Page 56

Elizabeth awoke with the first light of day slipping between the curtains, a soft hush upon the world. For a moment, she lay still, savoring the quiet flutter of anticipation that stirred within her. Today, Mr. Bingley would come—and perhaps, perhaps, Fitzwilliam would be with him.

Her heart quickened at the thought, bright with the kind of hope she no longer feared to feel.

It had not been explicitly promised when last they parted, only gently implied in words and glances half-spoken.

In her first life, she had not known how to read those signs—or had not cared to, pride and prejudice clouding her judgment.

She had not dared to trust in what she saw, unwilling to risk her heart on uncertain ground.

But she had learned. And now, with the memory of what had followed etched in her heart, she understood his silences and subtleties far better.

She believed she had understood him this time.

And though certainty could be a fragile thing, this morning it felt sturdier than most. Her thoughts were not anxious but expectant, like one waiting for the first note of a familiar melody.

She closed her eyes again, indulging a fleeting vision: the sound of wheels on gravel, a figure descending from the carriage, and then the door opening—quietly, unceremoniously—and there he stood.

Might she look up from her teacup and find him there, tall and grave in the threshold, the morning light catching in his dark curls?

She had dreamt as much the night before.

And though she knew better than to place faith in dreams, the thought had warmed her more than the hearth.

Rising at last, she dressed with more care than she would admit, smoothing her hair twice before pinning it back and selecting a ribbon with deliberate thought.

She descended the stairs with a lighter step than she had carried in many months.

The early sunlight dappled the hallway, and the air held a hum of gentle activity—servants moving with purpose, breakfast scents already curling through the air.

Jane was already in the breakfast parlour, her cheeks faintly pink and her blue eyes bright with a happiness that needed no words.

The room felt warmer for her presence. They shared a glance—a glance that said everything—and Elizabeth, feeling suddenly sixteen again, gave a soft laugh as she took her seat beside her sister.

"I feel as though we are young girls awaiting a fair," Elizabeth said under her breath.

Jane smiled, a soft and secret smile. "I know. It is most improper."

They were still exchanging gleeful looks when Mr. Bennet appeared, newspaper in hand, his spectacles perched upon his nose. He paused, surveying his two eldest daughters with a dry amusement.

"Well, well," he said, folding his paper with exaggerated care. "Two such radiant countenances at my breakfast table—surely the heavens themselves must be trembling."

Elizabeth, in her current spirits, found herself unbothered by her father's wit. She merely inclined her head, as if acknowledging a compliment.

"I hope, sir," she said sweetly, "that we shall not disappoint the heavens—or yourself. "

Mr. Bennet chuckled and retreated behind his paper once more.

Mrs. Bennet, already in a flurry of agitation, issued commands with all the energy of a general on the eve of battle. A footman had been sent racing to the cook barely an hour earlier, and now her instructions were repeated at increasing volume.

We must have a proper dinner tonight!” she cried.

“Fish, mind you—good fresh fish! And a capon, if one can be had! And Lydia must be fetched home immediately—Kitty, you will go into Meryton at once and bring her back. And on the way, do stop at the market and see if there is any fresh mackerel or trout to be had!”

“Yes, Mama,” Kitty said with a resigned sigh, rising from her seat. She cast a quick, uncertain glance at Elizabeth before slipping from the room. Elizabeth, catching the glance, felt a pang of pity. Poor Kitty, so often caught between sense and silliness, and always buffeted by stronger wills.

Mary sat at her usual place, composed and quiet, her hands folded neatly before her. She said nothing to interrupt her mother’s torrent of commands but once met Elizabeth’s gaze with a small, steady look of support that warmed Elizabeth more than any protestation could have done.

Breakfast was a lively affair, or rather, Mrs. Bennet’s unceasing commentary lent it the appearance of liveliness, though it left little room for reflection.

But beneath it all, Elizabeth felt the stirring of real happiness—a happiness not yet complete, but nearer now than it had been in so very long.

She glanced at Jane and found her sister looking back at her with shining eyes. Whatever the day might bring, whatever fears still trembled in the recesses of her heart, Elizabeth knew she would face them with courage—and with hope.

Mr. Bennet, having finished his modest breakfast and surveyed the growing excitement of his household with an air of good-humoured resignation, rose from his chair and folded his newspaper with a decisive snap.

