He frowned.
She continued more quietly. “You know why this matters.”
He did not answer at once. Instead, he looked past her toward the tower, as though measuring its outline against an older memory.
“My mother felt rather strongly about this place. She believed the settlement was not merely legal language. That it was worth taking up, and that not only was her life richer for it, but she found some satisfaction in the service.”
He regarded her then, searching her face as if to ensure she spoke from conviction rather than impulse. “And you believe the same?”
“I will see it through,” she replied. “With open eyes.”
That answer appeared to satisfy him no more than the others had, but it was honest. He reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a small bundle wrapped in paper. “You left something behind.”
She unfolded it and laughed under her breath. “Papa’s Horace.”
“You were always partial to it.”
“And Mr Collins was not.” Her gaze softened as she ran her fingers over the cover.
“I have others, you know,” she admitted. “Ten in all. Tucked among my things before we quitted Longbourn. He never thought to examine the crates marked ‘kitchen.’ They are in my trunkeven now.”
Mr Gardiner’s expression shifted—grief and amusement meeting in the same place. “You intend to fortify yourself with Latin? You truly are your father’s daughter.”
The driver shifted again upon his box and cleared his throat.
Mr Gardiner drew a long breath and released it with finality. “Very well,” he said. “Mrs Hargreaves is a good woman, and she will look well to you. I shall see you again before winter’s close, or at worst in early spring. Write to us, Lizzy.”
“I shall.”
He hesitated only once, then embraced her briefly. When he drew back, there was no further argument between them. He mounted the carriage and, with one last wave, closed the door.
Mrs Hargreaves stood in the doorway, hands on hips, eyes squinting against the wind. The carriage turned upon the rough ground and began its descent.
Elizabeth remained where she was until it had vanished beyond the bend of the hill.
Only then did she turn back toward the cottage, the tower rising dark and watchful beyond it, and the sea speaking without pause below.
Chapter Six
Hehadtakenthelonger way up, a length of pale timber balanced against his shoulder, another rope-bound bundle dragging behind him over the grass. The tide had been generous that afternoon. Enough to make a decent fire if the wind would permit it.
He paused only to shift his grip and saw the carriage.
It was already turning south, wheels grinding over the broader track. A gentleman sat inside, hat raised briefly toward the cottage before the carriage faded from view.
He did not alter his pace. Visitors came rarely. When they did, they seldom lingered. They came for the view, not for him.
But there was someone left behind.
A woman stood before the cottage door, her cloak drawn close against the wind. He had never seen her, but the white-haired figure beside her he knew at once. He adjusted the timber upon his shoulder and continued upward.
Mrs Hargreaves saw him first. “There now,” she called above the wind. “Here he is.”
He laid the driftwood down with care before approaching, wiping his hands against his coat. The woman turned toward him.
She was younger than he would have guessed from that first glimpse of her profile. Her gloves were city-made; her posture unbent by wind. Yet she did not shrink from the air. It took her breath, perhaps, but not her footing.
“Wickie,” Mrs Hargreaves said briskly, as though presenting a tool rather than a man. “You’ve company.”
