“Jane has hardly lost her bloom, Aunt,” Elizabeth admonished lightly. “I have never seen her in better looks.”
“No one can doubt your sister’s beauty. But she must be more forward! This shy, retiring manner will not draw a man to her side.”
“I shall do my best, Aunt, but I will not be anything but myself.” Jane’s quiet, firm retort seemed to satisfy their chaperone, and the matter dropped.
The assembly hall had been aglow with candlelight and chatter, filled with familiar faces and the faint squeak of strings warming up. Elizabeth had danced every set—not from an abundance of admiration, but from a kind of social momentum. By the end of the evening her cheeks ached from smiling. Still, it had not been unpleasant.
Elizabeth had looked forward to dancing. There was nothing she liked so well as being amongst her friends and neighbours. A country assembly provided the perfect setting for good conversation and lively activity. It would have been an enjoyable evening…except for the remarks.
“Is your father here tonight?” Mrs Long had asked, feigning casual interest as she adjusted her gloves.
“He is always such delightful company,” said Mrs Goulding, her gaze not quite as idle as she pretended.
Even Charlotte Lucas, who had never been prone to girlish sentiment, had arched an eyebrow and inquired after the widower.
“Really, Charlotte? You too?” Elizabeth said in exasperation. “He is almost old enough to be your father!”
“He is still considered quite… eligible, you know. Especially now. And age ceases to matter after a lady reaches a certain…point in their life.” Charlotte’s cheeks reddened.
“Come now, my friend. You are not on the shelf!”
“I am five-and-twenty, Lizzy. My father cannot afford a London season. I shall be a burden on my parents—and later on my brother—if I do not secure a comfortable situation for myself.”
“And my father is a likely candidate?” Elizabeth struggled to keep her voice calm. The idea of having one of her best friends as her stepmother made her insides churn unpleasantly.
“If he were looking for another bride, I would throw myself in with the other hopefuls.” The first notes of the night played then, and Charlotte drifted away as Elizabeth’s first partner claimed her hand.
The conversation had startled Elizabeth. Mr Bennet? Her father, pursued? She had thought the lonely ladies of Meryton had given up. Why had Jane not said anything? No fewer than three ladies had enquired after him, and none with innocent intent.
The music lifted around her like a tide. Elizabeth allowed her partner—a young curate recently arrived in Meryton—to lead her onto the floor, but her thoughts remained tangled in Charlotte’s words.
But tonight, Charlotte had seemed different—tired, accepting in a way Elizabeth found difficult to stomach.
She had always admired Charlotte’s pragmatism, even if she did not share it. But to hear her admit, so plainly, that she would willingly become Mrs Bennet—her stepmother, of all things—was unsettling. Not because the idea was likely, but because Charlotte had meant it.
Elizabeth moved through the dance with practised ease, but the hall’s chatter—the clink of glass, the rustle of silk, and laughter—seemed suddenly distant.
She was angry, she realised. Not just at Charlotte, but at the absurdity of it all. Her father had become prey. A man of income and property did not remain a widower long without drawing the notice of the marriage-minded. Elizabeth had assumed such attention had passed, but now she saw how mistaken she had been.
Her father had deflected such advances with sardonic remarks—or by simply not appearing. Perhaps he had been shielding himself…them…but mostly, shielding little Thomas.
Elizabeth’s gaze sought her sister across the room. Jane was deep in conversation with Miss Gertrude Long, serene as ever. But Elizabeth knew that look. It was the one Jane wore when trying to hide her distress. Had she heard such comments often before and kept them to herself to spare Elizabeth?
The next dance began before Elizabeth even realised she had consented to it. Her new partner was one of the Goulding nephews, all polished shoes and awkward compliments. She smiled and replied with just enough wit to keep him flattered, but her heart was not in it.
When the set concluded, she excused herself, feigning thirst. A glass of lemonade was pressed into her hand, though she could hardly taste it.
“Lizzy!”
Jane approached, cheeks pink from the dancing. “You look thoughtful.”
Elizabeth lowered her voice. “Charlotte said that if Papa were seeking a new wife, she would place herself amongst the hopefuls.”
Jane’s eyes widened. “She did not.”
“She did—and meant it. She is five-and-twenty and sees no prospects. And then there is our father—respectable, comfortably situated…”
“Papa has shown no interest in remarrying,” Jane said calmly.
