Chapter Nine #2
The former was a studious girl. She enjoyed debating Elizabeth when she stayed at Longbourn, drinking in all the knowledge her cousin had gained in hopes of adding to her own accomplishments.
Unlike the other three sisters, Mary had pursued more in her education than the usual womanly expectations.
Yes, she knew how to draw and paint, net purses and the like, but what she loved more was her study of languages and astronomy.
Mr. Bennet had purchased Mary a telescope two years ago, and it saw regular use.
Jane, the eldest of the sisters, sat beside Elizabeth at last, slipping her hand into her cousin’s with instinctive affection.
Her golden tresses were expertly styled, and her porcelain features were unmarred by any blemish or scar.
Her figure was tall and willowy—the perfect example of an English rose.
An angelic temperament accompanied Jane’s beauty.
She knew evil existed in the world but chose to focus only on the pleasant aspects of her existence.
Her desire for accord among those with whom she associated was infectious, and general discord or arguments were often resolved quickly once she stepped in.
“I am so glad you are home,” Jane said softly, her voice meant for Elizabeth alone. “The house feels fuller already.”
Elizabeth squeezed her hand in return, feeling a familiar warmth spread through her chest. Yes, she thought, this is home, too—perhaps the only place where I may be entirely myself.
As tea was announced and the family settled into their accustomed places, Elizabeth allowed herself a rare indulgence: to simply listen, to watch, to belong.
Mr. Bennet joined them not long after tea had been poured.
“Forgive the delay, dearest.” He kissed his wife on the forehead with easy affection.
“Business with my steward kept me.” He spotted Elizabeth and grinned, his eyes lighting with unmistakable pleasure.
“I see my wayward niece has returned to our midst.” He greeted Elizabeth with a smile that carried both warmth and mischief.
“I am glad you are back, Lizzy. Tell me, what sort of mischief do you have planned for your stay?”
Elizabeth laughed, the sound unguarded. “I assure you, sir, I am reformed.”
“Mischief?” Mrs. Bennet made a face, as though the very notion were improper.
“Mischief, indeed. Elizabeth would never behave in such a manner. No, she has had far too many good examples.” She tut-tutted and handed her husband a teacup and saucer, adjusting the placement of the spoon with habitual precision.
“I will thank you not to give the younger girls ideas.”
Mr. Bennet accepted his tea with an indulgent smile. “Ah, but examples cut both ways, my love. I find that the most admirable young ladies often conceal the sharpest wit.”
Elizabeth raised her brows innocently. “I cannot imagine who you mean, sir.”
“There is an assembly next month, Lizzy.” Lydia bounced in her seat, her impatience barely contained.
“Mama says I may not go—nor Kitty, for we are not eighteen. It does not seem fair!” She seemed on the brink of a pout but schooled her features into genteel indifference with visible effort.
“I shall have my turn—that is what Papa says.”
“Indeed, you will!” Mrs. Bennet replied briskly, clearly rehearsed in her response.
“When you have your come out, dear Lydia, you will want all the attention on you. Can you imagine the trial of competing with not one or two but three older sisters and an older cousin?” She shook her head as though the idea were quite overwhelming.
“No, you had much better wait. Miss Lane says you are coming along nicely in your studies, but you are not yet finished.”
“Oh, I know,” Lydia sighed dramatically, “but I do wish for some sort of entertainment.”
“Perhaps a picnic while I am here,” Elizabeth suggested mildly, sensing the rising restlessness. “Is Charlotte Lucas still in the area? We might invite her family and the Longs and the Gouldings.”
“Yes, three families is quite enough,” Mrs. Bennet said at once. “And Miss Lucas is as of yet unwed.”
That was a shame. Charlotte was a competent, intelligent lady. Any man would be privileged to have her as his wife. I shall have to see what I can do about that, Elizabeth thought. She would reach one-and-twenty next year. Her freedoms would hopefully expand.
Mr. Bennet caught her expression and smiled into his teacup, as though he suspected the direction of her thoughts but chose not to interfere.
As the family chattered around her—Kitty describing her latest sketch, Mary quietly correcting a quotation Lydia had misremembered—Elizabeth’s mind drifted, unbidden, to the woman who had raised her.
Princess Caroline had done so much, had given her steadiness, affection, and a formidable education.
Yet Elizabeth knew that true power still rested elsewhere.
The Prince Regent remained the axis upon which her life turned, however unwillingly.
He still required that she attend him for yearly interviews. Those meetings always made her nervous, the formality of them pressing upon her like a weight. Elizabeth never quite knew when she might be whisked away from Blackheath again, summoned without warning and without recourse.
