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“Your sister Lydia has the emotional depth of a puddle,” Aunt Madeline observed drily. “It is fortunate that none of you has become more closely attached to him. What a precarious situation for a wife.”

Elizabeth swallowed hard, her mind flashing to Georgiana Darcy. The young girl who had nearly fallen prey to Wickham’s machinations. Mr Darcy had saved his sister from ruin. He was a good man. He was a protective, honourable man, and she had accused him of cruelty without knowing what he had done for his sister. She forced her attention back to the letter, desperate to escape her own guilty reflections.

“There is a postscript.” Elizabeth blinked, squinting at the cramped, rushed letters crammed into the very bottom corner of the final page. “Jane must have added this just before the letter was sent.”

She read the hasty lines once, then a second time, as euphoria rose within her.

“Lizzy?” Aunt Madeline’s brow creased with concern. “What is it? You have gone pale.”

“He came back.” Elizabeth whispered the words, pressing her fingertips tightly to her lips. “Oh, Aunt Madeline. Uncle Edward. Mr Bingley has returned to Hertfordshire!”

Uncle Edward sat bolt upright. “Bingley? The young fellow from Netherfield?”

“He arrived the day Jane wrote the letter.” Elizabeth’s words tumbled out in a rushed cascade. “He came alone, without his sisters. He returned to Netherfield and rode to Longbourn. He sat in the library with Papa for an hour. He has asked formal permission to court Jane!”

Aunt Madeline pressed a lace handkerchief to her chest. “Oh, my dear! What wonderful news. Our sweet Jane deserves every ounce of this happiness.”

“Jane writes that he was profusely apologetic for his long absence.” Elizabeth read the final sentences. “He offered no specific explanation for his sudden departure in November, claiming he had been a blind fool and begging for her forgiveness. She gave it instantly, of course.”

Elizabeth lowered the letter to her lap, her mind spinning with an impossible theory. Mr Darcy had separated them. Mr Darcy had confessed his interference at Hunsford, and she had berated him harshly.

Had he undone his own work? Had her accusations pierced his pride deeply enough to compel him to correct his mistake? The thought was disturbing. If Fitzwilliam Darcy had truly swallowed his pride to encourage his friend’s return to Jane, the debt of gratitude she owed him was insurmountable.

“We must drink a toast!” Uncle Edward declared. “I shall order the innkeeper to bring his finest bottle of port. This calls for a celebration of the highest order!”

Before Uncle Edward could rise from his seat, the door of the public parlour opened to admit a small party.

Lady Catherine de Bourgh entered, in the flesh.

She wore a travelling gown of rich purple velvet, unsuited for the warm summer weather, yet she appeared impervious to the heat. Her chin was raised, and her sharp features were set in utter disgust.

Behind the formidable matriarch, Mrs Jenkinson fluttered nervously, attempting to offer a supporting arm to a coughing Miss Anne de Bourgh. Miss de Bourgh seemed exhausted, her thin frame trembling under a woollen shawl. Lady Catherine halted, flared her nostrils, and surveyed the modest accommodation with a glare that could peel the varnish from the wainscoting.

“What is this abominable odour?” she demanded. She turned her gaze on the hovering innkeeper. “Do you intentionally boil your mutton in rancid tallow, man? The stench is overpowering. It permeates the very walls of this hovel.”

Mr Higgins bowed, retreating into the passage in sheer terror.

Aunt Madeline rose to her feet. She bypassed Lady Catherine, moving to the frail young woman.

“You look terribly fatigued, my dear.” Aunt Madeline gently guided Miss de Bourgh to an armchair near the hearth. “Please, take this seat. The cushions are quite firm.”

Miss de Bourgh collapsed with a weak, grateful sigh, pulling her shawl tighter around her narrow shoulders. “Thank you, madam. The carriage ride was exceptionally jarring.”

Lady Catherine lowered her chin, her piercing gaze sweeping over the occupants of the room. Her eyes snagged on Elizabeth’s face, and she froze.

“Miss Elizabeth Bennet!” Lady Catherine exclaimed, her volume increasing significantly.

Elizabeth rose, executing a deep curtsy despite the fluttering in her stomach. “Your ladyship. What an unexpected surprise to find you in Lambton.”

“Surprise is a mild term.” Lady Catherine moved forward, ignoring the presence of the Gardiners. She inspected Elizabeth’s simple travelling gown with overt, calculating disdain. “I am astonished, Miss Elizabeth. Utterly astonished. What possible business can a gentlewoman have in a dilapidated, common coaching inn? You were a guest at Hunsford merely two months ago. Have your circumstances altered so drastically?”

“My circumstances remain perfectly respectable, your ladyship.” Elizabeth kept her chin level, refusing to be intimidated. “I am currently enjoying a tour of the northern counties with my aunt and uncle.”

Elizabeth gestured gracefully to her relatives. “May I present Mr and Mrs Edward Gardiner of London. Uncle, Aunt, this is Lady Catherine de Bourgh of Rosings Park, and her daughter, Miss de Bourgh.”

Uncle Edward rose and offered a cheerful, unbothered bow. “An honour, your ladyship. We were just preparing to order a celebratory bottle of port. Will you join us?”

Lady Catherine stared at the merchant as though he had just offered her a plate of poisoned gravel.