Some Little Alteration (Love Conquers Pride #4)

Prologue

It was a blustery March morning that found Elizabeth Bennet on the road from London to Hunsford, her thoughts as unsettled as the weather.

Having quitted her aunt and uncle’s home in Gracechurch Street soon after breakfast, she now sat opposite Sir William and Maria Lucas, whose cheerful discourse had long since exhausted her powers of polite attention.

Sir William, with his customary good humour and endless recollections of his brief time at court, spoke at length on their present expedition and the advantages of his eldest daughter’s marriage.

Maria, meanwhile, talked of little beyond her apprehension of visiting Rosings Park and her desire to make a favourable impression upon its formidable mistress.

Elizabeth, having little inclination to contribute to either line of conversation, remained silent, her gaze fixed on the hedgerows slipping past the window.

In truth, her thoughts were far removed from the carriage and its occupants, turning first to Charlotte, whom she had not seen since her extraordinary union with Mr Collins, then shifting to Jane.

Although she had been relieved to see her sister looking so well, Jane’s composure had done little to ease Elizabeth’s disquiet, and she could not think of Mr Bingley’s abrupt departure from Netherfield without renewed resentment.

It was not until the carriage slowed, and Sir William announced that they were drawing near to Bromley, that Elizabeth’s thoughts returned to the present.

“Are we stopping already?” she asked as they turned into the yard of a bustling coaching inn. “It feels as if we have scarcely left town.”

“Ah, but we have been travelling above two hours,” cried Sir William with jovial authority.

“Besides, we must stop here. Mr Collins was most particular in his letter—he wrote to say we were to make use of the Bell in Bromley, and that we must mention Lady Catherine’s name, that we might be properly attended to. ”

Stifling a sigh, Elizabeth forced her lips into a slim smile, reaching to gather her reticule and gloves just as a footman stepped up to unlatch the door.

The cool, crisp air met her the moment she descended, but the sun was shining, and she was glad to stretch her legs after the confined rattling of the carriage.

The inn yard was lively with the sounds of postilions calling to one another and ostlers preparing fresh horses, but it was the activity beyond its gates that instantly drew Elizabeth’s notice.

Just past the entrance, Bromley’s high street was alive with colour and motion.

A row of makeshift stalls had been set up along the cobbles, their striped awnings flapping gently in the breeze.

Children darted between baskets of apples and bolts of fabric as a costermonger called out the price of early rhubarb, while nearby, a woman balanced a tray of ribbons on her head.

“It looks like there is a market today,” Elizabeth offered, glancing over her shoulder at Maria, who had just emerged from the carriage, pink-cheeked and blinking against the wind.

“Would you care to walk a little and look at the stalls? I find I have no appetite for a crowded parlour after sitting so long.”

Maria’s face brightened, only to cloud with hesitation a moment later. “Do you think we ought?”

Before Elizabeth could reply, Sir William came round from the other side of the chaise, brushing the dust from his coat and surveying the inn with benign approval.

“It is just as Mr Collins described,” he called happily.

“No doubt Lady Catherine herself has dined here while en route to town. Come along, girls, we shall be well looked after inside.”

“If you do not object, sir,” Elizabeth interjected, “I thought Maria and I might take a turn through the market. It is but a few steps beyond the yard and well within sight.”

Sir William knitted his brows. “In an unfamiliar town? I do not know, my dear… I daresay it looks harmless enough, though the streets are not quite what they used to be.”

Elizabeth’s lips curved up in quiet amusement. “Then we shall be cautious and not stray from the high street. I assure you, I have no desire to be carried off by peddlers or fortune-tellers.”

At last, he chuckled and waved a hand. “Very well, very well. But do not be long. I should not like Lady Catherine to hear that I let you wander unattended.”

Elizabeth nodded her understanding, already taking Maria’s arm, and together they turned towards the bustle of the street, the calls of vendors growing louder as they approached.

The moment they stepped beneath the shadowed arch that led to the high street, Elizabeth felt as though she had crossed into another world.

The clatter of hoofs and the rustle of skirts mingled with the cries of hawkers and the scent of roasting chestnuts.

A fishwife shouted the morning’s catch, while somewhere farther down the row, a fiddler had taken up a lively tune, drawing a circle of children around him.

The cobblestones were uneven underfoot, worn smooth in places by generations of passing feet, and the breeze carried with it the sharp aroma of cheese and onions.

Elizabeth slowed her pace, taking it all in with quiet delight.

A stall to their right displayed bolts of muslin and silk, their edges rippling like banners in the wind.

Another boasted intricately painted crockery, laid out like treasure on a linen cloth.

For a time, the two ladies strolled aimlessly, pausing here and there to admire a display or a child’s antics.

Then Maria gave a sudden exclamation and veered off in the direction of a wooden cart, its surface cluttered with bangles, brooches, hair combs, and beads of every hue.

She leaned forwards eagerly, her fingers hovering over a tray of pins shaped like flowers.

Elizabeth turned to follow, but her eye was caught by a narrow table tucked into the shadows just beyond the ribbon stall.

It was a bookseller’s stand, lined with mismatched volumes stacked three deep, their spines faded and titles that, in some cases, were barely legible.

She moved towards it, drawn as if by instinct.

“Two for sixpence, miss,” the vendor called genially, without looking up from his ledger. “Or five for a shilling, if you’ve the time to choose.”

Elizabeth bent to examine the display, running her fingers lightly over the topmost row.

She picked up a slim volume of Cowper’s poems, its pages crisp despite the worn cover.

