Regency help: Any of you experts know if it's kosher for Mr. Bingley to have a family dinner with the Bennets while Mr. Bennet is away?

Site help: Anybody know how to add a new chapter at the beginning of a story? I'm working on a prologue :)

Thanks to all of you who reviewed and read and everything in between—I really appreciate all the encouragement! Longer chapter today to make up for the shorter one last week. You're welcome ;)

And thanks to my amazing betas, Sara and Dawn, who have done an amazing job with this story. I really couldn't do this without them!

As always, if you notice mistakes, please do point them out! It makes the story better for everyone :)

Copyright 2020 Elizabeth Frerichs

The remainder of the day passed much as the day before had: Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley spent much of the morning with Jane, who continued, though slowly, to mend; in the evening, when Elizabeth joined their party in the drawing-room, Mr. Darcy was sitting at a desk, apparently about to write a letter, and Miss Bingley, seated near him, was repeatedly claiming his attention. Mr. Hurst and Mr. Bingley were at piquet, and Mrs. Hurst was observing their game.

Elizabeth took up some needlework, sufficiently amused in attending to what passed between Darcy and his companion: Miss Bingley seemed determined to ensure Mr. Darcy's attention remained fixed on her, or at least shifted to her every few moments, and so she continued a running commentary on Mr. Darcy's writing materials (his paper was "ever so fine") and expounded on her views regarding how many times a letter could be crossed. Even after Mr. Darcy began writing, she did not cease her remarks.

"Pray, tell Miss Darcy that I long to see her!" Miss Bingley urged the moment Mr. Darcy inked his quill.

Mr. Darcy hesitated but a moment before gravely acquiescing.

Miss Bingley remained silent only a few heartbeats before continuing, "How delighted Miss Darcy will be to receive such a letter!"

Mr. Darcy made no answer.

Elizabeth wondered which of the two might be considered the worst offender to propriety. Though Mr. Darcy's silence showed a lack of manners, Elizabeth could not help but sympathise with his desire for peace and quiet in which to complete his letter. Miss Bingley was truly making a nuisance of herself. However, he had decided to write a letter in a room full of people, despite the inherent incivility of such behavior. Perhaps Miss Bingley's rudeness was just recompense for his own discourtesy.

"You write uncommonly fast," Miss Bingley said, leaning in as though to watch the progress of his words across the page.

"You are mistaken," Mr. Darcy said curtly. I write rather slowly."

A thought flitted through Elizabeth's mind as she studied the tableau—one that stilled her fingers and set her heart racing. Though she was nearly certain the Letter was not actually Mr. Darcy's, here was an opportunity to investigate without having to speak to him about the Letter itself. If she could only contrive a glimpse at the letter he was now writing—the Letter-writer's handwriting was so familiar that even a moment's look would suffice.

Of course, if the Letter were his, it presented a host of other problems and puzzles, such as why he had written it, whether she was the intended recipient, and how it had come to rest on the ground at Oakham Mount—not to mention why it appeared to address future events. Of course, she had yet to meet a Mr. Wickham, so was it merely a cruel joke on Mr. Darcy's part? Although . . . he did not seem like the sort of person to practice such deceit.

Likely it was a practical joke on the part of someone else and nothing more.

Verifying that belief might, however, dissipate the unease of the past days and allow her to return to ignoring her family's shortcomings.

"How many letters you must have occasion to write in a year's course!" Miss Bingley exclaimed as though she were acknowledging that he regularly slew lions. "Letters of business, too! How odious I should think them!"

"It is fortunate, then, that they fall to my lot instead of to yours," Mr. Darcy said in bored tones.

Looking over someone's shoulder as they wrote a letter was very bad manners, and Elizabeth refused to follow Miss Bingley's example. Perhaps she could pretend a need to stretch her legs? She set down her needlework and stood, taking a moment to roll her shoulders slightly as though she were uncomfortable.

"Pray tell your sister that I long to see her," Miss Bingley continued.

Mr. Darcy did not look up from his letter. "I have already told her so once, by your desire."

Elizabeth meandered to the edge of the room farthest from Mr. Darcy and began a circuit.

