Page 49

It was in the second week of May that Elizabeth and Jane set out from Gracechurch Street, bound for their father's house in Hertfordshire.

The weather was fine, the journey easy, and the prospect of returning to Longbourn after so eventful a spring carried its own weight of anticipation and quiet reflection.

Upon nearing the appointed inn, where Mr. Bennet's carriage was to collect them, their attention was quickly drawn to a familiar scene—Kitty and Lydia, already in possession of the inn’s best table, presided triumphantly over a modest spread of cold meats and bread with the exuberance of generals overseeing a campaign.

"Is not this nice? Is not this an agreeable surprise?

" cried Lydia, gesturing grandly to the humble fare with all the pride of a duchess unveiling a banquet.

"And we mean to treat you all," she added with a conspiratorial giggle, "but you must lend us the money, for we have just spent ours at the shop out there. "

With a flourish, she displayed a bonnet—an unfortunate confection of ill-judged shape and garish trimmings that made even Kitty flinch.

"I do not think it is very pretty," Lydia said cheerfully, "but I thought I might as well buy it as not.

I shall pull it to pieces as soon as I get home and see if I can make it up any better. "

"Yes," thought Elizabeth, with inward irony. "Brighton and a full camp of soldiers to us, who have been quite overturned already by one poor regiment of militia and a monthly ball. What could possibly go wrong?"

As they took their places at the table, Lydia’s mirth grew unchecked.

"Now I have some news for you," she announced, bouncing in her seat like a child with a particularly juicy secret.

"What do you think? It is excellent news—capital news— and about a certain person we all used to like—until we found out what a scoundrel he was! "

Elizabeth and Jane shared a glance, and Jane quietly asked the waiter to leave them, fearing the poor man might overhear something regrettable.

"Ay, that is just like your formality and discretion," said Lydia with a grin.

"You thought the waiter must not hear, as if he cared!

I dare say he often hears worse things said than I am going to say.

Though he is an ugly fellow! I never saw such a long chin in my life.

But never mind him—listen to this! Wickham has been found out! "

Elizabeth’s heart leapt, though her expression remained guarded. "Found out? In what way?"

"Stole from the Colonel!" Lydia beamed. "Forged some IOUs and took money meant for the regiment. Isn’t it shocking?"

She said it with such glee that Elizabeth blinked.

"I thought you liked Mr. Wickham?"

"Oh, heavens, no!" cried Lydia, waving her hand airily.

"He did chase after me a little—begged me to run away with him, in fact—but I told him at once that I was no such foolish girl!

" Here she leaned back smugly, utterly content with her revised history.

"I said, 'No, Mr. Wickham, I must think of my family’s honour,' and turned him out. "

Jane coughed delicately behind her napkin, and Elizabeth, struggling between laughter and disbelief, mused silently how alike Lydia and their mother truly were. Both possessed the rare gift of rewriting events to better flatter themselves, facts be hanged.

"I said to him," Lydia continued blithely, "'if you think you can charm me with your pretty words and handsome uniform, you’re quite mistaken.' And I was right, wasn’t I? He’s a scoundrel! Oh, I am so glad I didn’t fall for him."

Elizabeth, though tempted to correct the record, said nothing. Lydia’s version would soon become gospel to their mother, who was always eager to see events in the light that best suited her own peace of mind.

As the meal continued and Lydia recounted her triumph over Wickham with increasing extravagance, Elizabeth allowed herself a small smile. Whatever the truth, and however narrowly they had escaped scandal, it seemed Wickham’s chapter in their lives was now closed.

Their reception at home was most kind. Mrs. Bennet rejoiced to see Jane in undiminished beauty, but far more than that, she could not contain her elation upon hearing that Jane had seen Mr. Bingley in town.

Her delight bubbled over in every conversation, and more than once during dinner did Mr. Bennet voluntarily address his second daughter.

"I am glad you are come back, Lizzy," he said, his voice softening in a manner that took her by surprise.

Elizabeth glanced at him, her expression thoughtful.

Since the day she had awakened to her second chance, she had spoken to her father with a frankness she would once have hesitated to show—challenging his cutting remarks, pressing him, even, to take greater care for his family before the disastrous ball at Netherfield.

He had ignored her warnings then, retreating into irony and indolence as easily as slipping into an old coat.

And so now, to hear warmth in his tone—voluntary, unbidden—it startled her more than any sharpness might have done. She answered him with a quiet smile, but inwardly she turned the moment over and over, unsure whether it marked some small awakening in him, or merely a fleeting kindness.

And so now, to hear warmth in his tone—voluntary, unbidden—it startled her more than any sharpness might have done. She answered him with a quiet smile, but inwardly she turned the moment over and over, unsure whether it marked some small awakening in him, or merely a fleeting kindness.

Her reunion with Mary, by contrast, was all she had hoped. Their shared smiles and the knowing glance they exchanged promised an evening of quiet discourse once the house had settled—a true conversation, one grounded not only in sisterly affection but in the rare and fragile trust they now shared.

Since before the Netherfield ball, when Mary had quietly confronted her, Elizabeth had known: it was Mary, not Jane, who carried the silent knowledge of her altered life.

And though she loved Jane dearly, it was Mary’s steady understanding that Elizabeth craved most in this uncertain season—a hand to hold not merely in joy, but through the shadowed places where truth and burden dwelled.

Yet such privacy must be delayed. Mrs. Bennet would not hear of any of her daughters leaving the parlour until she had heard every possible detail about Mr. Bingley from Jane.

"And how did he look, my love? Was he in good health? Did he say how long he meant to remain in town? And oh, did he speak of returning to Netherfield?" The questions came so rapidly that Jane, despite her gentle manner, could hardly answer one before the next was asked.

Lydia, who had grown sullen in her corner, suddenly straightened with a flash of irritation in her eyes.

"Well, I think Brighton shall be a far livelier scheme than all this mooning over Mr. Bingley.

Papa, you must write to Colonel Forster and secure us leave to go.

I am sure it will hardly cost a thing, and we are so dull here! "

But Mrs. Bennet, for once, was not to be diverted. Her thoughts were fixed firmly upon wedding clothes, settlements, and the joyous prospect of Netherfield being but a carriage ride away .

"Nonsense, Lydia," she said briskly, waving her hand. "We must see Jane properly settled before thinking of any such foolishness as Brighton. Mr. Bingley must be invited to dine, and we must speak to Cook about a proper feast."

Lydia's pout deepened as her mother swept her attention back to Jane, demanding a repetition of how Mr. Bingley had proposed, and whether he had inquired after Longbourn.

Elizabeth leaned back in her chair and caught Mary’s eye across the room. The quiet sparkle there comforted her more than words could. Yes—tonight, they would talk. There was much to say, much to reflect upon. And above all, Elizabeth longed for Mary's steadying thoughts.

For though her heart stirred at the memory of a certain gentleman’s dark eyes and grave voice, she had not forgotten the trials yet ahead. Tomorrow would bring its own troubles—but for tonight, she was home, and it was enough.

The creak of the floorboards, the low murmur of voices below, the comforting clatter from the kitchen—these small, familiar sounds wrapped around her like a worn shawl. The corners were fraying. But still, it warmed.

She let the hush of the evening settle over her, soothed by the rustle of Mary's pages and the gentle light of the fire. And in that stillness, hope stirred—not bright or bold, but sure.

She did not dream wildly. She did not reach too far ahead.

But she let herself believe in something quiet: that peace could be found again, that the heart could mend, and that happiness—however fragile—might still come.