Kitty laughed softly, her attention divided between Lydia and the ribbon she was attempting to attach to the sleeve of one of her gowns. “You speak as though the entire assembly depends upon his good sense.”
“It does,” Lydia insisted. “Or at least its success does.”
Elizabeth allowed herself a faint smile, though she kept her gaze upon her work. The bead slipped slightly beneath her fingers. She paused, adjusted, and began again.
Mary, seated somewhat apart, lifted her eyes from her own stitching. “It is not prudent to form expectations upon rumor,” she said, though her tone lacked the former edge of correction.
Lydia waved a dismissive hand. “Prudence has nothing to do with it.”
Elizabeth’s lips curved a little more. Some things, she thought, would never alter entirely—and perhaps it was just as well.
She shifted the fabric in her lap, turning it so that the morning light fell more directly across the edge she was trimming. The gown—green and cream, with a soft sheen that caught the light differently with each movement—rested in gentle folds against her knees. She smoothed one section absently with her fingertips before lifting her needle again.
The silk was familiar beneath her hands. She remembered the shop where it had been chosen, the thorough deliberation, the pleasure in selecting something that felt—if not grand—then at least particularly her own. Her father had stood beside her, offering opinions with more seriousness than the matter perhaps required, but with a kindness she had not questioned.
“It suits you,” he had said.
Elizabeth drew the thread through and set the bead in place. It still did.
She bent her head slightly, angling her gaze so that her left eye might better catch the detail of the work. The beads were small—pearls, softly luminous—and each must be secured with precision. Too loose, and they would shift. Too tight, and the line would pucker.
Her hand slowed.
The world beyond the fabric softened, blurred into indistinct color and movement. She made no attempt to clear it. She had long since learned that forcing her sight only brought discomfort more quickly.
Instead, she focused on what lay within reach.
“One would think,” Lydia said, moving restlessly about the room, “that a gentleman of such fortune would understand his duty to society.”
Kitty glanced up. “And what duty is that?”
“To bring agreeable companions, of course.”
Elizabeth let out a breath of amusement.
“You must forgive him if he fails to consult you beforehand,” she said.
Lydia turned back at once. “He ought to have done so.”
Elizabeth smiled faintly but did not answer. She completed another stitch, then paused again, her fingers resting lightly against the fabric. The faint ache behind her left eye had begun to gather—not yet sharp, but present enough to warn her.
She shifted slightly in her chair, drawing the work a little nearer to the window. Light mattered. She had not understood how much, once. Now, she measured her days by it.
“You will attend,” Lydia said again, as though returning to a matter not yet sufficiently resolved.
Elizabeth kept her gaze lowered. “Mr. Collins wishes all of us to go.” She could not dance. All she would be able to do is sit and observe…and possibly get another megrim.
“It will do you good,” Lydia returned. “We shall all attend. It would be quite absurd to do otherwise.”
Kitty nodded. “Of course we shall go.”
Mary glanced between them, then back to her work. “It will be…an event.”
Elizabeth smiled faintly at the hesitation. “Yes,” she said. “I believe it will.”
She drew another bead into place, then set her needle aside for a moment and rested her hands in her lap. The small pause was enough to ease the strain slightly.
Across the room, Jane sat at the table, her movements orderly, composed. Her own gown lay before her—pale, elegant, requiring only modest alteration. She worked steadily, her needle moving with a certainty Elizabeth envied but did not begrudge. Jane had always possessed such steadiness. Now, it served her well.
