“You have not taken anything,” she murmured.
“I shall,” Elizabeth replied softly.
At that moment, Mrs. Bennet gave a small, distressed sound.
“My poor girl,” she said, her voice rising with immediate feeling. “To be spoken of in such a manner—though I am sure it was not intended—oh! it quite oversets me to think of it.”
Elizabeth did not look toward her mother.
Mrs. Bennet sat not at the head of the table—nor even at its right—but somewhat lower, nearer the middle, her place altered as much by circumstance as by inclination. Jane’s chair, when she was present, commanded the room with a modest authority that no one thought to dispute.
“It is nothing, Mama,” Elizabeth said, with gentle firmness.
“But it is something,” Mrs. Bennet insisted. “To be reminded so directly—my poor, unfortunate child—when you have borne it all with such fortitude—”
Lydia and Kitty exchanged a glance.
Elizabeth felt it, though she did not see it. A shared understanding. A small, silent wish that their mother might choose a different expression.
“I assure you, I am quite well,” Elizabeth said.
Mrs. Bennet dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief she had not truly needed. “Well, you must take care. You must not exert yourself. And the light—oh, the light cannot be good for you at all times—”
“I shall be cautious.” Elizabeth reached, intending to take a small portion of bread. Her fingers met nothing. She adjusted slightly—too far. The edge of her hand struck something delicate and unseen. There was the sharp clink of porcelain, a brief,treacherous tilt—and then the unmistakable sound of a cup overturning.
Tea spread quickly across the cloth.
Elizabeth stilled. “I did not—” she began.
“It is nothing,” Lydia said at once, already rising. “Only the spare cup. I shall fetch another.”
Kitty had taken up a napkin and was dabbing delicately at the spill. “It did not reach anything important.”
“My poor girl,” Mrs. Bennet murmured again, more softly this time. “If only such things might be spared you—”
Elizabeth drew her hand back into her lap.I should have turned my head to look before reaching.She often forgot, despite two years having passed. “It was my own inattention,” she said.
“No,” Lydia returned, returning with a fresh cup and placing it firmly within Elizabeth’s reach. “It was placed foolishly. There is a difference.”
Elizabeth’s lips curved faintly. “You are very kind to me.”
Lydia shrugged, though there was nothing casual in the gesture now. “One must be kind to someone.”
Kitty glanced up briefly, her expression warm, and then returned to her task.
Elizabeth sat silently for a moment. How much they had changed. Loss had a way of doing that—of smoothing some edges while sharpening others. Lydia’s heedlessness had softened into something brisk but thoughtful. Kitty’s uncertainty had steadied into gentle competence. Even Mary—though not present yet this morning—had learned, in her way, to offer comfort without instruction.
Elizabeth did not dwell long on what had been. She had learned not to.
To do so was to invite a heaviness she preferred to set aside. Better, instead, to be grateful.
Jane entered then, a slight haste in her step that Elizabeth recognized even before she spoke.
“I beg your pardon for my delay,” she said, her voice warm but touched with concern. “Thomas was not easy this morning. He has a slight cold and would not be settled without me.”
“You must not apologize, my dear,” Mrs. Bennet said at once. “Your first duty is always to your child.”
Jane moved to her seat—at the head—and sat, her presence at once altering the tone of the room.