“I shall be in my book room,” he announced, addressing no one in particular.

“Pray do not disturb me unless the young gentlemen arrive—or unless some fresh catastrophe strikes which cannot be borne without paternal wisdom. Though I doubt, my dear Mrs. Bennet, that even my talents could compete with five thousand a year.”

With that sally, and a slight, affectionate smile directed at Jane, Mr. Bennet departed, leaving the ladies to their bustling preparations.

Elizabeth exchanged a glance with Jane, and they both laughed softly—a sound full of the tender understanding only sisters might possess.

The morning sunlight caught the soft curve of Jane’s cheek as she rose from her place and crossed the room to Elizabeth’s side.

Without a word, she slipped her hand into her sister’s.

Mary, who had remained quietly observant throughout breakfast, now approached with modest hesitation.

Her countenance was composed, her eyes steady—but behind that composure, Elizabeth saw it: the trace of uncertainty.

Mary, who had once held Elizabeth’s confidence alone, had stepped aside in quiet loyalty, encouraging her to speak at last to Jane.

But even the wisest heart could feel the ache of being set apart.

Elizabeth, warmed by the sight of her, reached out her other hand. “Come, Mary. You must join us.”

Mary paused, just for a moment, and then took her sister’s hand with a small, almost surprised smile. It was not dramatic, but something in her stance eased. Whatever place she had feared to lose, it was still hers.

The three eldest Bennet sisters stood thus together, a quiet circle of strength and affection—linked not only by blood, but by trials borne and trials yet to come.

Finding the house too noisy with Mrs. Bennet bustling about her preparations, they slipped into the garden, grateful for the morning’s mildness.

They walked together among the budding trees, speaking easily of many things—of childhood days, of hopes, and of changes yet to come.

Elizabeth, feeling the rare comfort of true sisterhood, was grateful beyond measure for this quiet hour—and for the hand that had not let go.

As they turned the corner of the path, the three eldest Bennet sisters caught sight of Kitty returning from town, Lydia a few paces ahead.

It was clear the expedition had not ended in peace.

Lydia’s countenance was dark with petulance; her bonnet hung askew, her arms crossed, her steps sharp with indignation.

“I told Mama it was ridiculous,” Lydia was saying, loud enough for her voice to carry. “Dragging me all the way back for an engagement I wasn’t even invited to witness! I should have stayed in Meryton. At least there, people are glad to see me.”

Kitty trailed behind, head bowed, her face pinked with embarrassment.

“Besides,” Lydia went on, “I’m the one who made it amusing. That silly baker’s boy nearly fell over himself when I said Kitty was looking for a husband! You should have seen his face—Kitty near dropped her basket!”

She laughed once—sharp and careless—and turned toward the house, clearly expecting her audience to find her hilarious.

Kitty did not speak. Her eyes were downcast, her lips pressed into a thin line .

Elizabeth felt the sting of it, sharp and unwelcome. A teasing joke, said loudly enough to humiliate, and just privately enough that no one could quite correct it. Lydia had long since mastered that trick.

“Oh, go on then,” Lydia called as they reached the door, tossing her head. “Sisters and secrets and solemn looks—you can have your quiet corners. I have better things to think of than weddings and love notes.”

“Lydia, come join us,” Elizabeth said lightly. “We were speaking of nothing so grand.”

Jane offered a softer encouragement. “The tea is warm, and Mama has gone visiting—we shall be quite at our ease.”

Even Mary added, in her reserved way, “There is a little cake remaining, if you like.”

For a moment, Lydia paused. But something in her eyes hardened. “I shall not,” she snapped. “You may all play at being elegant and wise. I am not a child to be shushed and shut away.”

And with that, she flounced up the stairs, her steps ringing against the floorboards.

A quiet moment passed.

“It was unkind,” Mary said, her voice low.

Elizabeth turned. “What was?”

Mary’s eyes remained on the stairwell. “To humiliate her. To turn her into a jest she didn’t choose to be part of.”

Jane, ever gentle, had already risen and taken a step toward Kitty, who lingered near the threshold. But when she saw Kitty’s averted gaze and stiff posture, she hesitated. Her hand dropped softly to her side.

Mary stood instead. She said nothing to Kitty, only moved a cup aside and shifted to make room on the settee.