Quiet Preparations #2
Elizabeth did not reply at once, but she met Mary’s eyes and gave a small, almost imperceptible nod.
The market square was growing more crowded. Villagers stood in small clusters, watching the lane that led to the magistrate’s office. The door remained shut. The silence was heavier than the sun.
“I wonder,” Jane said, “if the committee already knows which names they will draw.”
Elizabeth followed her gaze. “So do I.”
They parted in the square, each sister walking a different path.
Jane turned toward the church with steady steps, her bonnet already slipping slightly in the wind.
Mary made her way briskly to the vestry, her folded sheet of paper tucked beneath one arm.
Elizabeth stood for a moment, watching them both, then turned and moved through the market with Jane’s list in hand, though she had little mind for errands.
The stalls were busy, but no one lingered. Greetings were quiet and brief. At the draper’s, the woman behind the counter did not look up from her account book. Elizabeth asked for ribbon and was handed a bundle without a word.
Elizabeth left the market later than she had intended. The errands were completed with little thought, the basket at her side filled with odds and ends from Jane’s list, though she scarcely remembered what she had asked for.
The lane leading out of Meryton was quieter now. Afternoon heat still lingered, but a breeze had begun to stir the hedgerows, carrying with it the dry scent of hay and dust. Elizabeth walked alone; her mind too full to notice the fatigue in her legs.
Halfway between the town and Longbourn, she heard footsteps behind her. She turned, expecting to see a farmhand or perhaps a neighbour.
It was William.
He caught up quickly, falling into step beside her. “I did not expect to find you walking alone,” he said.
“I had some errands to finish,” she replied. “Jane is at the church, and Mary had her own business.”
“I see.” He glanced at the basket, then at her face. “You do not look as though you have spent the morning with ribbons and preserves.”
Elizabeth gave a faint smile. “No. I have not.”
They walked in silence for a moment, their footsteps muffled on the packed earth. Birds called in the distance, and the wind rustled through the barley fields.
“I take it you have heard the news,” she said at last.
“I have. Your father received the same notice as mine. The lists are coming.”
She nodded.
“I thought you might already have made up your mind about something,” he said.
She looked at him. “Why would you think that?”
“Because you always do, Lizzy.”
She did not answer, and they continued quietly until Longbourn came into view.
As they reached the gate, he slowed. “Will you tell me what you are thinking?”
Elizabeth rested her hand on the latch. “Not yet.”
“I hope you will,” he said.
“I may,” she replied. “When it matters.”
She pushed open the gate and walked up the path. William remained where he was, watching her go.
* * *
Dinner had been an almost silent affair and the family had all retired early that night.
Jane had fallen asleep almost as soon as her head touched the pillow. Her breathing was soft and even, undisturbed by the flickering light of the candle across the room. Outside, the night was still. Longbourn seemed to sleep as one.
Elizabeth sat at the writing desk; her shawl drawn close around her. The candle beside her burned low, its wax pooling at the base. Her journal lay open, the nib of her pen paused above the page.
She had written the first words quickly, without hesitation.
Name. Papers. Uniform. Route. Excuse.
Now her pen slowed.
She added:
Riding. Shooting. Eating. Speaking. Letters home.
The ink glistened wet on the page.
She could not ride, not as they would expect. Her few attempts had been with a gentle mare and a side-saddle, never alone, never at speed. The thought of sitting astride, sword or musket in hand, made her palms sweat.
She had never handled a weapon. She did not know how to clean one, load one, aim or fire. Would they train her? Would they assume she already knew?
Her voice, too, might betray her. It was not high, but it lacked the roughness and weight that came so easily to the men in town. And if someone asked her to write to her family, to his family, what could she possibly say?
She rested her pen and looked again at the page.
And still, what frightened her more was everything she had not written. The things she did not know she did not know. The way men sat, stood, spat, drank. The invisible rules they followed without thinking. The spaces they occupied without question.
She tapped the page with her fingertip.
What else? she wrote in the margin. What am I missing?
There was no answer.
At the bottom of the page, she drew a steady line and wrote, with care:
I will learn.
