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Caroline’s lips tightened. Elizabeth regretted the edge in her own reply, though not sufficiently to withdraw it. She had come to admit a wrong. She had not agreed to submit every word she spoke thereafter to Caroline’s judgment.

“Does Jane know of your extraordinary supposition?” Caroline asked.

“No. I have never spoken of it to her.”

“Nor Charles?”

“No.”

“Then we may at least be thankful that you exercised some restraint.”

“I should be obliged if it went no further now.”

Caroline looked offended. “I had no intention of repeating a disgraceful invention concerning my brother’s friend. I told you that at the time.”

“You did. Thank you.”

The thanks seemed to displease her almost as much as the request. She took up the music again and sat at the instrument.

“I have promised Jane to try this air for her. If you have finished, I should like to practise.”

“I have finished.”

Elizabeth went toward the door. Caroline stopped her before she reached it.

“Whatever he may have told you, Miss Eliza, I hope you will remember that being trusted with a confidence is not the same as being invited to direct a gentleman’s life.”

Elizabeth turned back.

“I hope I shall remember what he trusted me to keep private.”

She would promise no more to Caroline, who had been directing portions of that gentleman’s life since the afternoon of their arrival.

The first notes sounded as Elizabeth left the room. Caroline played the opening phrase twice, corrected a small fault, and began again. There was nothing uncertain in her third attempt.

Elizabeth paused beyond the doorway, ashamed to discover that she had been listening for a mistake.

She went upstairs.

Jane was not asleep. She sat with a book open upon her lap and looked relieved to see her sister.

“Will you read this page to me? I have begun it three times.”

“Is it so bad?”

“I cannot say. I have not reached the bottom.”

Elizabeth took the book and sat beside her. At the end of the page Jane asked her to continue. Before the next was finished, her sister’s eyes had closed.

Elizabeth read a little longer, softly, until she was certain Jane slept. Then she laid the book aside and drew the shawl over her sister’s feet.

Sixteen.

The thought had returned at church, in the carriage, and while Caroline spoke. Lydia came instantly to her mind. Elizabeth could picture her laughing at a caution, certain that whatever danger had troubled another girl could not possibly concern her. Kitty would have followed her into the adventure and Mary would have condemned it afterward, but any of them, faced with the loss of a sister, would have wanted one more opportunity to hear the noise of her coming down the stairs.

Georgiana Darcy had trusted someone she remembered from childhood. She had borne a child, asked to come home, and died before receiving an answer.

Elizabeth looked at Jane. She could not undo what had happened to Mr. Darcy’s sister. She could not even tell him with certainty that Georgiana had understood his love. The wish to comfort him had made that assurance very tempting. But she had already done harm enough by deciding what must be true because she wanted an explanation.