Chapter Nine
Caroline kissed Elizabeth’s cheek as her dear niece prepared to depart for her yearly visit to Hertfordshire. She had a sense of foreboding, as if this visit would change the fabric of their existence. Still, she embraced the child she had raised—now a young lady—and bid her a fond farewell.
“Write to me, my dear,” she said earnestly. “I shall miss you.”
“And I you.” Elizabeth waved until the carriage disappeared.
“Elizabeth, my dear child!” Mrs. Bennet kissed her niece’s cheeks and embraced her warmly. “You are early—the other girls have all gone walking into Meryton.”
“Please forgive me, Aunt. The prospect of autumn in Hertfordshire proved too great to resist—we departed directly after breakfast.” She stepped inside with Mrs. Bennet, leaving her footmen, Jones and Weston, to unload the trunks.
Baker, her lady’s maid, had followed her mistress inside, where the Bennets’ housekeeper, Mrs. Hill, directed her to Elizabeth’s usual chamber.
Elizabeth already missed her Aunt Caroline.
Since the conclusion of the Delicate Investigation in 1806, the Princess of Wales had lived in a state best described as social exile without formal banishment.
Though the inquiry had failed to prove the accusations brought against her, suspicion lingered where vindication ought to have stood, and society—ever cautious where royal displeasure was concerned—had drawn back.
Little though she deserved it, Caroline found herself avoided by many who had once courted her notice.
The Prince of Wales’s antipathy toward his estranged wife was neither subtle nor concealed.
His coldness, his refusal to be reconciled, and his efforts to curtail her influence were widely known, if seldom spoken of openly.
Invitations ceased. Visits dwindled. Blackheath became not merely a residence but a boundary—near London, yet carefully outside the orbit of court favor.
Aunt Caroline kept largely to herself now, receiving only a small, loyal circle of friends and dependents.
She entertained rarely, and then only in modest fashion: small dinners, musical evenings, gatherings where conversation was valued more than display.
Elizabeth was always included when propriety allowed, and it was in these quiet assemblies that she saw her guardian most at her ease—warm, animated, and free from the performance demanded of her in other places.
Denied an active public role, the princess turned her energies outward in other ways.
Charity, once merely a distraction, became both refuge and purpose.
She supported parish schools in the surrounding districts, subscribed to funds for the relief of poor women and children, and took a particular interest in those left parentless by circumstance or misfortune.
While she did not adopt children, taking them into her own home as she had Elizabeth, she acted as patron and protector to many—placing them in respectable households, securing apprenticeships, or arranging for their education under careful supervision.
Her interest was not merely financial; she followed their progress, corresponded with their guardians, and intervened when she believed a child was ill-used.
This work was deeply personal. Elizabeth knew—without being told—that her own presence at Blackheath had shaped these efforts.
Caroline understood the vulnerability of a child left without parents, and she refused to allow such children to be treated as burdens or inconveniences.
In a society that prized lineage above mercy, her compassion was considered radical.
Beyond her aunt’s charitable commitments, they filled their days with long walks upon the heath, vigorous exercise, and study.
Princess Caroline encouraged Elizabeth to read widely, correspond with friends and family—particularly her dear cousins in Hertfordshire—across England and the Continent, and to keep herself informed of political and scientific developments.
Music remained a constant pleasure, as did travel when her aunt’s situation permitted—short retreats to the seaside or visits to sympathetic households where she was welcomed without reserve.
When she turned eighteen, she partook in some society, though never in the first circles.
Elizabeth, watching her aunt suffer, learned that withdrawal need not mean surrender.
Though society might shun her, and the Prince Regent might attempt to render her insignificant, Caroline of Brunswick remained resolutely herself: curious, affectionate, principled, and acting with understated defiance.
She would not beg for acceptance where none was freely offered.
Instead, she chose to do good where she could, love where she was permitted, and endure where she must.
And for Elizabeth—who had known too early the pain of loss—her aunt’s steadfast presence, even at a distance, was proof that dignity could survive injustice, and that kindness, when practiced deliberately, was a form of strength no power could entirely suppress.
And whatever else awaited her—whatever power sought to claim her—Elizabeth de Bourgh, called Bennet when it suited, had learned one essential truth: She belonged to herself, despite what others asserted.