"I am afraid you do not like your pen. Let me mend it for you," Miss Bingley said eagerly, perching on the edge of her seat, her hands outstretched as though to snatch the pen from Mr. Darcy's fingers. "I mend pens remarkably well."

"Thank you—but I always mend my own," Mr. Darcy said repressively.

Miss Bingley's hands dropped, but she remained on the edge of her seat. "How can you contrive to write so evenly?"

Mr. Darcy did not bother to respond.

Elizabeth maintained her ambling gait even as her palms began to sweat. She was more than halfway there.

"Tell your sister I am delighted to hear of her improvement on the harp; and pray let her know that I am quite in raptures with her beautiful little design for a table, and I think it infinitely superior to Miss Grantley's."

"Will you give me leave to defer your raptures till I write again? At present I have not room to do them justice," Mr. Darcy said dryly.

Elizabeth nearly laughed despite her distraction. She could see that Mr. Darcy had written only half a page even if she could not make out the handwriting itself.

"Oh! it is of no consequence. I shall see her in January. But do you always write such charming long letters to her, Mr. Darcy?"

Truly, in a contest for absurdity of manner, she could not choose a winner. Half a page was not long at all.

"They are generally long; but whether they are always charming is not for me to determine."

Elizabeth cast a glance at the letter as she strolled past, then came to an abrupt halt.

Mr. Darcy's handwriting matched the Letter-writer's hand perfectly.

Miss Bingley was speaking again. Mr. Bingley saw fit to comment. What they said was lost to Elizabeth, her thoughts slowed as though she were trying to drag herself through frozen molasses. Mr. Darcy had written the Letter?

"—Miss Elizabeth?" Mr. Darcy asked.

Elizabeth blinked at him. "Pardon?"

"Are you well, Miss Elizabeth? You look as though you have seen a ghost."

Elizabeth shivered. Perhaps she had. She surreptitiously pinched herself—no, she was not asleep. If only she could pinch Mr. Darcy as well to verify that he was not an apparition of some sort.

"Perhaps you ought to sit down," Mr. Darcy suggested, standing and holding out his arm to escort her.

Elizabeth took his arm eagerly—it was warm and solid and real, a man's arm, not a ghost's arm. Her thoughts began to reorder themselves. If the Letter were real, which it seemed to be, and if it had been written by Mr. Darcy, then . . . what?

"—Miss Elizabeth?" Mr. Bingley said as he turned towards her.

Elizabeth became conscious that Netherfield's inhabitants were all staring at her. Mr. Darcy stood above her, anxiously studying her features. For the first time, she could see his concern and care, and the Letter-writer's preposterous suggestion that Mr. Darcy could have feelings for her seemed, well, less preposterous. She had always considered his attentions to her to be a result of whatever he found so objectionable about her, as though she were too hideous for him to merely ignore, but perhaps she had misunderstood him.

Darcy looked into Miss Elizabeth's white face. Every so often a tremor ran through her frame. What had caused such a sudden change? Nothing in his experience with her suggested that she was likely to be easily overwhelmed.

She held his gaze as though searching his very soul.

"Miss Elizabeth?" Bingley asked, coming to stand by Darcy. "Do you require something? Are you ill? Shall I call for a doctor?"

Miss Elizabeth blinked and turned her attention to Bingley. "I am quite well, Mr. Bingley." She gave a small chuckle. "I believe I have merely been sitting for too long."

"I suppose when one is unused to the rigours of a society drawing-room, sitting in one attitude for an entire evening can be daunting," Miss Bingley said, standing from her chair.

A slight frown crossed Bingley's features. "It is more likely that your faithful attendance on your sister has fatigued you. Are you certain you do not require something?"

Miss Elizabeth smiled at him. "Yes, I—I am quite well."

Darcy noted that her fingers still trembled. Abruptly he strode to the sideboard and poured her a small glass of spirits. He did not believe for one moment that she had been overcome by excessive sitting. Rather, she seemed as though she had just received a sharp shock. But what had occurred to cause such a reaction?

"Miss Elizabeth, take several sips of this," he instructed gently.

Miss Elizabeth thanked him and took a sip of the spirits. She made a face into the glass.

"It should help settle your nerves," he said in an undertone, mindful of Miss Bingley's hovering presence.

