Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
Though the path from Oakham Mount to Longbourn was neither long nor difficult, she found her steps slowing more than once, her attention turning inward in a way she could neither entirely prevent nor wholly regret.
The air retained a trace of the morning’s coolness, softened now by a pale brightness that had begun to break through the cloud, and she drew it in deeply as she walked, as though it might steady the thoughts that pressed too insistently upon her mind.
She had not expected to see him. More than that, she had not expected what had passed between them.
The memory of their conversation lingered with unusual precision—not merely the words themselves, though those returned readily enough, but the manner in which they had been spoken.
There had been no hesitation in him, no softening of his meaning for the sake of comfort.
He had spoken directly, and more than that, he had listened.
Truly listened, in a way that left her with no easy means of dismissing what he said.
I do not pity you.
She had believed it. Something in his tone, in the steadiness of his manner, had resisted her instinct to reject the assertion outright.
Elizabeth reached the edge of the garden and paused, resting one hand lightly upon the familiar curve of the gate before pushing it open.
The path beyond led toward the house, bordered by beds that had only just begun to show the earliest promise of the season.
She had walked this way countless times, had known each turn and uneven stone without thought, and yet this morning, it felt altered—not in form, but in feeling.
Something had shifted. As of yet, she was unsure of its designation.
The house received her without ceremony.
It was still early enough that the usual bustle had not yet taken full hold, and the familiar sounds of morning preparation—voices below stairs, the faint movement of doors and footsteps—remained distant.
Elizabeth passed through the hall with little notice and made her way upstairs, drawn not to the common rooms but to the privacy of her chamber.
Once inside, she closed the door with more force than necessary and stood for a moment without moving.
It was a habit she had formed over time—to allow herself a brief stillness upon entering a room, a moment to orient herself fully before crossing it.
Now, however, the pause held a different purpose.
It was not the arrangement of space that required her attention, but the arrangement of her thoughts.
She crossed to the window and stood beside it, her hand resting lightly against the frame as she looked out upon the grounds beyond. The light had strengthened somewhat, though it remained softened by passing cloud, sparing her the strain that came with brighter days. She was grateful for it.
Her reflection, faint in the glass, caught her notice only briefly before she turned away. She had no wish to examine it. Not yet. Instead, she moved toward the bed and sat, her hands folding loosely in her lap, her posture composed though her thoughts remained anything but.
He had spoken of a man called Mr. Wickham.
The name was unfamiliar, the story unexpected, and yet she understood why he had shared it.
It had not been offered as mere history, nor as a diversion from the matter at hand.
It had been, she realized, a kind of confession—not of wrongdoing, but of error.
He had trusted where he ought not to have done.
He had believed himself certain and been proved mistaken.
And from that, he had drawn a lesson. I will not make that mistake again.
Elizabeth drew a slow breath. He had not spoken those words lightly. She was certain of that. Nor had he spoken of her lightly. That was the difficulty.
It would have been far easier to dismiss him had he done so—to laugh at his observations, to turn them aside as exaggerated or misplaced. She had done as much with others before, had found in such dismissals a kind of protection against disappointment.
But Mr. Darcy did not speak as other men did. He did not flatter or soften truth into something more pleasing. He stated what he believed and expected it to be received as such.
Elizabeth closed her eyes briefly. Now she found herself wondering whether she had been too quick to reject what he offered.
By his words, she had entirely misjudged his approbation.
It left an uncomfortable feeling in her stomach.
Despite her visual impairments, she had always tried to see people clearly.
How, then, had she so completely misunderstood Mr. Darcy?
The thought unsettled her.
She had built her understanding of herself over time, shaping it not from vanity but from necessity. To accept too much, to hope too far beyond what circumstance allowed, had once led her to disappointment of a kind she did not wish to repeat.
Better, she had long believed, to expect little and be content with what remained. Better to value usefulness over longing and to find satisfaction in the lives of those she loved than to dwell upon what might never be her own.
Elizabeth pressed her lips together. And yet she had admitted, only that morning, that she had not been as successful in that effort as she had once believed. The admission lingered. It would not be set aside.
A soft knock at the door broke through her thoughts.
