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“Have you found anything?” Darcy asked.

“A sermon, half a history, and a novel whose ending seems to have gone home with somebody.”

“That would answer your objection to an inferior second half.”

She looked up despite herself. He remembered their conversation.

“Only if I could be certain it was inferior.”

“You would be free to imagine a better one.”

“That is a considerable amount of work to require of a reader.”

For an instant, she was back in the drawing room with a book open upon her lap and no reason to regret enjoying his company. Then she remembered Anna’s ready welcome and the cottage door, and set the damaged volume back upon the shelf.

“I am sorry if our questions at dinner distressed you,” she said.

“The story has been told before.”

“You knew what Mrs. Neale was going to say.”

“I have heard versions of it since I was a child.”

“And you do not believe it?”

“No.” He answered without hesitation. “Illness is sufficiently cruel without supposing that a person has invited it by sleeping in the wrong house.”

That was reasonable. Elizabeth wished reason in one matter supplied certainty in all the others.

“People may be frightened even by what they do not believe,” she said. “I should not like Jane to hear it.”

“Nor should I.”

“You are certain there is nothing concerning her rooms that we ought to know? I mean anything ordinary. Damp, or bad air.”

“They were examined and prepared before your arrival. Mrs. Reynolds would have told me if there were any difficulty.”

Elizabeth nodded. She could not demand more without making it appear that the tale had persuaded her.

Darcy looked toward the door, then back at her.

“Your sister is welcome to remain, Miss Bennet. You need not be uneasy about asking for anything she requires.”

“I am not uneasy on that account.”

“Then I am glad.”

He appeared satisfied with her answer. Elizabeth drew the damaged novel from the shelf again, although she had already decided not to read it. She could ask him about damp in Jane’s rooms. She could not ask about Anna with anything like the same ease.

“Thank you,” she said, and returned to the table as Charles came in.

Upstairs, Caroline made certain that the window was closed before getting into bed. Elizabeth was too glad to have the matter settled to object. Sally put out the candles and withdrew into the little chamber, leaving its door ajar.

In the darkness, Elizabeth wished for the familiar sounds of Longbourn. Mary would have opened her Bible if such a story had troubled them at home; Elizabeth might have complained of the length of the reading, but tonight she would have been glad to hear her steady voice. Kitty would have drawn her chair close and asked whether they might sleep in the same room. Lydia would have insisted that the innkeeper had invented the story to entertain her travelers, and then begged for another. Elizabeth missed even the argument which would have followed.

“Are you still awake, Miss Eliza?” Caroline asked.

“Yes.”