Miss Elizabeth's eyes flew to his face. She coloured and returned her gaze to the wavering liquid held in her shaking hands. After another sip, she took a deep breath. "Thank you, Mr. Darcy. I feel much better now." She carefully stood. "I believe I ought to attend my sister. I shall return shortly."

Recalled to the dangers of paying her too much attention and noting that she seemed uncomfortable with their stares, Darcy inclined his head and returned to the desk. Miss Bingley immediately followed.

Bingley protested Miss Elizabeth's removal on the grounds that she ought to rest before checking on her sister, but Miss Elizabeth firmly maintained that she was plenty stout enough and merely needed to move about more. Finally, after promising to call for a servant immediately if she felt faint, she managed to escape.

Elizabeth hurried to the room she shared with Jane and collapsed into the chair beside her sister. Fortunately, Jane was still asleep and would not ask questions which Elizabeth could not answer.

Her thoughts whirled around like autumn leaves in a dancing wind. All the questions she had dismissed as pointless now came full force into her consciousness: Mr. Darcy's hand matched the Letter-writer's. How? And why? He seemed utterly unfamiliar to Hertfordshire; indeed he had little care for the way he offended nearly everyone in the neighbourhood.

She reviewed the contents of the letter. Mr. Darcy had apparently written it after the force of his feelings had caused him to forget the evils attached to marrying into the Bennet family and he had been rejected by—well, by the second eldest daughter.

But they had never met prior to this autumn! It seemed incredible that he would write such a letter never having met her. Mr. Darcy's sense of humour was rather more sophisticated and rarely in evidence—he was not the sort of person to engage in practical jokes.

Elizabeth put a cold hand to her flushed face. What if the letter was real? Put aside for the moment that it seemed fantastical, she instructed herself. What if Mr. Darcy had knowledge of future events and had written it?

No, that did not make sense at all. If Mr. Darcy knew she would never marry a person as arrogant and disagreeable as himself, he would not take the trouble to disclose such damaging information about his sister.

If the information was accurate.

Elizabeth passed a shaky hand across her brow and rubbed her temples. She refused to be drawn into such a preposterous idea. She would continue on as she had begun: the Letter must be tested before it was accepted as truth. The information about her family, though mortifying, was readily proven. And even Charlotte had warned that Mr. Bingley was unlikely to recognise Jane's regard if Jane continued on as she had been. All that remained unproven or undiscovered was the name of Mr. Darcy's sister and the existence of a Mr. Wickham. One seemed easier to determine than the other. Should Mr. Darcy's sister be named "Georgiana," perhaps then Elizabeth would find a way to introduce the topic of Mr. Wickham to Mr. Darcy, proving whether or not the Letter could truly align with reality.

Having settled on a course of action, Elizabeth's attention returned to her sister: Jane remained soundly asleep and did not appear to be as feverish as the night before. With a sigh, she concluded that good manners required a return to the drawing-room.

When she reached the drawing-room, Mr. Darcy was turned towards Mr. Bingley, his quill resting in the inkpot. The gentlemen stood as she entered.

"How did you find your sister, Miss Elizabeth?" Mr. Bingley asked anxiously.

"She is still sound asleep, and her fever does not appear to have risen."

"That is good news!"

Elizabeth smiled. Mr. Bingley certainly seemed fond of Jane. He was so well-suited to Jane; perhaps he could develop resolution? Although . . . it was pointless to consider the matter until he showcased his true colours and then it would be too late. Her smile grew forced.

"And what of you, Miss Elizabeth? Are you well?" Mr. Darcy asked.

The side of her face prickled as though Mr. Darcy's gaze was strong enough to be physically felt, and for a moment Elizabeth hesitated to look him in the eye. Her ruminations had seemed fantastical, and yet this man was flesh and blood—or appeared to be. Her shoulders stiffened, and she reminded herself that she would not allow Mr. Darcy to intimidate her. "Quite well, Mr. Darcy," she said evenly, meeting his eyes. A shock went through her at the deep concern that radiated from his gaze. That concern disappeared so quickly behind his customary look of proud indifference that for a moment she wondered if she had been mistaken.

Could his pride be naught but a mask?

"I am pleased you feel well enough to return to our drawing-room, Miss Eliza," Miss Bingley said with sly malice.