She turned her head. “Yes?”
The door opened without waiting for further invitation, and Lydia entered first, her presence filling the room with an energy that left little space for quiet reflection.
Kitty followed closely, her demeanor inquisitive, whereas Mary proceeded at a more leisurely pace, exhibiting a composed disposition, yet her gaze betrayed an unfeigned interest.
“You are hiding,” Lydia declared at once, crossing the room with purpose. “Which means something has happened.”
Elizabeth could not help but smile, though it came more readily than she expected. “I am doing no such thing.”
“You are,” Kitty said, settling herself upon the edge of the bed. “You went out early, and now you are here, alone, and thinking. It is very suspicious.”
Mary took a chair near the window, folding her hands neatly in her lap. “It is also very uncommon. You are not prone to silently brooding.”
Elizabeth looked between them. “I am not aware that I am required to account for my thoughts.”
“You are when they make you look so serious,” Lydia replied, leaning forward. “Was it Mr. Darcy?”
Elizabeth hesitated. It was brief. It was enough.
Lydia’s eyes widened. “It was. See, Kitty, I told you he admired her!”
Kitty gasped softly. “You saw him while on your walk?”
Elizabeth inclined her head, though she made no attempt to elaborate.
“And?” Lydia pressed.
“And we spoke,” Elizabeth said.
“That is not enough,” Lydia said. “You must tell us everything. It has been obvious for some time that you favored his company, and he yours. Now we insist on knowing all.”
Elizabeth laughed softly, though there was a hint of tension beneath it. “There is nothing so very remarkable to tell.” And yet, she found herself recalling his words with a clarity that resisted dismissal.
Mary raised a brow. “If that were true, you would not be avoiding the telling of it.”
Elizabeth looked at her with mild reproach. “You are all exceedingly determined this morning.” How had her sisters observed that which she refused to acknowledge herself?
“We are concerned,” Kitty said, though her tone suggested more curiosity than concern.
“We are invested,” Lydia corrected. “And you are behaving in a manner that demands explanation.”
Elizabeth drew a breath. It would be easier, perhaps, to deflect them. It would also be futile. “He wished to speak with me,” she said at last.
“And?” Lydia prompted.
“And he… clarified something I had misunderstood.”
Kitty leaned forward. “What had you misunderstood?”
Elizabeth hesitated again, though this time her pause was longer. “I had believed,” she said slowly, “that his regard for me was… founded upon pity.”
Lydia made a face. “That is absurd. No one with any sense would pity you.”
“So, he said,” Elizabeth replied.
Mary inclined her head. “And you believe him?”
Elizabeth did not answer immediately. “I think,” she said at last, “that I may have been mistaken.”
Lydia clapped her hands softly. “Then it is settled.”
“It is not settled,” Elizabeth said, though her tone lacked conviction.
“It is,” Lydia insisted. “You admire him, and he admires you, and everything will be perfectly delightful.”
Elizabeth shook her head, though a faint smile touched her lips. “You are very certain of outcomes you cannot possibly predict.”
“I am certain of what I see,” Lydia said. “And I see that you admire him.”
Elizabeth looked away. The room seemed suddenly too warm. “That is not—” she began, then stopped.
Kitty leaned closer. “It is not what?”
Elizabeth pressed her hands together. “It is not merely admiration,” she said softly. The words, once spoken, did not retreat.
Lydia’s expression brightened at once. “I knew it. Our dear sister is in love.”
Mary smiled, though more gently. “It is no great surprise.”
Elizabeth laughed, though there was something unsteady in it. “You are all exceedingly unkind.”
“We are exceedingly right,” Lydia corrected.
“And you will have your happily ever after,” Kitty added with certainty.
Elizabeth did not answer. She could not. The idea, once dismissed as impossible, no longer felt entirely so. It frightened her even as her insides warmed.
Jane’s name was spoken then, though she had not yet entered the room.
“And what of our eldest sister?” Kitty said.
Lydia turned at once. “Yes, what of Jane?”
As though summoned by the mention, Jane appeared in the doorway, her expression composed though her cheeks held a faint color that had not been there earlier. “You are speaking of me,” she said.