She kept a correspondence with Princess Charlotte, a freedom the princess’s own mother was not afforded.
Elizabeth treasured those letters, carefully composed and carefully concealed, and shared them with her guardian whenever she could.
It was the only way dear Aunt Caroline could connect with her only child, and Elizabeth took that responsibility seriously.
She quite liked the young princess. Though Charlotte was almost five years her junior, Elizabeth was one of the few young ladies with whom the cosseted heir had regular contact.
Their letters were earnest and affectionate, filled with observations, questions, and confidences exchanged across the boundaries imposed upon them.
They confided in each other, though they did not see each other often.
Here, in the warmth of Longbourn’s drawing room, Elizabeth allowed herself to enjoy the present moment—the familiar voices, the shared laughter, the easy affection of a family who claimed her without reservation. For now, she was simply Lizzy again.
Weary from her travels, Elizabeth went to her chambers to rest after tea.
The rooms were in the family wing and were the largest besides Jane’s and the master and mistress suite.
Mrs. Bennet had redecorated them for Elizabeth’s birthday—this was something she had also done for Jane and Mary on that milestone.
Elizabeth felt pleased to be included in such a manner.
As she lay in her bed, she thought of the conversation she had with Princess Caroline before departing London. Elizabeth remembered the evening clearly, though at the time she had not understood why it lingered in her mind.
They had taken tea in the smaller sitting room at Blackheath, the one that faced the garden rather than the heath itself.
It was a mild evening, the windows open just enough to admit the scent of damp earth and late roses.
Her aunt had dismissed the servants early, insisting they would manage quite well on their own.
That alone had put Elizabeth on edge; such privacy was rarely granted without purpose.
Princess Caroline sat opposite her, her teacup untouched, fingers resting lightly upon the saucer. She seemed thoughtful—more so than usual—her gaze drifting often toward the window as though she were measuring time by the lengthening shadows.
“You will be leaving for Hertfordshire tomorrow,” the lady said at last, not as a question but an observation.
“Yes, Aunt.” Elizabeth folded her hands neatly in her lap. “Uncle expects me before Michaelmas.”
The princess smiled faintly. “Of course he does.” Then, after a pause, “You are nearly one-and-twenty.”
Elizabeth’s breath caught, just perceptibly. “In the spring.”
“Still,” Aunt Caroline replied gently, “near enough to matter.”
Elizabeth hesitated, then spoke the question she had been carrying for months, carefully phrased so as not to sound like presumption. “Do you think—” she stopped herself, regrouping her thoughts. “Do you think it would be…possible, when I return, that matters might be…reconsidered?”
The princess looked at her then, fully and steadily. “You mean your presentation.”
Elizabeth nodded. “I know the prince has refused before. I would not wish to press where it is unwelcome. But I am no longer a child, Aunt. I know how to conduct myself. I have been taught—very thoroughly.” A small, wry smile touched her lips. “Perhaps more thoroughly than most.”
Her aunt reached across the table and laid her hand over Elizabeth’s. “I know,” she said softly. “And you are right. You have been prepared for years—only never permitted to demonstrate it.”
Elizabeth searched her face. “Will you speak to him?”
Princess Caroline did not answer at once. Her thumb traced a slow circle against Elizabeth’s hand, a familiar, grounding gesture. “I hope to do just that,” she said finally. “I cannot promise you success. You know better than anyone how uncertain such appeals can be.”
Elizabeth did. She had learned early that hope must be handled with care.
“But,” her aunt continued, her voice lowering, “things are…shifting. He is less inclined to notice me than he once was, and that neglect may be turned to advantage. You will soon be of age. It grows harder to justify keeping you hidden.”
Elizabeth felt a flicker of excitement she did not quite dare indulge. “If I were presented,” she said slowly, “I would not embarrass you. I know how to exist at the edges of society. I have watched you do it all my life.”
Princess Caroline’s smile this time held more sadness than pride. “Yes,” she said. “You have.”
Elizabeth thought of the fashionable balls she had glimpsed only from a distance, so different from the gatherings she attended with her aunt and from the assemblies in Hertfordshire.
She considered the names she knew by heart but she had never been permitted to meet.
She knew the rules, the rhythms, the language of the ton—yet she had never truly been in it.
“I should like,” she said thoughtfully, “to choose my own path.”
Caroline’s hand tightened briefly around hers. “That,” she said, “is precisely why I will try.”
Elizabeth carried that conversation with her when she left London the next morning. It was not a promise, but it was something rarer—an acknowledgment that her life was poised on the threshold of change.
And for the first time in years, she allowed herself to wonder what might come when she returned.