Elizabeth inclined her head and returned to her previous seat on the settee and her abandoned sewing.

"May we now, finally, continue our game?" Mr. Hurst asked plaintively.

Mr. Bingley assented and picked up the cards in front of him.

Mr. Darcy studied her for a moment before returning to his letter, and Elizabeth wondered that he had not yet finished it—although, given Mr. Hurst's comment, it was likely they had discussed her at length (or at least Miss Bingley had) and were only now returning to their prior occupations.

Predictably, Miss Bingley had no intention of allowing Mr. Darcy's attention to leave her entirely and began to compare Mr. Darcy's writing to her brother's. Mr. Bingley contended that he could not write neatly because his ideas came so rapidly, which led to Mr. Darcy deprecating his friend's comment. Quickness, according to him, was nothing to be prized, particularly when it left necessary things undone. As evidence, he referred back to the comment Mr. Bingley had made that morning about quitting Netherfield at once.

"Nay," Mr. Bingley cried, "this is too much, to remember at night all the foolish things that were said in the morning!" He put down his cards and turned towards Mr. Darcy. "And yet, upon my honour, I believed what I said of myself to be true, and I believe it at this moment. At least, therefore, I did not assume the character of needless precipitance merely to show off before the ladies."

"I dare say you believed it; but I am by no means convinced that you would be gone with such celerity. Your conduct would be quite as dependent on chance as that of any man I know; and if, as you were mounting your horse, a friend were to say, 'Bingley, you had better stay till next week,' you would probably do it, you would probably not go—and at another word, might stay a month," he pointed out.

Elizabeth's brow furrowed, once more distressed by this evidence of Mr. Bingley's lack of resolution. "Though your affability does you credit, sweetness of temper must needs be tempered with determination lest your friends and relatives control your life," Elizabeth said slowly. "It is wise to listen to advice from those who are more knowledgeable, and if your friend provided reasonable evidence for you staying, I would not believe it a detriment to your character should you choose to listen to your friend—particularly if you were to verify those evidences for yourself. Although, if your original intention was rash, perhaps you ought not to have made it in the first place."

"I suppose that is true," Mr. Bingley said thoughtfully.

"A man whose choices are not his own is no man," Elizabeth added, hoping that perhaps Mr. Bingley would develop into a man whom Jane could respect as well as like.

Mr. Darcy's lips twitched. "Indeed. Lurching from one choice to the next at the whim of one's companions is seldom the key to a well-lived life."

Elizabeth frowned. Though she agreed with Mr. Darcy, having him agree with her made her very uncomfortable. Nor did she understand how Mr. Darcy could espouse such a view given the control he himself appeared to exercise over his friend's life.

A frown flickered across Mr. Bingley's face. "I shall certainly consider your advice before removing from Netherfield," he said with a forced smile. He picked up his neglected cards, turning back to his brother-in-law.

Perhaps the Letter-writer's scenario would not come to pass after all.

"Speaking of quitting Netherfield, I do hope that we will soon be able to see Miss Darcy," Miss Bingley gushed. "Is she remaining in London for the Season this year, Mr. Darcy?"

"As the Season is several months from now, I cannot comment on what Georgiana will decide to do at that time," Mr. Darcy said, his tone bordering on exasperation.

The blood rushed through Elizabeth's veins, leaving her unable to pay attention to Miss Bingley's reply. Georgiana. His sister's name was Georgiana. With trembling fingers, she picked up her sewing and attempted to appear composed. After some moments of racing thoughts and concerned glances from Mr. Darcy, she finally imagined putting the whole of her meditations and worries into a box and locking it. She could not continue such contemplations in this company without gaining further attention.

Darcy finished his letter to Georgiana, managing for the most part to tune out Miss Bingley's continued commentary. His thoughts remained fixed, however, on Miss Elizabeth, and his unruly eyes wandered her direction every so often. And so, before Miss Bingley could suggest other activities, he requested some music, hoping it would give him uninterrupted time to think. Miss Bingley rushed to comply before apparently recalling that, as her guest, Miss Elizabeth ought to be allowed the opportunity to play first. Miss Elizabeth politely, but firmly, declined, and Mrs. Hurst sang while Miss Bingley played.

