Already Decided
Elizabeth woke with the edge of the mattress against her shoulder, the narrowness of the bed reminding her at once of its limits.
At Pemberley she had slept in a wide and generous bed, the linen cool and ample, the house seeming to have room to spare.
Here, the narrow mattress returned her to herself at once.
Across the small space between them, Jane slept quietly, her face turned towards the window.
At Longbourn they had each possessed their own chamber, and Elizabeth had once valued the independence of it.
Yet since the fire and the shifting of houses, the nearness of her sister had grown familiar.
The sound of Jane’s breathing in the dark no longer startled her. It steadied her.
She lay still a moment longer, watching the light strengthen at the edge of the curtain.
The room was small, but it was theirs; the washstand stood where she had chosen it, her trunk beneath the window, Jane’s shawl folded with habitual neatness over the back of a chair.
Nothing here was grand; it was plain, serviceable, and theirs.
At Pemberley she had woken each morning aware of being a guest in ordered abundance. Here, she woke to the knowledge that the day would ask something of her. The cottage did not run of its own accord. It waited for hands.
Jane stirred and opened her eyes, blinking once as the light found her.
“Did you sleep, Lizzy?” she asked softly, careful not to carry her voice beyond the room.
Elizabeth smiled because Jane’s concern was as steady as her kindness.
“I did,” Elizabeth whispered, though she was not certain it was true.
From below came the faint clatter of a pail and the scrape of a chair upon stone. Susan was already awake, moving about the kitchen.
“That is earlier than usual,” Jane murmured.
Elizabeth’s fingers stilled on her ribbon. “Do you think she feels guilty?”
Jane hesitated, then said softly, “We must reassure her.”
Elizabeth’s hand paused on her ribbon. “That no one blames her.”
Jane nodded once. “Before Mama speaks, and before Susan convinces herself of what we have never thought.”
“She drew a slow breath. ‘Then we go down at once,’ she said, and began to dress with more speed than care, hoping haste might undo a fear that had taken root.”
The kitchen smelled of baking bread, and the kettle sang upon the hob.
Susan moved about with quick, careful steps, setting cups upon a tray as though she could not bear to be idle.
Pudding sat squarely in the warmest patch of hearth, her tail tucked about her paws, watching it all with solemn approval.
Susan started when Elizabeth entered and curtsied at once, too deep for so small a greeting.
Elizabeth crossed straight to the tray. “Give it to me,” she said, as though it were the most natural thing in the world.
Susan’s hands tightened on the handles. “Miss—”
“Let us,” Jane added gently, already taking the cloth from Susan’s arm. “You have been up long before us.”
Susan’s eyes flicked towards the door, and back again. “I only meant—there is so much to be done.”
Elizabeth set the cups down upon the table with deliberate care. “And it will be done,” she said quietly. “Susan—look at me.”
After a little hesitation, Susan did. They spoke as simply as they could: that no one blamed her for what had happened, that fear and accident were not the same as fault, and that if she had carried any burden in her mind since that night, she must put it down.
Susan listened with her head bowed, her fingers worrying the edge of her apron. When she looked up at last, her eyes were bright, but her shoulders had eased, and the cottage itself seemed a little lighter for it.
Susan rose at last, murmured something that might have been thanks, and slipped out through the back passage. A moment later came the sound of a little door opening and shutting, and then the soft splash of water, as though she meant to set herself to rights where no one might see.
Jane went at once to the tray and lifted it herself. “We shall carry it in,” she said, as though it were nothing remarkable.
The kettle had boiled itself to a steady murmur, and Elizabeth measured tea into the pot with care, setting it aside to steep.
The oven door was warm beneath her hand.
She drew it open a little and felt the breath of heat upon her face, and the promise of bread not far from being ready.
On the shelf beside it stood jars of jam, and Elizabeth paused in spite of herself.
There were more pots than there ought to have been, set in a neat row with the ease of long belonging, and among them she recognised the same bright preserve she had eaten only the day before at Pemberley.
Mary appeared in the doorway soon after, already neat and composed. “Where is Susan?” she asked, in the tone of one noting an item missing from her list.
“She will be back in a moment,” Elizabeth said, selecting one of the jars.
