Page 15

Pray write soon and tell me what Mary, Kitty, and Lydia are doing, and whether anybody has taken my chair beside your library fire. Mama will say there is no occasion for a fire in August, but you will understand me. Give my love to them all, and keep a little for yourself.

Your affectionate daughter,

Elizabeth Bennet

She read the letter over. The sentence about Mr. Darcy lending books might encourage her father to make observations she was not yet prepared to answer. She considered crossing it out, then recollected that the erasure would be considerably more interesting to him than the words.

It was the first substantial letter she had written since leaving Hertfordshire. The notes sent from the road had done little beyond assure the family that they continued to travel north without disaster. Now there was time to imagine the paper in her father’s hand, the pause he would make before reading a sentence aloud, and the parts he would keep to amuse himself. She wished she could tell him about Mr. Darcy’s reply at supper and hear what he made of it. Upon the page it would look like a quarrel. Spoken, it had nearly been a joke.

She folded the letter before trying to explain the difference.

Jane was sitting by her open window when Elizabeth went across the landing. A length of soft linen lay upon Jane’s lap, and Charles, who had been summoned to examine more particulars of the proposed house, had left a cushion so carefully arranged behind her that she dared not move it.

“You must rescue me,” Jane said. “I cannot reach my basket without undoing his work.”

Elizabeth brought the basket and lifted the linen. “This is much larger than the little gowns you were making yesterday.”

“Mama sent it with the things she had kept from our nursery,” Jane explained. “You and I both wore it. Mrs. Reynolds was here while you were writing. There is a little girl with a family on the estate who has begun to outgrow her clothes, and she thinks these larger gowns will fit her.”

Elizabeth spread the little sleeve across her hand. “Mama has kept this for more than twenty years?”

“She told me which of us had worn every one. I think she was sorry when she had finished packing them.”

“And you can bear to part with them?”

“With two gowns, Lizzy. I have kept the smallest, and more than enough besides. I should like these to be worn again.”

Elizabeth sat beside her. The gown had a loose fastening, which Jane had been replacing. Near the hem, an old mend had begun to give way.

“Let me have this when you have finished,” Elizabeth said. “A few flowers will cover that patch, and nobody need know which Miss Bennet wore it out.”

“Mama would know.”

“Then we must not ask her.”

Jane laughed and passed her the basket to choose some thread.

“Do you find that they are doing too much?” Elizabeth asked.

Jane’s needle paused. “For me?”

“Charles, Mr. Darcy. All of us.”

“Sometimes.” Jane looked up with a smile that invited Elizabeth to remain among the guilty. “It is pleasant to be cared for, Lizzy. I am only sorry when people look disappointed because I am quite well.”

Elizabeth laughed, then pressed her sister’s hand.

“I shall endeavor to be less disappointed.”

“You were rather sharp with Mr. Darcy when we arrived,” Jane said.

“I know,” Elizabeth admitted. It cost less now than it would have done two days before. “I had spent the whole afternoon listening to Caroline tell you how you ought to feel. He suffered for coming last.”

“He has been very kind.”

“He has. And he permits me to disagree about books, which I take as an encouraging sign.”

Jane gave her a look, then returned to the fastening with a discretion Elizabeth was grateful to accept.