Page 25

As the door clicked softly shut, Jane perched on the arm of the chair closest to Elizabeth. “Kitty and Lydia are still upstairs with Mama, trying to decide whether your ankle was injured in a rescue or a duel. Lydia is certain there must have been a duel.”

“I am disappointed they do not suspect pirates.”

“Oh, that was last week.”

Elizabeth laughed, the sound soft but sincere. “I had forgotten how ridiculous it is here. I had missed it.”

Jane brushed a curl from her sister’s forehead. “You’re home now.”

And even as Hill returned with a tray of broth and toast, even as the clatter of voices resumed faintly from the hallway beyond, Elizabeth allowed herself to believe it.

She was home.

Elizabeth had only just begun to settle into the familiar stillness of home when her father stepped into the sitting room. He paused in the doorway, eyes resting on her-not searching for injury, exactly, but taking in the pale face, the walking stick by the hearth, the cushion beneath her foot.

“You are home,” he said simply.

She looked up. “I am.”

Mr Bennet nodded, and crossed the room to take the armchair opposite hers. For a moment, he only sat there, fingers steepled, gaze thoughtful.

“I am very glad to see you, Lizzy.”

The words were quiet. Undramatic. But they landed with weight.

Elizabeth’s throat tightened unexpectedly. “And I to be here.”

“I cannot say I much enjoyed receiving letters written by other people on your behalf,” he added. “Though I am told your handwriting was abominable under the influence of laudanum.”

“That is a gross exaggeration,” she murmured.

“Not according to Jane.”

That earned a small smile from her, and they let the silence settle again. The fire snapped softly, the autumn light slipping in through the windows at an angle she knew too well.

“I do not mean to hover,” Mr Bennet said at last. “But I did think-since you have escaped death by coach wheel-it was only fair to warn you that you may now be subjected to Mr Collins.”

Elizabeth raised an eyebrow.

He held up the letter. “He writes at length. And arrives by four.”

“I suppose we cannot avoid all misfortunes.”

Her father’s mouth twitched. “Not unless you can be persuaded to go back to bed and feign relapse.”

“Tempting,” Elizabeth said. “But I am afraid it’s rather late for that.”

Mr Bennet leaned back in his chair. “Then I suppose we must face him together.”

They did not speak of the accident further. He did not ask what she remembered, or what had frightened her most. But as he rose, he paused-just a moment-and reached out to rest a hand lightly on her shoulder.

“I am glad you are back, Lizzy. And more than that-you stayed.”

Elizabeth looked up, and to her quiet astonishment, she saw him brush a hand-almost carelessly-beneath one eye.

“Enough of that,” he said briskly, turning toward the hearth. “We have a more immediate threat to address.”

He reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a folded letter. “You are, I hope, sitting comfortably. Your cousin Mr Collins is in full command of his pen.”

Elizabeth accepted the letter with caution, as though it might prove combustible.

He cleared his throat and began in a dry, deliberate voice:

“Dear Sir,–

The disagreement subsisting between yourself and my late honoured father always gave me much uneasiness…”

He read on with his usual irony, though Elizabeth noted that his tone softened when quoting the lines about “the circumstance of my being next in the entail of Longbourn estate…” and “shall probably trespass on your hospitality till the Saturday se’ennight following…”

By the time he reached “I remain, dear sir, with respectful compliments…” Elizabeth was leaning her head back against the chair and pinching the bridge of her nose.

“I daresay,” Mr Bennet remarked as he folded the letter, “he will be as odious in person as he is on paper. Possibly more so.”

“I cannot imagine,” Elizabeth said faintly.

“You will not have to. He arrives by four.”

He tucked the letter away. “Rest while you can, my dear. I suspect the house will be considerably less peaceful before long. ”

And with a final glance-something like affection in his eyes-he left her to it.

Elizabeth remained still after the door had closed behind her father, the hush of the room settling again like dust. The letter lay folded in her lap, its absurdities echoing faintly in her mind-Lady Catherine, the olive-branch, the trespass until Saturday se’ennight.

She could not decide whether to laugh or sigh.

Four o’clock.

She looked toward the window, where the November light was already beginning to soften into amber. Soon, their cousin-this pompous emissary from the future of Longbourn-would arrive with all the awkwardness of duty dressed as goodwill. And she would have to receive him.

A soft knock broke the silence.

Jane stepped in with her usual quiet grace. “I passed Papa on the stairs,” she said gently. “How are you feeling?”

Elizabeth gave a half-smile. “Like someone about to be congratulated on her excellent prospects.”

Jane arched a brow, amused. “Mr Collins, I presume?”

Elizabeth gestured toward the letter still resting on her lap. “He read it aloud. It was… a masterpiece. I daresay I shall treasure it always.”

“I should very much like to hear it.”

“You shall. Perhaps more than once.”

There was a pause. Then Jane tilted her head, eyes kind. “Shall I help you up? Mama insists we must greet him properly.”

Elizabeth sighed but nodded. “I suppose it would be rude to meet the future master of Longbourn in a dressing gown.”

Jane moved to her side and offered a hand. With care and quiet coordination, she helped Elizabeth rise and retrieve her walking stick. Elizabeth straightened slowly, bracing herself with one hand on the arm of the chair, the other gripping Jane’s fingers.

“You’re sure?” Jane asked softly.

“I am sure,” Elizabeth replied, though her heart gave a slight flutter-whether at the prospect of walking or at the impending performance, she could not say.

Together, they moved toward the door.