Page 74 of A Debt Inherited

Everyone laughed. Kitty embraced Elizabeth’s neck and squeezed. Elizabeth patted Kitty’s arm.

Kitty’s seam done, Elizabeth turned, testing the sleeve with a small lift of her arm. “Good. You will make a capital dresser when your time comes.”

“I would rather have a capital officer,” Kitty said under her breath.

“Then learn a capital truth,” Elizabeth replied, still mild. “A militia officer’s pay would not keep pins in that basket. If you mean to be bent upon a red coat, you must learn to bear a light purse as well as admire a bright button.”

Lydia clicked her tongue. “La, Lizzy, you make romance a very poor bargain.”

Jane re-tied the smallest ribbon at Elizabeth’s shoulder. “There. You are very pretty, Lizzy.”

“I shall endure it,” Elizabeth said. “To please you.”

Mrs Bennet’s voice floated through the door. “Mrs Hill, the carriage should be called in ten minutes, if you please. I would have the girls make their entrance when the room is at its brightest.”

Kitty folded her hands with exaggerated virtue. “There—perfectly still.”

Elizabeth smiled. “Then keep that perfection till we reach the carriage.”

“I shall try,” Kitty said, half sincere, half mischief. She giggled; even Lydia submitted to laughter. The room settled into readiness: pins returned to their saucer, ribbons to their ranks, shawls found their precise fall.

“Downstairs,” Elizabeth said, “before Mama declares herself abandoned.”

Jane led them into the passage with the quiet that made way for everyone else; Elizabeth followed; Lydia and Kitty came after, bearing fans and gloves like camp-followers too cheerful for apology. At the turn, the parlour door stood open; Mrs Bennet was already upon her sofa, radiant, her cap and lace in perfect harmony.

“There you are, my beauties! Jane—perfect—oh, my heart! Lizzy, your hair frames your face in such a lovely manner.” She rose. “Kitty, Lydia, you have done your sisters proud.”

Kitty blushed; Lydia looked as if praise were no more than her due.

Mrs Bennet looked to the door. “Where is Mr Bennet?”

“He is told, madam,” Hill said, and draped a thin gossamer shawl upon Mrs Bennet’s shoulders.

Elizabeth set her fan upon the table, crossed the hall, and paused at the study door. The house sounded different here: less lace, more hush. She lifted her hand and knocked—twice, discreetly—the signal that had been hers since childhood.

She slipped within; her father stood ready, stick in hand, the temper of the room about him like a familiar coat. She took his arm.

“We shall be late if you do not come now,” she said, amusement held carefully behind good sense. “The blue ribbon with the edge is found ,and not one of our girls was burned.”

“That is gratifying,” he said. “I had prepared a sermon against fire.”

“Will you preach it in the carriage, Papa?” Elizabeth asked.

“If the congregation misbehaves.”

She lifted an eyebrow. “Then we are all in danger.”

Chapter 28

Meryton, October 1811

The room above the bootmaker’s shop held the smell of polish and damp leather. Coats hung from a single nail; the washstand doubled as a table. Wickham’s laugh filled the narrow space.

“Come, Kerr! The evening awaits us. The town’s abuzz with talk of pretty women, and we the chosen heroes to oblige them.”

Kerr tightened the strap of his sword-belt. “Heroes are made after battle, not before it.”

“That depends who writes the account.” Wickham fastened his sash with a flourish. “I intend to give them something worth remembering.”