Elizabeth felt the words settle. “You are certain?”
Charlotte drew back. “As certain as one may be.”
“And you wish it?”
Charlotte did not hesitate. “I do.”
Elizabeth nodded slowly. “Then I hope it comes about exactly as you desire.”
Charlotte smiled. They spoke for another half an hour before she was required to leave on her mother’s errand. When she departed, Elizabeth walked with her to the door, her steps measured, her hand resting lightly upon her father’s walking stick.
“I am glad you came,” she said.
“As am I.”
The door closed. Elizabeth remained where she stood for a moment. Marriage. The word lingered.
Charlotte would marry. Jane had married—and would likely marry again, given the opportunity.
Elizabeth turned slowly and made her way back toward the window. Men required capable wives. Women who could manage a household, receive guests, oversee accounts without hesitation or strain.
Elizabeth rested her hand more firmly upon the walking stick.
She did what she could. She managed what was hers to manage. But she knew—clearly—that what she offered was not what most men would seek.
The thought did not wound her. Not now. It settled instead into something that resembled peace.
She drew a breath. Still, she hoped. Not for herself, perhaps. But for others. For Jane and Charlotte. For some fortunate lady who might meet Mr. Bingley and be admired—and chosen.
Elizabeth returned to her seat.
Mary had finished the beading.
Elizabeth ran her fingers lightly along the line of pearls.
“It is very well done,” she said.
Mary inclined her head. “It was easily guided.”
Elizabeth smiled faintly.
“Then we shall be ready.”
Elizabeth wished for a walk in the garden. The drawing room had grown warmer with conversation, with movement, with the small excitements that seemed to gather now around every mention of Netherfield. Though she did not begrudge it—indeed, she shared in it, in her own gentle way—there were moments when she preferred something steadier.
Something smaller. Something known.
She slipped from the room without remark, her hand finding the familiar curve of her father’s walking stick as she stepped into the hall. The air there was cooler, the sounds of the house softened by distance and walls. She paused only briefly to orient herself, then turned toward the back passage that led to the nursery and the smaller sitting room beyond.
One step. Then another.
She was not required to count them every time now—not as she had once done—but the rhythm remained within her all the same. The placement of each foot, the slight adjustment of her shoulder as she passed a narrow table, the instinctive shift toward the left where the light from a distant window might guide her—these things had become part of her, no longer conscious effort, but habit.
At the end of the passage, she heard it.
A soft, uneven hum. Followed by a small thump.
Elizabeth’s lips curved before she reached the doorway.
