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"May I keep the notebook until tomorrow?" Elizabeth asked.

"Of course." Darcy left it on the bench beside her before going to write his letter. Elizabeth remained there until the grove ceased to feel like a stage from which the actors had departed. Jane was waiting at the far end of the path, with Bingley several yards beyond her. She had no pencil.

"May I walk back with you?"

Elizabeth nodded and picked up the notebook before joining her sister. For a little while they walked without speaking. Then Jane took a burr from Elizabeth's sleeve, the sort of small service she had performed a hundred times without expecting thanks.

"I was afraid," Jane said. "Making it into research seemed better than admitting I could not help you."

"I was afraid too."

Jane's hand found hers. They went home slowly. The notebook remained closed beneath Elizabeth's arm; a page full of observations had proved considerably less useful than her sister learning when to put it away.

Prediction, not promise: six chapters of separation, a reunion at Pemberley. Elizabeth wrote a question mark beside it. The story had already surprised her. She hoped she might yet return the favor.

CHAPTER 17

That evening at Hunsford, Charlotte brought the letter herself. Darcy had sent it by a Rosings servant, sealed and addressed to Elizabeth; Charlotte held it by one corner, as though its weight might prove contagious.

"I was asked to deliver this privately. I presume that means without my husband's commentary on the quality of the paper."

"How much commentary did you prevent?"

"Two compliments and a sermon. I stopped him at the watermark."

Elizabeth took the letter. Eight folded pages strained beneath the seal. She had known there would be a letter; she had not known that seeing her name in his hand would make her reluctant to break it open. The last time they had spoken, she had asked him to wait. Perhaps a person could agree to wait and still discover, alone, that he wished to leave.

Charlotte put the candle closer. "I shall keep him occupied."

"Thank you."

The first page began with a complaint about enforced verbosity, which made Elizabeth smile. Then the handwriting changed. It grew smaller, crowded along the margins, as Darcy explained what he knew of Wickham and why he had been unable to say it earlier. He asked her to protect his sister's confidence. He did not ask her to change her answer.

Elizabeth read slowly. Wickham had persuaded Georgiana to agree to an elopement, hoping to gain her fortune. Darcy had arrived before they could leave, and his sister had confessed the plan to him. Georgiana had been fifteen. That fact mattered more than the satisfaction of finding Wickham precisely as false as her borrowed knowledge had promised. Fifteen was Lydia's age. Georgiana had been a girl who might still turn to an older brother to put right what frightened her. How much harder when the frightened girl believed she had caused his disappointment.

There were places where Darcy had crossed out a word so thoroughly that the paper had thinned. Elizabeth put a finger beside one, without touching it. She had imagined his pride resisting an explanation. She had not sufficiently imagined his fear of making a beloved sister's pain useful to strangers.

When Jane knocked, Elizabeth folded the pages together.

"May I come in? I have brought biscuits. They are a peace offering, though I cannot recommend their quality."

Elizabeth let her in. Jane put the plate on the table and sat only when invited.

"Is he very angry?"

"Not with me. There is something about his family which is not mine to repeat."

"Then do not repeat it."

Jane selected a biscuit, examined the unfortunate crack across its middle, and gave Elizabeth the larger piece. They ate in companionable silence. It was a considerable improvement on an audience.

"I shall write to him," Elizabeth said at last. "About what he entrusted to me. Not about what the letter is supposed to accomplish."

Jane nodded. "Would you like me to go?"

"In a moment. Stay while I find the paper."

Her reply took a single page. She thanked him for trusting her, promised discretion, and asked him to tell Georgiana, if a suitable occasion arose, that there was a woman at Longbourn who would be very glad to know her. Then she added a line which cost more effort than all the rest: I am glad you told me. It has not made me think less of either of you.