Chapter 27
From the passage came a flurry of voices and the unmistakable scent of singed ribbon. Bennet shut the study door with deliberate care and turned the key. Hill, who had followed him in, looked relieved.
“They will find you, sir,” Hill said, a folded cloth over one arm.
“Not before the carriage is called, I hope,” he replied. “A father has so few liberties left him in his own house.”
Beyond the door, Mrs Bennet’s voice rose. “Lydia, hold still! Kitty, that pin is crooked—do not sigh, child; it will not shorten the task.” A scurry of feet, the scrape of a chair, and then Elizabeth’s laugh—low, quick, unguarded—ran down the corridor like a small harbour in storm.
A shriek overhead. Hill inclined his head towards the ceiling. “All is well, sir.”
“Then we are quite undone.”
Hill moved to the decanter. His hand paused. Bennet looked at the glass, then at the door.
“No,” he said. “Not yet.”
“Very good, sir.” Hill set the stopper back with a quiet click.
The handle rattled once—the lightest trial of courage—and fled. Bennet crossed to the chair by the fire, sat, and folded his hands upon the head of his stick as if it were an ally. Another squeal—triumph or tragedy; in that house, they often resembled one another.
“How long, do you think?”
“Till perfection,” Hill said. “And therefore late.”
“Ah.” He let the silence draw itself out. Silence wore well in that room.
A louder stir came from the passage—quick steps, rustling silk, and the tap of pins in a dish. Bennet rose, crossed to the sideboard, and reached for the port.
“One finger,” he said to himself.
Hill crossed the room without comment, lifted the decanter, and carried it to the far sideboard.
Bennet watched this treason with grave attention. “Et tu, Hill?”
“A precaution, sir.”
“Against whom?”
“Against to-night.”
He considered the distance the decanter had gained. “Very well. If I fail, it shall not be for want of your loyalty to the enemy.”
Another shriek. Hill did not even glance upward this time. “All is well, sir.” He departed as noiselessly as he had arrived.
“Then the house is lost beyond rescue.”
He lowered himself into a chair and closed his eyes. The door opened again. He looked up.
“Hill,” Bennet said. “If I am to escort them, I must appear to know what I am about.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then when the carriage is called, I shall require my best coat, and you will forbid any more improvements to my daughters after that time. A man cannot defend a moving target.”
“I will try, sir.”
“Try? Try? Hill, you are my last ally.”
“Then I will prevail, sir.”
“That is better.”
The corridor’s sounds shifted: fewer shrieks, more words. A voice—Mary, earnest and distant—counted something.
Bennet looked at the far sideboard and counted the distance in steps.
“One must be sober,” he said, “to admire one’s own family.”
He turned towards the music and waited for the carriage.
* * *
From below came the clear, deliberate notes of Mary’s piano—each phrase as steady as a heartbeat. Elizabeth smiled; the house always seemed better behaved when Mary played.
Lydia, charged with Jane’s bow, hovered at the glass; Kitty, armed with thread and patience, stood behind Elizabeth.
Through the half-open door drifted the low murmur of Mrs Bennet and Mrs Hill in pleasant conversation, testing ribbons and lace with the assurance of generals reviewing troops.
“Hold still, Kitty,” Elizabeth said, her chin slightly raised. “If that stitch wanders, I shall go to Meryton in a zigzag.”
Kitty bit her lip, dutiful and brisk. “I am as steady as Sunday, Lizzy.”
“Then we shall be late,” Elizabeth murmured, and smiled, for the thread ran true.
Jane, in pale muslin, turned to the light. Lydia, pleased with her own cleverness, set the final touch and stood back. “There. If you breathe, it will fly; if you do not, it will sit as a queen.”
“A difficult choice,” Jane said gently. “We will trust to moderate breathing.”
“Moderate!” Lydia laughed. “There is nothing moderate in an assembly.” She glanced at the door as if the corridor held a regiment. “Only think—red coats, and music, and the whole town obliged to look at us.”
Kitty’s needle paused. “If I were out, I should dance every set. I should not refuse a single officer, not even the short one.”
