Elizabeth felt the faint tension return.
“She requests the carriage,” Mrs. Bennet insisted.
“And I must decline the request,” Mr. Collins replied. “You would not wish for your daughter to be subjected to unnecessary risk. Carriage accidents, as we all know, may have serious consequences.”
The words settled into the room with muted weight. Elizabeth did not move. It was not incumbent upon her to do so.
Mrs. Bennet’s breath caught. “Yes,” she said, her voice shifting, her earlier urgency giving way to something more uncertain. “Yes, of course. We must be careful.”
Her gaze turned toward Elizabeth. “My poor girl,” she murmured.
Elizabeth inclined her head slightly. She said nothing. The words were familiar. They had lost the power to wound in any immediate sense, though they never entirely lost their weight. She finished her meal without further comment.
The conversation moved on, though not with the same ease. Lydia protested once or twice, Kitty spoke more softly, and Mr. Collins returned to his plate with evident satisfaction.
Elizabeth remained composed. But her thoughts had already turned.
After breakfast, she did not linger. She rose from the table with purpose and made her way from the room, her steps measured, her hand finding the familiar points of guidance without conscious effort. The house was still in motion around her, but she moved through it with a steadiness born of habit.
Jane would not wish to remain. Elizabeth knew it as surely as she knew her own thoughts. To be obliged to stay, to accept hospitality that had not been freely sought, to feel herself aburden rather than a guest—such a situation would weigh upon Jane more than she would ever allow to be seen.
And now, with the carriage refused… Elizabeth did not hesitate. She turned instead toward the back stairs, making her way upward to the bedchamber that had once been entirely Jane’s and was now shared in quieter ways. The room was as she expected—neatly arranged, though touched with the absence of its usual occupant.
Elizabeth crossed to the wardrobe and opened it. She knew what she sought. The boots were there, set aside in their proper place. Practical. Well-made. Entirely suited to walking, should the need arise. Elizabeth reached for them, her fingers brushing over the familiar leather. Jane would walk, if given the means, Elizabeth was certain of it.
She took up a small basket from the corner of the room and placed the boots within, arranging them so they would not shift. The weight was inconsequential. She closed the wardrobe and turned. There was one more matter.
Elizabeth made her way toward the small sitting room where Mary often spent her mornings. She found her there, a book open upon her lap, her posture straight, her attention fixed upon the page.
“Mary,” Elizabeth said.
Mary looked up at once. “Lizzy. Are you well?” Her sister’s concern warmed her heart. Mary was not the most demonstrative but sincere nonetheless.
“I am going to Netherfield.”
Mary’s brows lifted slightly. “On foot?”
“Yes.”
Mary considered this, then smiled—a small, thoughtful expression. “I am pleased,” she said, “that Jane will be spared the mortification of remaining another day.”
Elizabeth’s lips curved. “Mortification indeed,” she said. “We both know she would feel it keenly.”
Mary inclined her head. “She does not like to impose.”
“No,” Elizabeth agreed. “She does not.”
There was a brief pause. Mary closed her book. “Will you require anything?”
Elizabeth shook her head. “Nothing beyond what I carry.”
Mary’s gaze moved to the basket, then back again. “You are a very good sister,” she said.
Elizabeth smiled faintly. “I am only a practical one.”
Mary’s expression softened. “Take care,” she said. “Your stick could easily get stuck in ground wet from the rain.”
“I shall.” The journey across the fields was nothing for someone with full use of their senses, but being partially blind made it more difficult for Elizabeth.
