Chapter 15
Tarts the light came earlier; and even Mrs Bennet, though still governed by fatigue and nerves, had regained enough habit to insist upon knowing what was lacking before anyone else discovered it.
It was the maid, Susan, who mentioned the flour, with the apologetic seriousness of someone confessing a fault.
“Only enough for two loaves, ma’am,” she said. “And Mrs Bennet asked after seed-cake yesterday.”
They might have settled the matter at once if a light rap had not sounded at the back door.
Susan went out and returned with a folded note and a small basket of odds and ends, announcing with quiet satisfaction that Nora had come from Highfield.
Nora herself hovered just inside the threshold, cheeks pink from the walk and eyes bright with purpose, and set a second basket on the table as though it contained something of consequence.
The cloth slipped aside to reveal a plate of small jam tarts, still faintly warm, and the scent of butter and fruit followed her into the room.
“Mrs Harding sends these,” she said, with a pleased little emphasis, “and she says Miss Bennet is not to be proud about accepting help, because it is only neighbourly.”
Then, remembering the part of her visit that mattered most to her, she turned to Susan and added in a lower voice, “And I have written down what you asked, about stretching flour when it is coarse. I can show you next time.”
Lydia, who had been lingering near the window with the air of someone waiting for the world to amuse her, appeared at once at the sight of the second basket.
Kitty followed more slowly, determined to appear as though she had not been listening, though her eyes went immediately to the plate beneath the cloth.
“Is that sweet?” Lydia demanded, reaching without ceremony. “Mrs Harding never sends anything without sending something to make it worth receiving. Nora, is it jam? Is it tarts? Tell me it is tarts!”
Kitty leaned closer, hopeful. “We did not have any yesterday. Susan said the preserves must be kept.”
Lydia made a sound of scorn. “Susan would keep preserves for our funerals. Lizzy, may we have one? Only one. We shall be perfectly moderate.”
Elizabeth’s hand came down gently over the cloth before Lydia could whisk it away.
“You may share one,” she said, calm as a judge and twice as immovable, “and you may do it properly, with plates, and without devouring half the basket while Nora is still in the room. The rest we shall keep for later, when Mama is awake and Jane is with us, and we may all have one together.”
Lydia’s face fell into theatrical misery. “Later,” she repeated, as if Elizabeth had sentenced her to starvation. “You speak of later as though it were a mercy.”
“It is a mercy,” Elizabeth returned. “It teaches patience.”
Kitty, who had already begun to look resigned, brightened a little.
“Truly, Lizzy. We may all have one?”
“Yes,” Elizabeth said, and her tone softened by a fraction. “All of us. Which is the point.”
Mary entered at that moment, her book in hand, apparently drawn by the faintest stir of excitement and prepared to restore order by the sheer weight of principle. Her gaze went first to Lydia’s disappointed countenance, then to Kitty’s hopeful one, and at last to the covered plate upon the table.
“Something has occurred,” she observed, with the grave satisfaction of being correct.
“Only the arrival of neighbourly benevolence,” Elizabeth said, and lifted the cloth just enough for Mary to see the edge of the tarts. “You may tell yourself it is a lesson in gratitude if it helps you to enjoy it.”
Mary’s mouth tightened, not quite disapproving. “Gratitude ought not to require pastry.”
“It often does,” Elizabeth replied. “And while we are practising virtue, I must go into Lambton for flour. We have barely enough for two loaves.”
Mary looked at once more practical than Lydia had ever managed. “Then you must go today. Susan cannot bake without it, and Mama will fret if there is no bread.”
“Yes,” Elizabeth said, pleased to have one ally who understood necessity. “And you may keep Lydia from convincing herself that a tart is a substitute for dinner.”
Elizabeth took up her basket at once, unwilling to let delay invite argument.
“Susan,” she said, “put the tarts out of Lydia’s reach, and do not be persuaded by any claims of faintness. One between them, as I said, and the rest kept for later.”
Lydia opened her mouth to protest; Mary, with quiet efficiency, closed the cloth again and drew the plate a little farther back without appearing to notice Lydia at all.
Elizabeth went upstairs for her bonnet and gloves. Jane was in the small bedchamber they shared, folding linen with the unhurried care that made every plain task seem gentle. She glanced up as Elizabeth entered, her expression already understanding.
