The declaration hung in the air as if it were of national importance.
Elizabeth exchanged a look with Jane. They both adopted the same unbothered posture—steady hands, composed expressions, the picture of mild interest and nothing more.
Footsteps sounded in the passage, then Maria Lucas hurried in, cheeks bright and hair escaping her bonnet. Charlotte followed at a calmer pace, shawl clasped neatly, eyes already sparkling.
“Kitty outran us,” Maria announced. “We tried to keep up.”
Charlotte laughed. “Papa has opinions to share, and he wished them spread with all due speed.”
Lydia leaned forward. “Is it all true? About how tall he is?”
Charlotte gave a thoughtful nod. “Papa seemed quite certain.”
Jane’s needle hesitated a moment. “Tall or not, I hope he is amiable.”
Lydia barked a laugh. “Amiable? What a dull hope. I wish him to be a good dancer who is interesting to talk to. Perhaps he has a mysterious past. Perhaps he abandoned a betrothal. Perhaps—”
“Perhaps,” Charlotte interjected, calm as water, “he is simply a man who travelled here by coach and now wishes to enjoy his stay in peace.”
Lydia ignored her. “I wager he has a scar. All interesting men have a scar.”
Kitty nodded vigorously. “Sir William did say he had a very serious countenance.”
Elizabeth kept her expression smooth, eyes lowered to her work. “Serious men may yet be agreeable.”
Jane glanced at her. “You do not sound convinced.”
“Do I not? Then I must apply myself more diligently.”
Charlotte’s lips curved. “Lizzy, your interest is showing.”
Elizabeth lifted her chin. “I have no interest.”
Charlotte reached for another spool of thread. “Of course you do not. You simply blushed when you said he might be agreeable.”
Elizabeth scoffed. “I was giving a stranger the benefit of the doubt.”
“Indeed. And when Kitty declared that he was tall as an oak tree, you pricked yourself with your needle.”
“I did no such thing.”
“Then what is that mark on your hand?” Charlotte insisted, turning Elizabeth’s wrist over.
Elizabeth tugged her hand free. “Nothing. I scratched it last week. It must have a bit of thorn still in there.”
Charlotte studied the mark with a small frown. “You ought to draw it out, whatever it is. Soak it in warm water and salt, or steep a cloth in vinegar. You will invite trouble if you leave it.”
“It does not trouble me.”
“Not yet,” Charlotte said. “But you know how thorns are. They hide more stubborn pieces than one expects.”
Elizabeth closed her hand. “I assure you, it will fade.”
Charlotte gave her a look that suggested she doubted it very much, but she had no opportunity to say more.
Lydia bounced in her chair. “Come, enough about Lizzy’s thorn. You said Mr Darcy hardly spoke? Then he must be profound. Men who think deeply always speak little. That is what novels say.”
Kitty scoffed. “No, that is what Mama says whenever she wishes Papa to be interesting. And speaking of interesting, what do you care for a stuffy old man like that? I thought you liked officers better.”
