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Your affectionate father,

T. Bennet

Elizabeth folded the letter before Sally could see that it had brought tears to her eyes again.

Papa would be here. She would hear his voice from behind a book, and Mama would inspect Jane, declare her too pale or too flushed, and be persuaded to sit down only after everybody else had been made to stand. Elizabeth had missed them both, though not always in the same manner.

“This ribbon, miss?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

Sally held it against the blue gown, pleased with the choice. Elizabeth had worn the gown several times since its arrival. It no longer felt too fine to belong to her, though she still took particular care with the sleeves.

The riders had returned. Mr. Ellis was satisfied with Darcy’s hand, and Darcy had joined only the first part of the morning’s ride. Sir, excluded from the party, now slept where he could observe the preparations for refreshments.

“I think we are finished,” Sally said.

Elizabeth rose and put the letter in her drawer. The music lay ready upon her desk. She had practised the difficult passage until she could no longer accuse it of surprising her. Whether she would remember this accomplishment when everybody listened was another question.

On the same desk, beneath a clean folded cloth, lay the little piece of thread she had used that morning with Mrs. Reynolds. The knot had opened as she intended. She had made it again, released it again, and put the work away before Sally came to dress her.

She took the music downstairs.

Caroline was already in the drawing room, directing a footman to move the tea table farther from the door. Jane’s chair stood where she could greet people without rising repeatedly, and a second had been left beside it for whichever lady wished to sit with her.

“Miss Eliza, will you put your music upon the stand now? We shall have little opportunity to search for it later.”

“I have brought it for that purpose.”

Caroline glanced at the folded sheet. “I hope you have had sufficient time to practise.”

“Sufficient to discover where I go wrong.”

“That is something.”

“I hope to make it less apparent to everybody else.”

Caroline turned away to speak to the footman. Elizabeth placed the music upon the stand and went to Jane. She would not permit herself to be made cross before the afternoon company arrived.

The Hursts came soon afterward. Louisa embraced Jane, admired the rooms, and looked at her sister for a report of everything which could not be asked before a servant. Mr. Hurst wished to know whether there would be something to eat before supper.

“I was afraid the journey might have diminished your patience,” Charles said, coming in behind Elizabeth.

“It has diminished a great deal more than that.”

“Then you are just in time.”

Caroline knew what her sister wished to drink without asking. She directed the Hursts’ luggage upstairs, made certain Jane had not been displaced from her comfortable chair, and turned toward the next arrivals before anyone had cause to seek her.

She was very good at this. Elizabeth could admit it more readily when Caroline did not require the admission as a tribute.

Mrs. Westcott wished to see the prospect from the terrace before the light failed. Her daughter wanted to accompany her, and Elizabeth offered to show them the nearer steps. Jane remained with Louisa and Charles while Caroline received the Landons.

The afternoon was cold but clear. In the shelter of the house they could see the altered colour of the woods, the darker line of the water, and the last leaves clinging where the branches escaped the wind. Miss Westcott stopped beside Elizabeth at the balustrade.

“You must know all the walks by now.”

“Enough of them to be sorry when the weather prevents me going out.”