“How was your summer, my dear?” Mrs. Bennet fussed and clucked over Elizabeth. “You look lovely as ever.”
Elizabeth submitted with good grace to the inspection, smiling as her aunt smoothed an imaginary crease from her sleeve and stepped back to admire her. The familiar warmth of Mrs. Bennet’s attention—so different from the measured observation of courtiers—settled her at once.
Elizabeth redirected her attention to her aunt. “I thank you, ma’am. It was a lovely summer. The household repaired to Margate during the worst of the heat.”
It was a firm rule that the princess’s name be left unmentioned in Hertfordshire.
Not many were trusted with the truth of Elizabeth’s guardianship.
Most assumed she stayed the majority of the year with her father’s family.
This accounted for her more expensive clothing and extensive education.
Elizabeth had learned early how carefully truth must sometimes be guarded; silence, when chosen deliberately, could be its own protection.
The populace in and around Meryton liked Elizabeth very well.
They were happy to call her by her uncle’s name when she came to stay.
Mr. Bennet’s entreaties to that point were questioned at first. Elizabeth, trained by Princess Caroline to protect the truth at all costs, had loudly declared to one and all that she wanted to be called “Miss Elizabeth” while in Hertfordshire.
What first began as an indulgence by the neighbors soon grew into habit.
Now, no one questioned the strange quirk.
“Oh, the sea! How I wish Mr. Bennet would take us.” The lady smiled pleasantly, her eyes bright with imagination. “Come, you must tell me all about it.” She led Elizabeth into the large parlor. “The girls will return shortly for tea. I am certain they would enjoy the tales.”
The matronly lady sat primly, ever the picture of a respectable, well-bred gentlewoman, arranging her skirts with habitual neatness.
No one would ever guess that Fanny Bennet was born of trade—she had worked hard to ensure that nothing in her manners betrayed it.
Elizabeth, who knew the truth, admired her all the more for it.
The front door opened as Elizabeth settled herself beside her aunt. There was a generous cacophony as the four young ladies were divested of their spencers and bonnets before they poured into the drawing room, voices overlapping, laughter echoing down the hall.
The bustle of a large family was one of Elizabeth’s favorite parts of being in Hertfordshire.
At Blackheath, in the princess’s house, it was quiet most of the time.
Even when a few guests came for tea, it was never like this.
Though Princess Caroline loved Elizabeth as her own, their home never felt so alive.
Here, there was movement and noise and warmth—life unfolding all at once.
“Lizzy!” Fifteen-year-old Lydia fairly trembled as she glided across the room. “You look very fine. How I love the fabric of your gown.”
Elizabeth laughed softly. “It is sturdy linen, Lydia, not magic.”
Lydia seated herself demurely next to her mother—an affectation that would not last—and Catherine, the second youngest, took the seat on her other side.
“I am very pleased you are here,” she said to Elizabeth. “I have painted Longbourn for you. Mr. Smith says it is exceptional.” Kitty blushed prettily, as though her art master had just granted the compliment anew.
“I should very much like to see it,” Elizabeth replied warmly. “Longbourn has never looked lovelier than when painted by someone who loves it.”
Kitty beamed.
Kitty was very different from Lydia. She had a natural tendency towards reticence, but often looked to those more verbose and forward for direction.
Lydia, in contrast, exuded energy. From Jane’s letters, Elizabeth knew it had been the work of many years to subdue the youngest Bennet’s natural exuberance.
She and Kitty were the best of friends. This could have presented a problem had Lydia remained untamed.
Kitty would have followed in her footsteps, and both girls would now be wild.
Elizabeth suspected—though she never said it aloud—that Jane’s steady influence had been the saving of them both.
Mary greeted Elizabeth next, her expression solemn but pleased, followed closely by Jane. Mary inclined her head with quiet dignity before immediately asking, “Have you continued your Italian studies?”
“I have,” Elizabeth answered. “Though I still struggle with the subjunctive.”
Mary brightened at once, launching into a thoughtful comparison of Italian and Latin constructions that drew a fond smile from Mrs. Bennet, who watched it all fondly from her chair.