence.

"Sit down, Lizzy."

She sat. He remained standing.

"I have written to your uncle Gardiner," he said. His voice was level, deliberate, stripped of the irony he wore like armour. She had heard this voice perhaps twice in her life, once when her mother's nerves had threatened the family's credit with the bank, and once when Lydia had been found alone with a soldier at the Meryton Fair. It was the voice of a man who had stopped being clever and started being serious.

"The letter explains that I have concerns about the precipitancy of your engagement. That I believe circumstances in Kent may have produced an obligation that you feel unable to refuse. That I wish him to investigate, discreetly, whether Mr. Darcy's interest in you is genuine or coerced by some obligation I cannot identify."

Elizabeth's mouth went dry.

"I haven't sent it," he continued. "It sits here, sealed, waiting for my decision. If I post it tomorrow, your uncle will make inquiries. He is a sensible man. He will find that your engagement was announced within weeks of a death in the household where you were staying, that Mr. Darcy was present at the time, and that Colonel Fitzwilliam has taken an unusual interest in the widow. He will draw conclusions."

The house was very quiet. Elizabeth could hear the clock on the mantelpiece, the distant sounds of Kitty and Lydia quarrelling, the beating of her own heart.

"He will not find the truth," she said. Her voice came out steadier than she expected.

"Perhaps not the specifics. But he will find enough to make your Mr. Darcy uncomfortable. And an uncomfortable Mr. Darcy is a Mr. Darcy who may be persuaded to release his hold."

Elizabeth looked at the letter in her father's hand. Cream paper, black ink, his careful script. Mr. Bennet offered intelligence instead of action: not a rescue, but a match held near a fuse. If she said yes, Gardiner would investigate. Questions that could not be safely answered would tear through the web of lies protecting her and Charlotte.

"Papa." She stood. "If you send that letter, people I love will be harmed. Not me. Others. People whose safety depends on the story holding exactly as it is."

He studied her. The irony was gone. What remained was the face of a father who had spent his daughter's lifetime cultivating detachment as a substitute for courage, and who was now confronting the limits of both.

"Charlotte," he said quietly. Not a question.

Elizabeth said nothing.

"I suspected as much." He looked at the letter. Then he did something she had not expected: he held it out to her. "Take it. The decision is yours, not mine. If you want me to send it, tell me. If you want me to burn it, burn it. I won't act against your wishes in this matter. But I want you to know that the option exists. That your father isn't as useless as he appears."

She took the letter. It was warm from his hand. She folded it once, placed it in her pocket, and kissed him on the cheek. She meant it as a gift, small and freely chosen.

"You're not useless, Papa. You see me clearly."

"Then I see a woman who is protecting someone at the cost of herself, and I don't like the arithmetic." He sat behind his desk, picked up his book, and put on his spectacles. The irony resettled over his features like a familiar coat. "You may go, Lizzy. The port doesn't drink itself."