Later that day, when they were tucked safely in the guest bedroom of the house in Gracechurch Street, Elizabeth wrapped her arms around her sister and let them both sink into the quiet. Jane trembled – and Elizabeth added Charles Bingley to the ever-growing list of people she disliked to the point of possible fisticuffs – and tried to blink away hot tears. Elizabeth kissed her hair and strengthened her grip. It was the very first time in her life she felt as if her sister kept a part of herself hidden away from her.

Of Bennet's daughters, it had always been Elizabeth who was mistrusting and secretive, who held her desires and most private thoughts close to her chest. The silliest, the most inconsequential observations – if she felt ashamed or overjoyed, no one was to pry them away from the privacy of her heart and use them to ridicule her. In a family of five sisters who were often pitted against each other, a mother who considered her the least favourite child and the worthiest of criticism, and a father too lazy to rein in his household, secrecy became a survival skill.

That did not mean she allowed Jane the same coping strategy.

"Out with it." She caressed her back gently. "I should know why to loathe the gentleman with all venom I possess. What happened? This is not a mere case of promises broken. You would be sad, but not in tears."

"Lizzie, nothing happened. Mr. Bingley just made his choice."

"Well, that scene in the street looked like he regretted his choice."

"I do not care." Jane sniffed. "Would you pass me the handkerchief?" Elizabeth wordlessly complied. "We did not do anything indecent; I swear. He… He kissed me, and I kissed him. When we spent those few days at Netherfield – you went out for a walk – he visited me in the guest room and had anyone walked in on us, they would have likely thought something more was going on… You returned earlier than expected." Jane smiled, her face wet. "And Charles jumped into an empty wardrobe. You noticed nothing amiss. He was stuck there for an hour."

Elizabeth stared, awestruck.

"I and Mr. Bingley… I do not care what they told him about me. I understand that Mr. Darcy wanted to protect his friend. I am not cross with him. He should not have done that – but his intentions were good. Whom I blame is Charles. The whole world could have thought me insincere and cold, but he had all the clues to know the truth. If he is so incapable of making his own opinion, well, I feel I shall give myself to a man not a boy."

. . .

Georgiana Darcy decided she rather liked early Spring London. It was far less stinky than Summer London, and less muddy than Winter London. It sure did provide her with a lovely view of cherry trees in bloom, as she settled at the window to gaze at the gardens and the cast iron gate.

She loved Pemberley better, but there was no way she could meet her cousins there. It was easier for her to drive south to visit her relatives rather than for the entire Fitzwilliam brood to move north.

A few days ago, she received a letter from her brother, informing her that he would see her at home. The news disappointed her; she parted ways with her brother the last month when he set out to visit Aunt Catherine. She was counting on him coming back to her to London before returning home together. The traitor.

Something troubled her brother. She was sure of it. He was a man of rigid habits who wrote her letters with a religious regularity. Wherever she could not follow him, he described the places in a such vivid detail she felt as if she stood by his side. The Hertfordshire letters had started in such manner before the tone switched to a far more restrained, careful one. And then he returned to Pemberley and embraced her. She could not recall him in a such mood. She tried to ask, but he only deigned to smile instead of a proper answer.

Christmas, they had spent together. They played carols together, even the sad Coventry one. She played the pianoforte, he the cello. He read her a few ghost stories before he ushered her to bed. She could not sleep though, so they spent the rest of the evening trying to play billiard. (They were both hopeless at it.) The entire Christmas she badgered him to tell her what made him so happy and sad at the same time. What made him pause in a middle of a book and stare pensively at the window.

The possibility of her brother withdrawing from her was terrifying.

Ever since that day the possibility seemed to be closer to reality every day.

She noticed a lone rider entering the gates of Fitzwilliam Mansion. For a moment she hoped her brother changed his mind. But the man's hair was several shades too light, his figure too broad, the horse too chubby. She rose from her seat, laughing with joy, her worries forgotten for the moment.

"Mrs. Annesley, Richard is here! I must see him!" she declared, already on her way. As she hasted downstairs, it occurred to her that maybe Aunt and Uncle would have liked to greet him first. But it had been ages since Georgiana had the opportunity. Due to the war on the continent, Richard had been seldom home and visiting Pemberley was an ever-rarer occurrence. Even though he was her guardian and was supposed to help her brother with her.

(She was terrified they would receive one day a letter with the tale of his stupid heroics with no Richard to tone down the pompous delivery and add bawdier details.)

She hated whenever they left, Richard and Fitzwilliam. It always summoned the memory of black crepe covering mirrors and windows, and the sight of her father's wax-pale face, the trimming of his shroud. Whenever a door closed behind them and she found herself alone in a room, she was an orphan again.

She stopped at the foot of the stairs. The hall was filled with the pale morning light. A footman was just about to take away Richard's hat and coat when she called his name. Her voice echoed among the marble walls, and she heard his chuckle.

"Thank you, John," he told the servant. And then, he turned to her. "Georgie!" He opened his arms, and nothing more needed to be said.