“I am going into Lambton,” Elizabeth said, reaching for her pelisse. “We are low on flour.”
Jane’s hands paused. “Shall I come with you?”
“No,” Elizabeth replied, “not today. Mama is steadier in the morning, but she will be tired later, and I would rather you were here when she begins to feel it.”
Jane nodded, accepting the decision without offence. “Then take the longer road back, if you can. It will do you good.”
Elizabeth smiled faintly as she pinned her bonnet. “It will do me good to return with flour and without my sisters attached to my sleeve.”
Jane’s smile warmed. “That will be an accomplishment worthy of celebration.”
“At the very least,” Elizabeth said, tying her ribbons with decisive neatness, “it will earn me a tart.”
Elizabeth went back downstairs with her basket in hand and found Susan lingering by the table, reluctant to abandon the tarts to their fate.
“Before I go,” Elizabeth said, lowering her voice a little, “is there anything else wanted from Lambton — tea, soap, candles?”
Susan looked relieved to be asked and opened her mouth to answer, but Lydia cut across her at once, sweeping into the room with all the urgency of a person whose happiness depended upon immediate motion.
“If you are going, then we are going,” she declared, already reaching for her own bonnet as though the matter were settled by the force of her intention.
“You are not,” Elizabeth replied, still calm.
Mary, who had been arranging the covered plate with quiet purpose, lifted her head and spoke before Lydia could gather fresh momentum.
“Not after last time,” she said.
“We require flour,” Elizabeth said, “not frippery.”
“And candles,” Mary added. “Which Lydia failed to procure the last time, though she returned extremely well provided with ribbon.”
“We did mean to buy candles,” Kitty protested. “But the milliner had a bonnet that was very nearly reduced.”
“Candles are reduced every time they are lit,” Mary replied.
Elizabeth did not argue further. Lydia had already begun to look for fresh objections, and Elizabeth had learnt that Lydia’s objections were like nettles: the more attention one gave them, the more they multiplied.
She took up her basket, drew on her gloves, and went to the front door.
As she opened it, she found Mr Ashton upon the step, his hand raised, plainly on the point of knocking, and his expression shifting at once into easy apology.
“Miss Elizabeth,” he said, with a smile that suggested the interruption was a pleasure. “I fear I have arrived at the very moment you are departing.”
“I was,” Elizabeth replied, stepping back to give him room if he wished to enter, though she did not quite relinquish her hold upon the door.
“Only as far as the village. We have discovered that flour disappears with astonishing speed when one has younger sisters and a mother who remembers seed-cake.”
Mr Ashton’s smile deepened, and he glanced at the basket, taking it as confirmation of what her words suggested.
“Then you must allow me to attend you,” he said lightly. “I was walking this way already, and it is no hardship to lengthen my steps as far as Lambton.”
Elizabeth hesitated only a moment, for it was difficult to refuse an offer made so easily, and yet to accept it felt like yielding ground she had not intended to yield.
“It is only as far as the shops,” she said, adjusting the basket in her hand. “I shall not be carried off upon the road.”
“No,” Mr Ashton returned, with a look that invited her to treat the matter as perfectly ordinary, “but you may be delayed, and I should rather be useful than merely polite.”
He stepped back to give her room as she came out, then fell into pace beside her, as if they had arranged it the day before.
Elizabeth became at once aware of what his presence implied, not because he took any liberties, but because he must have crossed the whole village to reach the cottage, and would now walk back through it again for no reason at all unless he chose the reason.
At the first turning the road ran away towards Pemberley and the neighbouring estates, broad and open, and Mr Ashton’s eyes went there briefly before he turned, without comment, towards Lambton’s centre.
“Willowbank is the other way,” Elizabeth asked with interest. “Unless you have taken to calling at Highfield without warning, it is an uncommonly long walk to find yourself at our gate.”
Mr Ashton’s expression did not change, yet something in it steadied, like a man setting a cup down more carefully than usual.
“Highfield was not the object of my morning,” he said, pleasant enough. “I called on my cousin who lives beyond the lane.”
Elizabeth’s brows lifted. “Another cousin,” she repeated, keeping her tone light. “I did not know you had relations nearby, beyond the Hardings.”