Beneath it was a battered copy of The Mysteries of Udolpho, which made her grin; her youngest sisters would be pleased to see it.

As she turned to set the novel aside, another book caught her eye—a single-volume edition of The Wild Irish Girl. The binding was stiff, the pages unmarred by any previous reader. Curious, she ruffled them between her fingers, catching the faint scent of parchment.

Without further deliberation, she opened her reticule and retrieved a coin. “I shall take this one,” she said, placing it before the vendor.

He accepted it with a nod and reached for a square of rough brown paper, wrapping the book with practised ease. “A fine choice, miss,” he said, handing it across the table just as Maria’s voice floated over from the opposite stall.

“Lizzy, come and look! Are these not the most darling hair combs?”

Taking the parcel with a quick word of thanks, Elizabeth returned to her companion.

Maria was still standing at the same cart, which bore a faded sign painted in curling script:

Madame Hercaud’s Curious Charms & Trinkets

The combs she was admiring were indeed charming: slender carved pieces inlaid with delicate patterns, some edged in gilt, others tipped with seed pearls or glass stones.

“They are very pretty,” Elizabeth agreed, looking over her friend’s shoulder.

Maria bit her lip thoughtfully. “Do you think Charlotte would like a pair? She wears her hair so simply, but perhaps something like this might encourage her to try a new style. She is a married woman now, after all.”

Elizabeth smiled back at the younger girl. “Your sister has never been one to fuss over such things, that is true. But a gift from you would please her on any account, I am certain.”

As Maria resumed her inspection of the tray, weighing colours and shapes, Elizabeth’s gaze wandered over the rest of the cart.

Her eye caught upon the shimmer of something half-hidden amongst a tangle of beads.

She reached out her hand, picking it up carefully: a locket on a fine chain, its surface dulled with age.

The necklace appeared to be gold, though tarnish obscured its shine. On the front, a delicate engraving of forget-me-nots had been worked into the metal, still discernible despite the wear. She turned it over and examined the catch, attempting to gently pry it open.

“It seems to be stuck,” she murmured, mostly to herself.

A rustle of skirts announced the arrival of the stall’s proprietor. She was a woman of later years, her face lined and weathered, yet her black eyes were still sharp beneath heavy brows. Her garments were richly coloured, and a bright scarf bound her dark hair.

“Ah,” she began, her voice low and lightly accented. “You have an eye for old things, I see.”

Elizabeth looked up, startled, as the woman’s dark gaze drifted to the locket in her hand.

“A flower for memory…” she offered, her eyes narrowing slightly, “or for promises not yet fulfilled.”

Heat rose to Elizabeth’s cheeks, and she quickly set the locket down atop the velvet-lined tray.

“Lizzy,” Maria called, holding up a small pair of combs. “What do you think of these? Too plain?”

Elizabeth turned, grateful for the diversion. The combs were elegant but tasteful, ivory with a pale-blue border and just enough embellishment to suit Charlotte’s modest style.

“They are just right,” Elizabeth assured her. “She will wear them often, I think.”

The older woman stepped over to complete the transaction, slipping the combs into a bit of cloth and exchanging them for a coin from Maria’s gloved hand. But even as the two conversed, Elizabeth’s eyes strayed once more to the locket.

It seemed to glint at her from the tray, its engraved blossoms stirring a distant memory. There was nothing extravagant in its design, and yet—

“It is calling to you,” the woman said, turning back to Elizabeth. “Charms like this one never forget where they belong.”

Elizabeth blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

The woman only smiled back at her.

“Oh, Lizzy, do look at it again,” Maria said, reaching for the necklace. “It is very pretty. All it needs is a bit of polishing.”

Before Elizabeth could object, Maria had already unclasped the chain and stepped closer, slipping it around Elizabeth’s neck. “There. Now let me have a look.”

Elizabeth reached up, her fingers brushing the warm metal where it rested just above the line of her spencer. The locket lay neatly against her skin, its presence surprisingly natural.

“It is perfect on you,” Maria said. “You ought to buy it, Lizzy.”

Elizabeth took it off, her thumb grazing the edge of the catch. She tried to open it again, pressing lightly with her fingernail, but it did not budge.

“It is truly stuck,” she murmured. “No matter what I do, it will not yield.”

“Perhaps we can get it open later,” Maria said easily. “And if not, it is still pretty as it is. Lockets do not always need to hold something inside.”

The older woman’s bracelets gave a merry jingle as she reached for a small pouch. “It will open,” she said, “but only when the time is right.”

Elizabeth gazed back at her, unsettled despite herself. There was something in the woman’s voice that struck a chord, but she could not place it.

“My father did give me a little extra pin money before we left,” she mused aloud, “though I had thought to save it for our return trip to town.”

Madame Hercaud’s dark eyes held Elizabeth’s for a moment, calm and unwavering.

“Very well,” Elizabeth relented, a little breathlessly. “I shall take it.”

When the coins had changed hands and the purchase was complete, the woman pressed the wrapped locket into Elizabeth’s palm with a serious expression.

The linen bundle was small and light, tied with a bit of faded ribbon, yet Elizabeth closed her fingers around it as if it were something far more precious.

“Come, Lizzy, we must not keep Papa waiting,” Maria said, already turning towards the inn.

They quickened their steps, weaving through the thinning crowd. Elizabeth’s reticule swung lightly at her side, but she held the pouch a moment longer, reluctant to part with it.

As they entered the coaching yard, a curious unease stirred within her. She shook her head and followed Maria through the inn’s front door, slipping the parcel into her reticule at last. But the faint warmth seemed to linger in her hand, long after the locket had been tucked away.