“The short one will be grateful,” Elizabeth said. “But you are not out, my dear, and must content yourself with pinning excellence upon others.”
Kitty’s mouth shaped a small, reluctant O. “It is very hard.”
“Not hard—only prudent,” Jane said, smoothing the muslin at her waist. “Your time will come; when it does, I shall stand at your side till you have as much pleasure as is safe to bear.”
The pout wavered; the eyes softened. “Will you?” Kitty asked.
“I promise,” Jane said, and the promise sat so well upon her that even Lydia forbore to jest.
From Mrs Bennet’s chamber came a gentle laugh and the rustle of silk. “No, Mrs Hill, the blue with the edge—yes, that one. I think the lace falls rather prettily, do you not?”
“Indeed, madam,” came Mrs Hill’s reply, warm with good humour. “The pattern flatters you most becomingly.”
Elizabeth drew on the glove and watched Jane in the glass arrange her necklace. Though her elder sister needed no ornament to command admiration, no other girl in Hertfordshire wore pearls so quietly.
“Now,” Lydia said, tying the shawl with a flourish, “do not be too perfect, Jane, or no one will look at Lizzy.”
“I am ever in danger of that,” Elizabeth said. “I carry my defence with me.”
“Your tongue?” Lydia said.
“My sense, you wretched girl.”
Everyone laughed. Kitty embraced Elizabeth’s neck and squeezed. Elizabeth patted Kitty’s arm.
Kitty’s seam done, Elizabeth turned, testing the sleeve with a small lift of her arm. “Good. You will make a capital dresser when your time comes.”
“I would rather have a capital officer,” Kitty said under her breath.
“Then learn a capital truth,” Elizabeth replied, still mild. “A militia officer’s pay would not keep pins in that basket. If you mean to be bent upon a red coat, you must learn to bear a light purse as well as admire a bright button.”
Lydia clicked her tongue. “La, Lizzy, you make romance a very poor bargain.”
Jane re-tied the smallest ribbon at Elizabeth’s shoulder. “There. You are very pretty, Lizzy.”
“I shall endure it,” Elizabeth said. “To please you.”
Mrs Bennet’s voice floated through the door. “Mrs Hill, the carriage should be called in ten minutes, if you please. I would have the girls make their entrance when the room is at its brightest.”
Kitty folded her hands with exaggerated virtue. “There—perfectly still.”
Elizabeth smiled. “Then keep that perfection till we reach the carriage.”
“I shall try,” Kitty said, half sincere, half mischief. She giggled; even Lydia submitted to laughter. The room settled into readiness: pins returned to their saucer, ribbons to their ranks, shawls found their precise fall.
“Downstairs,” Elizabeth said, “before Mama declares herself abandoned.”
Jane led them into the passage with the quiet that made way for everyone else; Elizabeth followed; Lydia and Kitty came after, bearing fans and gloves like camp-followers too cheerful for apology.
At the turn, the parlour door stood open; Mrs Bennet was already upon her sofa, radiant, her cap and lace in perfect harmony.
“There you are, my beauties! Jane—perfect—oh, my heart! Lizzy, your hair frames your face in such a lovely manner.” She rose. “Kitty, Lydia, you have done your sisters proud.”
Kitty blushed; Lydia looked as if praise were no more than her due.
Mrs Bennet looked to the door. “Where is Mr Bennet?”
“He is told, madam,” Hill said, and draped a thin gossamer shawl upon Mrs Bennet’s shoulders.
Elizabeth set her fan upon the table, crossed the hall, and paused at the study door. The house sounded different here: less lace, more hush. She lifted her hand and knocked—twice, discreetly—the signal that had been hers since childhood.
She slipped within; her father stood ready, stick in hand, the temper of the room about him like a familiar coat. She took his arm.
“We shall be late if you do not come now,” she said, amusement held carefully behind good sense. “The blue ribbon with the edge is found ,and not one of our girls was burned.”
“That is gratifying,” he said. “I had prepared a sermon against fire.”
“Will you preach it in the carriage, Papa?” Elizabeth asked.
“If the congregation misbehaves.”
She lifted an eyebrow. “Then we are all in danger.”