She stared at the final line for a moment longer, her fingers still resting on the pen. The candle beside her had burned low, its light casting a soft, golden pool over the page.
Then she heard it.
A gentle tapping at the window.
Elizabeth froze. The curtain stirred faintly. Another tap, slightly firmer this time.
She rose slowly, crossing to the sill in bare feet. Her fingers parted the fabric.
William’s face appeared on the other side of the glass, pale in the moonlight, eyes wide with apology and urgency. He gave a small, lopsided smile and gestured toward the latch.
Elizabeth hesitated only a moment before lifting the window.
He climbed in lightly, boots silent against the rug, and straightened. His hair was tousled, his coat unbuttoned. A night breeze followed him into the room.
“Lizzy,” he whispered. “I am sorry. I should not have come like this. But I had to speak to you.”
She stared at him, heart still racing. “You might have waited until morning.”
“I tried,” he said, his voice low. “I sat through supper and cards with my mother and Maria. I even went to bed. But I could not sleep. Not after today.”
Elizabeth stepped back, allowing him space, though she kept her voice hushed. “And what did today reveal that could not wait until dawn?”
William glanced at Jane, still sleeping soundly in the bed, then back at her. His expression had shifted, still warm, still familiar, but more serious than before.
“You know perfectly well,” he said. “You are planning something. I can see it in your face.”
She did not answer.
Instead, she crossed back to the desk, picked up the journal, and held it against her chest.
William looked at her for a long moment. “It is you, is it not? You mean to go in your father’s place.”
Elizabeth did not deny it.
She sat at the edge of the bed, coat still lying folded beside her, and met his gaze squarely.
“I will not let them come here with a list and find us wanting,” she said. “I will not sit and sew while others bleed. And I will not let Papa be shamed, or cornered, or made a symbol for something he cannot do.”
William remained still, the silence between them thick with unspoken things.
At last, he nodded once. “Then tell me what you need.”
Elizabeth stared at him. “Tell you what I need?”
William nodded. “Whatever you are planning, the papers, all of it, you should not do it alone.”
Her hands tightened around the journal. “I do not want your help out of pity.”
“This is not pity,” he said, stepping closer. “This is solidarity.”
She gave a half-laugh, quiet and dry. “You mean to say you understand what I am doing?”
“I do. Because I plan to do the same.”
Elizabeth looked up sharply.
William’s voice was quiet, but steady. “I will not wait to be chosen. I have no claim of exemption. No family to stand for me. I would rather step forward myself than wait for my name to be pulled from a box.”
She stared at him for a long time, caught between admiration and alarm. “You mean to volunteer?”
William nodded once. “Before the week is out. I have three brothers at home, all younger than me. If I do not step forward, one of them will be taken. Henry, Robert, Little Andrew.”
He paused. “I can bear it better than they can.”
Elizabeth’s breath caught. For a moment she saw not the boy she had grown up besides, but the man he had quietly become. Not brave for show, but brave for others.
“I am sorry,” she said.
He shook his head. “Do not be. I am not.”
She hesitated, then said, “Then we go together.”
William turned to face her fully. “Lizzy…”
“You said you would not wait to be called. Nor will I. We both have reasons. We both have people to protect.”
“And if they discover you?”
“Then let them. But I would rather stand and be sent home than never try at all.”
They stood in silence, the air between them full of uncertainty and understanding. On the bed lay her father’s coat. On the desk, her careful list. And in the corner, the candle guttered low in its dish.
“Then we must go soon,” William said. “Before the committee finishes its count.”
Elizabeth nodded. “Tomorrow. Or the next day.”
“I will meet you by the old stone bridge,” he said. “Just after dawn.”
She gave him a faint, resolute smile. “I will be there.”
William stepped back toward the window. “Get some sleep,” he murmured. “You will need it.”
Then he was gone, the curtains stirring faintly in his wake.
Elizabeth stood alone for a moment, then turned back to the coat on the bed.
She ran her fingers once more along the worn edge of the sleeve, then gently folded it over.
Tomorrow, everything would begin.