Grateful to have those two ladies occupied, Darcy turned his attention to Miss Elizabeth. Her skin remained paler than normal, the sun-kissed freckles standing out like birds on snow. What had so disturbed her? His thoughts tumbled around each other, each seeming less likely than the last. Perhaps it was a mystery destined to remain unsolved.

Before long, Miss Elizabeth wandered over to the pianoforte and began looking through the music books. Darcy half-hoped and half-feared she would play again; as if her beautiful eyes and wit were not enough, her music cast a spell over her listeners.

Miss Elizabeth glanced up at him; Darcy met her gaze and could not look away. She still appeared troubled, and, without his consent, his feet began moving towards her.

"Miss Elizabeth, are you certain you are well?" he asked in an undertone.

Miss Bingley's voice soared in duet with her sister's as though trying to drown out conversation.

The tension did not disappear from around her eyes, but Miss Elizabeth gave him a small smile. "Yes, Mr. Darcy. I am quite well."

Miss Bingley abruptly ceased her Italian love song and began a lively Scotch air.

Darcy stood awkwardly for a moment—if Miss Elizabeth would not allow him to assist her, what else could he do? And yet, he could not imagine leaving her when she was harbouring such distress as he had noted. Staring at her blankly, however, would do nothing more than leave them both uncomfortable. Finally, he seized the opportunity the music afforded. "Do not you feel a great inclination to dance a reel?"

Miss Elizabeth turned puzzled eyes upon him.

Darcy repeated his question, unsure if she simply could not hear him over Miss Bingley's emphatic playing or if she was concerned he might intend another set-down. He cursed his loose tongue and inability to interact well with women. Better to have awkwardly returned to his seat and brooded over the cause of her distress than to stand here a fool.

"Oh, I heard you before, but I could not immediately determine what to say in reply." Her lips turned up though the smile did not reach her eyes. "You wanted me, I know, to say 'Yes,' that you might have the pleasure of despising my taste; but I always delight in overthrowing those kinds of schemes and cheating a person of their premeditated contempt. I have, therefore, made up my mind to tell you, that I do not want to dance a reel at all—and now despise me if you dare."

"Indeed I do not dare," Darcy said and inclined his head as he retired from the field, content to meditate in silence on the likely source of her unease.

Elizabeth lay awake for some time that night while Jane continued her sound slumber. The words of the letter rang through her thoughts as though she were even now listening to it being read aloud by a shadowy Mr. Darcy, and she tried to measure the substance of each sentence with what she knew of the man.

The circumstances described in the letter had not come to pass. But they no longer seemed impossible. For example, Mr. Darcy's concern tonight had shown that he could be capable, at some point, of developing a tendre for her. And, if made aware of such a preference on his part, it was certain that Elizabeth would refuse him—better to be penniless than to marry someone so proud and arrogant.

Yet, he had not seemed nearly so proud tonight . . . at least not until he had asked about the reel. She was unsure if he was trying to confirm her beliefs about her deficiency by proving how very plebeian her tastes were, engaged in some form of misguided pity, or something else entirely.

Well, no matter. The man could remain an enigma.

Additionally, if she were made aware that Mr. Darcy had torn Mr. Bingley from Jane's side and that Jane's affections had been even more securely set upon Mr. Bingley than at present, she would be furious at both gentlemen for their part in her sister's heartbreak. Should such an opportunity have presented itself, she might have taxed Mr. Darcy with his wretched behaviour, so that part of the Letter remained plausible as well.

Mr. Darcy did seem to take prodigious care of Mr. Bingley and might have considered it his duty to rescue him from the Bennets. After all, he had visited his friend—according to Mrs. Plowman, whose son worked at Netherfield—to school him in the skills necessary for owning land and to assist him in a first survey of the property, skills that were traditionally passed down from father to son so Mr. Darcy's efforts were beyond generous.

This undertaking did not accord with Mr. Darcy's arrogance, however. Indeed, the fact that he was staying in the house of a family connected with trade did not at all match her perception of the ton. Her experience with the highest society was limited to encounters in her uncle's emporium. Though eager to possess his goods, these "high class" persons often treated his employees (and anyone connected to him) as though they were part of the furniture or were carriers of some dread disease.

