Elizabeth laughed. “Oh, but I am, dearest, I assure you.”
Jane sighed, a fleeting bit of envy mingling with her smile, yet her eyes shone with genuine happiness for her sister. “It is very romantic. How carefully your admirer woos you.”
“Goodness, Jane, is Mr. Bingley such a poor lover that you must live vicariously through me?” Elizabeth’s playfulness made her sister laugh.
“No, Charles is not lacking; but ’tis exciting to witness what new treasure this mysterious gentleman presents. Now hurry and open it!”
Elizabeth pulled the string, her heart fluttering more than she cared to admit. “Seven swans a-swimming?” she guessed, her voice laced with dry humor.
Jane laughed as she leaned closer. “I suspect this suitor has something more fashionable in mind. Open it!”
With unsteady fingers, Elizabeth folded back the paper. Within, laid upon tissue and wrapped in neat cotton squares, were seven exquisite fans—each one more beautiful than the last.
Elizabeth sat stunned, a hand rising to her mouth. “Oh…”
Each fan was unique, though clearly part of a set. One was made of black lacquered wood, its surface edged with delicate gold filigree, French in design. Another was ivory, with the silk panels embroidered and painted with pastoral scenes. A third boasted rich navy silk stitched with silver stars, the thread catching in the morning light. The fourth was bamboo and paper, hand-painted with cranes and lotus blossoms, surely imported from Asia. Another bore Spanish boldness, red lace over bone sticks, vivid and flirtatious. The sixth was simple yet refined: white silk mounted on mother-of-pearl sticks, embroidered with pale pink roses. The last, Elizabeth’s favorite, was pale green silk with gold leaf detail, bordered in the faintest blush of rose.
“They are breathtaking,” Jane whispered in awe. “And see—each one is wrapped in a cotton square—handkerchiefs, perhaps? ’Tis two gifts in one.”
Elizabeth lifted one of the squares. It was supple, finely woven, the edges neatly hemmed and ready for embroidery. “How lovely,” she murmured, stroking the weave. “What shall I place in the corner?” If only she knew her generous admirer’s name—she would work his initials on at least one.
Jane peered over her shoulder. “Whoever he is, he knows you well.” She looked at her sister with a curious tilt of her head. “Have you no suspicions, Lizzy?”
Elizabeth returned the fans and cloths back to the box and folded the paper once more, as though preserving the mystery might quiet her tumult within. “I have entertained many notions. But no—I cannot say who is behind these gifts.”
That was not wholly true. She had begun to wonder—no, to hope—that it might be Mr. Darcy. Each time he called with Mr. Bingley, her heart faltered and her stomach fluttered with anticipation. She looked forward to their walks, hoping he would offer his arm.
More than that, his name arose in her thoughts, unbidden. Of late, his presence at Longbourn had been marked by civility and accompanied by a most attentive manner. Where once she despised him, now she longed for his conversation. He spoke with greater ease, asked after her reading, her opinions, and her memories. In his eyes she discerned a warmth she had not seen before—or perhaps had not allowed herself to see.
In truth, she had long since dismissed the prejudice she once held against him. The tales of his pride and interference had lost their edge in the face of his recent kindnesses. His steadiness, his patience—even with her most trying relations—had not gone unnoticed.
She thought of what she had heard from him of his tender care for his sister, of the sincerity with which he confessed his faults. He had told her, with more feeling than she had credited him, that he had been raised to think meanly of others; she knew he was striving to do better.
No, she would not name him, not even to Jane. It was folly to attach such meaning to anonymous gifts. And yet…the fans were too elegant, too carefully chosen, to be the work of common taste or means.
She faced her sister, diverting the subject. “I am only glad you have found someone to love. Mr. Bingley is an excellent man, and your happiness brings me joy beyond measure.”
Jane’s smile widened. “And what of your own happiness, Lizzy? Do you not think yourself worthy of such gifts?”
Elizabeth flushed and turned aside. “I think…I think I am still learning of what I am worthy.”
Later that morning, the parlor was unusually still. The three younger Bennets had gone to Meryton in search of a diversion. Their peace was shattered when Lydia burst in like a storm wind, her voice loud enough to make even Jane start and drop her embroidery. Kitty followed close behind, protesting thatsheought to be the one to tell the news.
“Wickham has left the regiment!” Lydia declared, wide-eyed and breathless. She raised her voice over Kitty’s complaints. “He has gone! Disappeared! And poor Miss King—she is in tears.”
“What?” Mrs. Bennet nearly spilled her tea. “What do you mean, gone?” She set her work aside and gave her full attention to her youngest child. “Tell me everything.”
“Her uncle arrived from Liverpool,” Lydia said, throwing herself into the nearest chair in high dudgeon. “The gossips say he heard some unsavory tale of Wickham and told freckled Mary she could not marry such a man—as if any of it were true! He carried her straight back to Liverpool with him saying there would be no match. And Wickham? He vanished—beforethe Kings even knew he had gone.”
Mary stood in the doorway, cheeks warm. “It is shameful to abandon one’s post in a time of war.” Elizabeth pressed her lips together to hide a smile.
Their mother seemed to agree. “Quite shameful,” Mrs. Bennet huffed. “And after we were so good to him! To leave the militia so suddenly! Who will protect Meryton now?”
Lydia rolled her eyes. “There are others enough to do that. The officers are searching for him. But ’tis a scandal, that is what it is. He was the handsomest of all the officers. I am certain I shall die without him.”
Mary’s color deepened as she looked down. “Not all redcoats are dishonorable,” she murmured. Elizabeth guessed her sister’s mind was with Mr. Sanderson, who had lately returned herdropped prayer book with gallantry and continued to call. They seemed to be getting on well.
Elizabeth held her peace, though her mind was in turmoil. Mr. Wickham gone? What could it mean? Was it linked to what Sir William had uncovered about his debts in Meryton? The shopkeepers had begun to whisper, and Mr. King had lost no time in removing his niece.
