Page 37 of Honor Requires

Jane paused. “No?”

“There will be no healing,” Elizabeth said. “Not in the way you mean. I shall go on, as I must, but I shall not forget him. Nor shall I seek to replace what cannot be replaced.” It was not because she wished to hold her grief—but because she did not know who she would be without it.

Jane regarded her with concern. “You are very young still.”

“And I have already known what it is to find my equal,” Elizabeth replied. “He was everything I might have wished for—and more. I shall not find such again.”

“Lizzy—”

“I shall remain as I am,” she said, her voice steadying. “It is better so. I would not accept less.”

Jane did not argue further. She knew when persuasion would only wound.

After a moment, Elizabeth rose. “There is something I wish to show you.”

Jane followed as Elizabeth crossed the room and knelt beside a small escritoire, withdrawing from within it a carefully wrapped parcel. She handled it with a gentleness that spoke of its value beyond its appearance. When she unwrapped it, a small shell lay revealed.

It rested easily within her palm, its shape delicate and perfectly formed, the hues of ivory and rose deepened by careful polishing.

“He gave it to me,” Elizabeth said, her voice trembling. “On the shore at Ramsgate.”

Jane leaned closer, her expression tender. “It is very pretty.”

“It was lodged between the rocks,” Elizabeth explained. “He saw it and thought I might like it. He said nothing of consequence—only that it was pleasing—but I have never received a gift more…considered.”

She turned it in her hand, the light catching along its smooth curve. “I have polished it since,” she added. “With oil, to bring out its color. It is a small thing, yet…”

“It is not small to you.”

“No.” Elizabeth closed her fingers gently around it. “I shall keep it always.”

She rose then and crossed to her wardrobe, opening it and reaching to the back where a small keepsake box lay hidden from casual view. She placed the shell within, her movements careful, deliberate. When she closed the lid, she lingered a moment. Then she turned away.

Mrs. Bennet’s voice carried through the house before she herself appeared, her excitement announcing her long before her person entered the room.

“My dear Mr. Bennet! Such news—such news!”

Mr. Bennet, who had been seated with a book, looked up with mild resignation.

“I tremble to hear it.”

“Netherfield Park is let at last!”

“Indeed?”

“Yes! And to a young family, I am told—quite respectable, no doubt—but what a pity, what a very great pity, that it was not taken by a young, single gentleman! It would have been the making of our family.”

Mr. Bennet inclined his head. “I shall endeavor to contain my disappointment.”

“You do not understand at all,” Mrs. Bennet pressed, pacing the room. “Five daughters—and not one advantage to be gained! Jane as beautiful as ever, and Lizzy—well—” she waved her hand. “She might have done very well for herself, had she but made proper use of her time in Ramsgate.”

Elizabeth, who had entered unnoticed, felt the words pass over her without effect.

“She returned unattached,” Mrs. Bennet went on, “and now she is worse than ever—so pale, so dull. I declare, she has quite lost her looks!”

“An alarming development,” Mr. Bennet said dryly.

“It is most distressing. Something must be done. We must go to Town for the Season. There is nothing else for it.”