“As of this moment, she is one of our own. I shall be her mama, and you will be her papa. No one in Hertfordshire need know any different.”
He nodded in agreement. “She looks of an age with Thomas. Maybe a little younger. Do you think she will be able to tell us how old she is? We only know her name.”
“Lizzy. It is a pretty name. Miss Elizabeth Bennet.” Mrs. Bennet smiled in satisfaction and snuggled next to her husband’s side. “How do you feel about having six children, sir?” she asked cheekily.
“I would gladly have seven or eight if it were possible.” Mr. Bennet kissed his wife’s upturned nose. After their youngest, Lydia, was born, they had been told there would be no more children. Maybe little Miss Lizzy was a blessing.
The girl stirred a few hours later. She slept so soundly that she barely moved. Even the bumpy carriage ride did nothing to disturb her.
Mr. Bennet watched as Elizabeth’s eyes fluttered open. She sat up and looked around in confusion. When her gaze landed on the couple sitting across from her, she gasped. Fear stole across her expression, and she whimpered.
“Papa,” she whispered. “Papa.”
“Who is your papa?” Mrs. Bennet asked tenderly.
Elizabeth blinked. “I do not remember,” she replied. Her brow furrowed. “Why do I not remember?” One hand rose to touch the gash on her head. “What happened?”
“We are not certain.” Mrs. Bennet replied gently, moving to sit beside her. “We hoped you could tell us.”
The child closed her eyes, face drawn in concentration. When she opened them, they filled with tears. “I cannot recall,” she said miserably. “I only remember walking for a long time.”
Mrs. Bennet exchanged a glance with her husband. “Well, you may stay with us. I am Mrs. Bennet. This gentleman is my husband. We are going to fetch our children before we go to our estate. When we reach our destination, we will see if we can find your family. Can you tell us how old you are?”
Elizabeth frowned. “I believe I am eight. I had a birthday recently, I think.”
“That is something.” Mr. Bennet spoke for the first time. His words caused their young charge to squeak in terror and shrink in on herself. His wife gave him a confused look and then patted the child’s hand.
“Mr. Bennet is not so very frightening,” she said soothingly. “You will like him very much. He plays with his children and reads them stories.”
Elizabeth cowered into Mrs. Bennet’s side, burying her face in the lady’s shoulder.
“There, there, now. You will see in time.” Mrs. Bennet kissed the child’s head. “Will you let me wash your face and clean the wound on your head?” She pulled a handkerchief out and held it out. “See? Nothing but white cloth. I have some water here in this flask.” Pulling a metal vessel from the basket, Mrs. Bennet opened the lid and poured clear, cold liquid onto the white linen. Carefully, she turned Elizabeth’s head and dabbed at the blood on her cheeks and forehead. Her efforts revealed a pale face with a smattering of freckles on her nose. Elizabeth’s confused eyes held intelligence, and Mr. Bennet wondered what horrors had rendered her so skittish and fearful.
“That is much better.” Mrs. Bennet put the soiled handkerchief into the basket. “We shall have to order you a bath when we reach our lodgings. I fear there is nothing I can do about the mess in your hair for now.”
She exchanged a glance with her husband as Elizabeth leaned back into her side. The child drifted off to sleep, her fist still curled protectively around whatever secret it held.
When they arrived in Lambton, Mrs. Bennet gently shook her charge awake. “We have arrived, Elizabeth,” she murmured. “Shall we go inside?” Elizabeth nodded wearily, taking Mrs. Bennet’s hand as they stepped down from the carriage. Mr. Bennet followed behind, aware that the child feared his presence. He did not wish to frighten her.
“Mama!” Their son, Thomas, greeted them at the door, a broad grin on his face. “We thought you would be here hours ago! Who is that?”
The boisterous lad pointed at Elizabeth, who cowered behind Mrs. Bennet.
“Let us in the door, son.” Mr. Bennet walked past his wife and ward to enter the house. He extended his arms to his heir, hugging him fiercely. “This is our distant cousin, Tommy. She will stay with us for now.”
“What is your name?” Tommy broke away from his father and came toward the newcomer.
Instead of answering, Elizabeth whimpered and pulled further away.
“Her name is Elizabeth.” Mrs. Bennet patted her son’s head. “Perhaps you should go find Jane and Mary. I assume Lydia and Kitty are abed?”
“Aunt Maddy is with them now. And Uncle Gardiner went to the inn.” Tommy bounded away, calling over his shoulder, “I shall go get Jane!”
“Will you order a bath, Thomas?” Fanny turned to him. “I shall take Lizzy upstairs. Mary has outgrown several gowns. We can use those until I can visit the shops.”
Mr. Bennet nodded. Mary had inherited her father’s lanky form. She was as tall as Jane, despite being three years younger than her oldest sister. Elizabeth’s stature contrasted sharply—she was petite and not much taller than five-year-old Kitty.
Mrs. Bennet took their charge away, and Mr. Bennet did not see her again until the next morning. Still skittish, Elizabeth was at least clean. Once washed, her head wound did not look so terrible, and her hair was styled to hide the worst of the damage. Her hair fell to the middle of her back and was escaping its plait. She sat quietly at the table, her hands clasped in her lap and glancing nervously at the other children seated beside her. Kitty and Lydia remained in the nursery, but the Bennets had traditionally had their three eldest children take breakfast with them.