* * *
Elizabeth woke before the rest of the house stirred, shawl wrapped tight against the dawn chill as she walked to the old stone bridge where she would meet William the next morning.
The grass along the path was damp, and a fine mist clung to the hedgerows.
She carried a bundle wrapped in brown cloth: the coat, her writing, a plain shirt stolen from the back of the linen press.
The bridge came into view between the trees, its stones slick with dew. William was already there, perched on the low wall, a satchel at his side and a look of cautious purpose on his face.
“You are early,” she said.
“So are you.”
They stood for a moment in shared quiet.
Then William opened the satchel. “I brought a few things. A pair of breeches, Henry’s old ones. Shirt. Waistcoat. A shaving kit, though I doubt you will need it.” His smile flickered. “And boots. They are a little worn, but they will serve. Better than walking into camp in petticoats.”
Elizabeth laid her own bundle beside his. “I practised tying my hair back last night. I would rather not cut it, if I do not have to.”
William handed her a faded cravat. “You will want to learn how to knot this, too. Sloppily, mind. If you do it too neatly, they will think it odd.”
She raised a brow. “Are you implying I have spent too long learning how to look tidy?”
“I am saying you have never had to roll your own stockings in a ditch.” He softened. “Yet.”
They sat on the wall, spreading the clothes between them. William held up the breeches thoughtfully. “You may need to take them in. I forget how thin you are.”
“I prefer ‘slight,’ thank you.”
“Slight will not help you with a musket,” he said. “But posture will. Keep your shoulders loose. Do not walk too quickly. Do not flinch when someone swears.”
“Should I swear back?”
“Only if it is convincing.”
Elizabeth laughed, then grew quiet again. “There are so many things I do not know. Things no one ever taught me. Not just the drills, the other parts. The way men look at each other. Speak. Eat. Sit.”
He nodded. “There are things you will learn in time. And others that will not matter if you carry yourself with confidence.”
She looked down at the worn boots. “Do you really think I can pass?”
“I think you have more grit than any man I know.” William met her gaze. “And if anyone can do this, Lizzy, it is you.”
A moment passed.
“We will need to leave soon,” he said. “Two days, perhaps. If we delay too long, the committee will have names, and it will be too late to choose for ourselves.”
Elizabeth nodded. “Tomorrow evening, then. After supper.”
“Pack light. Bring only what you can carry on your back. We will take the north road. There is a camp forming near Baldham Heath.”
“Is that where you gave your name?”
William shook his head. “Not yet. I spoke to the sergeant, said I was thinking of joining. He told me they take men who come knocking of their own accord.”
Elizabeth squared her shoulders. “Then knock we shall.”
William’s smile was brief but steady. “And God willing, walk back out one day.”
For a moment he only watched her, the mist curling around her cloak. There was something unreadable in his gaze, not surprise, nor fear, but a kind of quiet sorrow, as though he saw more than she meant to show.
“You have changed, Lizzy,” he said softly. “Though perhaps you have only become more yourself.”
She tried to smile. “Then you must share the blame, for you have helped me often enough.”
His answering smile was faint but fond. “Since we were children, I have done little else.”
The words lingered between them, half-playful, half-true, and Elizabeth felt her chest tighten before she turned away to hide it. They folded the clothes in silence. When Elizabeth rose to go, William caught her hand.
“For what it is worth,” he said softly, “I wish there had been another way.”
“So do I,” she replied. “But if this is the only one, I am glad I am not walking it alone. Thank you, William.”
“Lucas, you will need to call me Lucas, not William,” he said suddenly, then laughed. “And I will need to call you Bennet.”
William’s gaze lingered on her face, unreadable in the dim light. For an instant she thought he might speak, but the words never came. There was something in his look she could not name, familiar, steady, and aching all at once.
“Take care, Lizzy,” he said at last, his voice roughened by the cold. “You have always been the braver of us two.”
She smiled faintly. “Then you must be the wiser, and between us we may yet manage to survive.”
He laughed under his breath, but the sound faded quickly. She could not shake the feeling that some parting had already begun.
She took a step toward the road, the sound of her boots swallowed by mist.