Mary’s eyes followed the movement. “We did not bring those,” she observed.
“No.” Elizabeth set it down again with care. “It appears we have been provided for.”
Jane passed by with the tray, and Elizabeth heard the faintest pause in her step, for Jane too had seen. She went on without comment.
The oven gave off a steady heat, and when Elizabeth opened the door a crack the scent rose richer than before. The crust had coloured, and the loaf had begun to sound hollow when she tapped it lightly. Not long now.
She set the pot and cups upon the tray, and poured Susan’s tea first, a small mercy made practical. Then she carried everything through to the parlour and set it down upon the table where Jane and Mary were waiting.
Only then did Elizabeth return to the kitchen. The loaf was done. She drew it out with the cloth folded thick in her hand and set it upon the board, the crust cracking as it began to cool.
Elizabeth left it there, for there was no cutting bread properly while it still breathed heat. She wiped her hands, then went to the back door and looked out.
The garden had darkened. A fine rain had begun to fall, soft at first and then steadier, taking the dust from the leaves and laying a sheen upon the path.
The hedge beyond blurred at its edges, and the air had that sudden, clean smell which promised there would be no walking this morning, however Lydia might protest.
They drank their tea while the loaf cooled upon the board.
The rain whispered steadily at the panes, and the parlour held a quiet that felt almost earned.
Jane sat with her hands folded about her cup, her face composed; Mary watched the surface of her tea as though she might find order there.
Elizabeth sipped and listened to the familiar sounds returning to the cottage, the small creaks and settling wood, as though even a few days of absence had been enough to make the rooms feel strange.
Then the door opened, and the quiet was gone.
Kitty came in first, smoothing her sleeve with the look of someone who had risen in haste. Lydia followed close behind and went at once to the window, pressing her fingers to the pane.
“Oh, it is raining in earnest,” Lydia cried. “Do you think it will clear? It cannot mean to last all morning.”
Mary lifted her eyes from her cup. “If it has begun so early,” she said, with calm certainty, “it will likely continue. We may hope for a break, but we ought not to plan upon it.”
Lydia made a face, still watching the grey blur of the garden. “Then what am I to do?” she demanded. “At the Hardings’ I rode every day. Cobweb knew my voice as well as any creature can, and now I am to sit indoors because it rains.”
Kitty, who had been hovering near the table, spoke up at once. “Mrs Harding said she must be spared now,” she put in, eager to display her knowledge. “Because she is so near her time.”
Lydia’s reply came at once, full of injured importance. “As though I do not know that. But that is precisely it. I ought to be there. She is accustomed to me.”
Kitty brightened. “And Cassandra said I might use her watercolours again,” she added, as though this were an equal comfort. “If it rains, it need not be wasted. We could go to Highfield all the same.”
Lydia’s eyes lit. “Yes—of course we can. I need not ride to see Cobweb. I can go to the stables. I should like to see whether she is well.”
Kitty nodded, pleased to have proposed something. “I can paint,” she said, already imagining herself accomplished.
Jane looked up from her cup. “Did you enjoy your stay with the Hardings?” she asked, as gently as though she meant the question for comfort rather than gossip.
“Oh, excessively,” Lydia replied at once. “There is always something doing there.”
Kitty added, more breathlessly, “Mrs Harding was so kind, and Cassandra showed me everything. There are drawers full of paints, and proper paper, and Miss Clark said I had a very good hand for it.”
Between Lydia’s complaints and Kitty’s eager accounts, the shape of those days began to settle in Elizabeth’s mind.
The Hardings had indulged the younger girls in every small novelty a larger household could offer: horses to admire, rooms to wander through, attentions paid as though their feelings were of consequence.
Lydia had been fed on freedom and movement; Kitty on praise and new occupations.
Even their language had altered, edged with “Cassandra said” and “Mrs Harding does,” as though Highfield were the measure of all comfort now.
Elizabeth listened, and felt the familiar apprehension return. The cottage was theirs again, but so were the expectations that came with it.
Mrs Bennet arrived in the parlour with the air of a person whose opinion the house could not proceed without. She came in carrying fatigue oddly upon a woman who had been exceedingly well attended, and took her place at once.