Page 200 of What Change Entails

Yesterday you asked whether you had hope.

You have more than hope.

If my conduct has not made that plain, let these words do so. My feelings are so different from what they were at Hunsford that I scarcely recognize the woman who answered you then. I do not say this lightly. I have no practice in such declarations and find myself awkward in the attempt. But I would rather be awkward than silent.

Miss Bingley spoke with me today.

I do not write this to accuse her. Much of what she said I dismissed, for she does not know your heart as I have come to know it. I do not doubt your sincerity. I do not doubt your honor. I do not doubt what passed between us.

But she named considerations I cannot pretend do not exist. She spoke of rank, of trade, of society, of the disdain borne by those whose fortunes began in commerce. She spoke of Lady Catherine’s expectations and of the judgment that may follow any attachment between us. Most painfully, she suggested that those connected to you might suffer for your choice.

I believe you.

That is the truest answer I can give.

I once believed myself an excellent judge and was humbled by the result. If I have misunderstood you again, if your feelings were real but momentary, or if reflection has shown you burdens which affection made light in the hour, then I release you from every expectation my conduct may have encouraged. I would rather suffer disappointment now than become a later source of regret to you, to Georgiana, or to any future happiness you might otherwise claim.

But if I have understood you correctly at last, if your heart remains where you placed it, then come to me.

I do not release you because my feelings have altered. I release you only from any obligation you may believe those feelings impose. Come because you choose it freely, because no one has persuaded you. Come because no warning, no claim of rank, no old fear or former error has altered what you asked me to believe.

Come to Longbourn—to me.

If you do, you will find me waiting.

Yours,

Elizabeth

She read it once.

Her hand shook once she finished.

Mrs. Gardiner came beside her, not close enough to read. “Is it done?”

“Yes.”

“Will you seal it?”

Elizabeth folded the letter before courage could desert her. “Yes.”

The wax took longer than it ought. Her fingers were clumsy. The seal pressed imperfectly, but legibly.

She wrote his name across the front.

Mr. Darcy.

Not Fitzwilliam.

Not yet.

Though the thought came, and with it such an ache that she had to sit for a moment longer.

Mrs. Gardiner placed one hand upon her shoulder, then left her to it.

The farewell with Georgiana nearly undid her.

She found Miss Darcy in the music room, standing beside the pianoforte with both hands resting upon the closed lid. Lydia was nowhere in sight, which meant she had either been sent away or was sobbing into Horace’s neck.