No, the ton did not acknowledge such "vulgar mushrooms" as a family whose father had been in trade—so why did Mr. Darcy? He did not even tolerate the landowners of Hertfordshire. Perhaps, for Mr. Darcy, money superseded all ills of parentage.

Regardless, she had no difficulty believing that Mr. Darcy would separate Mr. Bingley from Jane as a result of their impending penury and her family's consistently blush-worthy behaviour. The question was Mr. Bingley's part in the matter. Elizabeth could hardly consider him to be his own man if he proved to be unwilling to seek the truth of the matter for himself, but, due to his apparent reliance on Mr. Darcy's opinion, perhaps he would not consider it necessary. It was commendable that Mr. Bingley had been willing to overlook both the financial and social status of the Bennets and the "want of propriety so frequently, so almost uniformly betrayed by their mother, three younger sisters, and occasionally even their father." But he would not be a husband worthy of Jane if he could not make his own decisions.

Elizabeth's thoughts drifted to the rest of the Letter. The writer assumed she had heard of some wrong done to Mr. Wickham from the man's own lips. And, unfortunately, she knew nothing of the accusation. As yet, she did not even know if Mr. Wickham was a real person. A shiver went through her; if the Letter were true, she would likely encounter the man soon—before the Netherfield Ball, which, if Lydia had her way, would be in the next week or two.

A weight settled into her bones. What if Mr. Bingley left Jane a week from now? What if her mother's and sisters' poor behaviour prevented Jane from ever finding a suitable husband?

Suddenly, the precariousness of their situation grew clearer than ever before—what would they do if none of them married before her father died? She had always laughed off her mother's concern, believing such an occurrence to be highly unlikely; Jane seemed destined, by reason of her goodness and beauty, to marry well. But this belief was not borne out by the mathematical probabilities—there were but few well-situated young gentlemen Jane had ever encountered or would be likely to encounter. And even if that were not the case, here was a wealthy young gentleman who matched Jane in temperament and had an affection for her, and yet he could, or would, be driven away by Jane's family—or at least by Mr. Darcy's disgust for their impropriety. She had asserted to Charlotte that a worthy man would have the backbone to find out for himself . . . which was true . . . then again, no one was perfect . . . oh! She did not know what to think about Mr. Bingley.

Elizabeth shuddered as she imagined endless years of scraping and scrimping, taking any reasonable job that presented itself in order to support her sisters. What if they were all reduced to employment as companions or governesses (though they did not have the necessary education for such) and flung to the four winds? Suddenly, she could not stand to be alone with her thoughts.

The desk in Jane's room had been provided with stationary and pens, and so Elizabeth turned to the one person she knew would understand, empathise without judgement, and provide wise advice: her Aunt Madeleine.

Netherfield Park

14th November, 1811

Dearest Aunt,

As you can see, I am not at home—I do not know if you have yet been informed of Jane's mishap, so I shall assume that you have not and inform you accordingly. It is nothing terrible; it is only that she has contracted a cold whilst visiting our new neighbours. I am certain that Jane has told you much about Mr. Bingley and I have mentioned him in a previous letter, so I shall not spend much time elaborating on him.

Mama, as you well know, is desperate for Jane to marry Mr. Bingley. Thus, when Jane was invited to call on Mr. Bingley's sisters, Mama sent her on horseback, despite impending rain, in hopes that Jane would be forced to stay at Netherfield on account of the rain. Papa, rather than rescuing Jane from Mama's scheme, merely laughed and said that at least if Jane died, Mama would have the comfort of knowing it was in pursuit of a husband.

As you might suppose, Jane arrived soaking wet and caught a violent cold. She has been feverish and miserable but not dangerously ill, so I am residing at Netherfield in order to nurse her.

Aunt, I have recently become more aware of the improprieties my family regularly engages in. I wish you had seen Lydia and Kitty dancing at Sir William Lucas's house last week. I finally decided to step outside for a moment rather than to continue to blush for their wild behaviour. Father will not take them in hand, and, from some—

What ought she to call the Letter? Inadvertent revelations? Overheard comments? She scratched out that sentence and began again.

