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She made a small inclination of her head and carried the book into the drawing room.

Darcy remained where she had left him. He had managed to make a woman who was comfortable in an old gown look uncomfortable in it. Mrs. Reynolds had understood the danger when she asked who was to choose.

He could not recall the letter. He could at least allow Miss Bennet to answer it through her father without pursuing her gratitude in every passage of his house.

When he returned to the library, the two spoiled sheets still lay beside the inkstand. He put them in the fire and watched the edges blacken.

The letter which had gone was a proper one. There was nothing in it for which he need feel ashamed.

It was the unwritten part that troubled him.

Chapter Eighteen

ELIZABETH HAD NOT asked her father for a new wardrobe. By the evening of September 22, she wished she had kept a copy of her letter, so that she could produce the evidence if necessary.

She remembered it well enough. She had begun it the previous afternoon, and Jane had added a page of her own. Elizabeth had finished her letter after her sister retired, with her shawl drawn about her shoulders and Sir asleep upon the edge of her skirt.

Pemberley, September 21, 1813

My dear Papa,

You must now reconcile yourself to losing both your eldest daughters for the greater part of the winter. Charles has found a house which Jane likes upon paper, but the carpenter has not yet made it equally agreeable in fact. Some of the floors must be repaired, and there are chimneys which cannot be trusted merely because the agent speaks well of them. Jane has chosen rooms beside the nursery. I believe she would forgive any other defect sooner than a staircase between herself and her baby.

Mr. Darcy has invited us all to remain here until Alderbrook is ready. Jane will certainly accept, and you know I shall not leave her before the baby comes or while she needs me afterward. I had hoped we might talk of Longbourn in December. We must now speak of January, or perhaps February, with a caution which is very disagreeable to me.

Will you ask Mama to send my warmer gowns, the brown pelisse, and the wool shawl from the bottom drawer? The pelisse will require attention, but there is somebody here who can alter it. I had never intended to be so far north when the frost came, and find that my preparations did not extend beyond my intentions. Mrs. Reynolds has promised to tell me the best way of sending a parcel. Pray do not let Kitty improve the trimming before it leaves home. I should like to recognise one article when I open it.

I should also be grateful for the volume of Cowper which I used to keep beside your chair, and the essays with the damaged corner. Mary may put in the book she wished me to read, if she sends her objection upon a separate sheet. I cannot promise to discover it without assistance. Tell her I shall answer seriously, though you may assure yourself that I shall first read it to Jane.

Do not suppose that I am unhappy here. The woods grow handsomer every week, and I have found walks which would reconcile you to exercise if I could promise a chair and a book at the end of them. Jane is comfortable, Charles is attentive, and even Sir has begun to receive my instructions with the appearance of listening. Their host can be very agreeable when he forgets to be solemn. He has lately shown an alarming willingness to contradict me about books, which I ought to resent more than I do.

Nevertheless, I miss you. I miss Mama’s inquiries, though I shall deny having written that if she proposes to remedy the want by doubling them. I miss the noise of the younger girls and Mary’s certainty that some suitable passage exists for every difficulty.

Here I am sometimes obliged to think of the passage myself, and succeed very indifferently.

Give my love to everyone. Jane has written a page which I enclose. Pray tell me that my chair is still waiting, even if you have found a better use for it.

Your affectionate daughter,

Lizzy

Now Mr. Darcy had written, too. He meant to be kind; she resented being placed in the position of explaining that a worn pelisse was not a calamity.

Jane looked up from her pillow when Elizabeth entered to say good night.

“Have you lost something?”

“My equanimity. It is not in my room, and I came to see whether you had borrowed it.”

“Charles says Mr. Darcy has written to Papa.”

“Then the news is travelling more quickly than the letter.”

Jane moved a little upon the bed to make room for her. Elizabeth sat down, taking care not to disturb the folded shawl near her sister’s feet.

“I wish he had asked me first,” she said.

“Would you have agreed?”