Father will not take them in hand, and, from the manner of Netherfield's inhabitants, I begin to suspect that my mother's and sisters' improprieties will come between Mr. Bingley and Jane; his sisters and dearest friend, Mr. Darcy (upon whose judgement he relies immensely), make no secret of their disgust, and I had a troubling conversation with Mr. Bingley today in which he admitted that he is easily persuaded by their judgment.

Aunt, for the first time, I share my mother's concerns about what we shall do when father dies. If all suitable suitors are dissuaded from pursuit by the wretched behaviour of my family . . . .

I am not in any way trying to throw myself on your (and my uncle's) mercy but rather desiring to unburden myself to someone and to ask for your excellent advice.

Elizabeth paused. Was this what set her and Jane apart from their sisters? The Letter-writer had said that the two of them did not share in their family's folly, and yet they had been raised by the same parents as those sisters which he deplored. However, they were also the ones who were most often invited to stay with their Aunt and Uncle Gardiner and who engaged in regular correspondence with their aunt. Had it been that influence which had shaped them so differently?

I begin to wonder if you are the only reason Jane and I do not share our sisters' propensity for impropriety. Thank you, dearest Aunt, for all you have done for us. I cannot imagine sharing my concerns with anyone else, and I am grateful that you have made yourself available, despite the other draws on your time.

I do not know that there is anything to do. Jane, rightly, is not willing to encourage Mr. Bingley more than is seemly. Mr. Bingley will be influenced by his friends, and it seems inevitable that they will be separated. Although perhaps he shall return before his lease is up next year.

Elizabeth frowned. The letter had been dated from April of next year—if the date was accurate . . . . Goosebumps crawled up her arms and legs as she allowed herself to imagine a strange possibility: what if Mr. Darcy had indeed written the letter but in April of next year? The idea seemed preposterous; how would it have gotten here? And yet . . . it would explain why the events therein seemed to unspool into the future rather live in the past. Had she not just admitted that Mr. Darcy might in the future develop a tendre for her? And, after all, neither Mr. Darcy nor his servants had been in Hertfordshire when the Letter had appeared . . . .

No, she was being ridiculous again. Such a thing was impossible.

But, as her father was fond of saying in his debates, once you eliminated other avenues, the remaining option must be the right one, no matter how improbable it seemed. She could not send a letter through time, but Heaven was certainly capable of such a thing.

Well, there was no point in considering it until she knew whether the bit about Mr. Wickham was accurate.

I could contrive to give Mr. Bingley a hint, but I am torn as to whether, if he is so easily led, he would make a good husband for Jane anyway. What would you advise?

She tapped the quill against her chin, considering what else, if anything, she could or ought to confide in her aunt. She had no desire to share the Letter's existence with anyone until its veracity became clearer, and until she knew whether Mr. Wickham existed and if he was just the sort of cad described by the Letter-writer . . . the thought of waiting for something that might never happen was nearly intolerable. If only someone other than Mr. Darcy could provide the necessary information.

Her aunt was from Derbyshire. Was it possible she had heard of a Mr. Wickham?

In addition to his sisters, Mr. Bingley brought with him a friend from Derbyshire: a Mr. Darcy. The man is arrogant in the extreme and has made himself odious to the entire neighbourhood. I suppose you have heard of him, and his reputation for pride must go before him. Do you keep in contact with any of your friends from Derbyshire? I am hoping to discover the character of a Mr. Wickham who reputedly is the son of Mr. Darcy's father's late steward. If you have any information regarding him, would you please forward it to me?

After a moment's thought as to what justification she could offer, Elizabeth decided to merely put off the question.

I shall explain more later, but, for now, it is rather late, and I am afraid I shall need all the patience I can muster to deal with the inhabitants of this house.

With much love,

Your confused niece

Lizzy

Elizabeth copied the letter onto clean paper, sanded it, and sealed it. Even if she could not mail it right away, she felt better just for having written it. She could not imagine that her aunt and uncle had not discussed the matter—after all, if her sisters did not marry well before their father's death, Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner would likely need to assist the remaining Bennets. Perhaps Aunt Madeleine had been waiting only to be asked before she shared whatever excellent plan they had contrived.

As Jane was still asleep, Elizabeth blew out the candle and settled down next to her sister. Things would work themselves out—they always did.