“Is he very unwell?” Elizabeth asked.
“Not at all. Only restless. He is already improved.”
Elizabeth smiled. “I am glad.”
Jane’s gaze—gentle, attentive—rested upon her. “And how are you this morning, Lizzy?”
“Well, thank you.”
Jane hesitated only a moment before continuing, “And what are your plans for the day?”
Elizabeth reached for her tea once more. “I believe I shall read. Aunt Gardiner sent a new book, and I have not yet had the opportunity to begin it.”
Jane’s expression softened with approval—and concern. “You must take care not to strain yourself. Too much reading may bring on a megrim.”
Elizabeth made a small face. “I shall be prudent.”
Mr. Collins stirred. “I have heard it remarked,” he said, with renewed seriousness, “that reading is a most improving occupation—particularly for the mind. It is therefore a matter of some regret that, in your case, Miss Elizabeth, the effect appears to be rather the reverse.”
There was a brief silence.
Lydia’s hand stilled.
Kitty’s gaze dropped once more.
Mrs. Bennet sighed deeply. “My poor girl—”
Elizabeth rose. “I believe I have had sufficient,” she said, though she had scarcely eaten.
“Lizzy—” Jane began.
“I am quite well,” Elizabeth assured her gently. “I shall take a little air—and my book.”
She reached for her father’s walking stick, which rested where she had left it against the chair. Her fingers closed around it with familiar certainty.
"Mind yourself," Jane whispered solicitously.
“I always do.” Elizabeth turned toward the door.
One step. Two. Three. She could not hurry. The room lay clear enough before her—near things, known things. The doorway. The hall beyond. She counted without thinking, each measure ingrained through repetition.
Four. Five. Six.The corridor opened.Seven. Eight.She turned left.Nine. Ten.The small table by the wall—two steps further.Eleven. Twelve.She passed it without touching.
There was a comfort in this—this mastery of space, this certainty of movement where once there had been none. It had not come easily. There had been missteps, bruises, frustration, and the long, weary ache of learning to trust herself again.
But she had learned. And she would not unlearn it.
The morning room lay ahead, its windows catching the full strength of the light. Elizabeth moved toward it instinctively. Brightness aided her—brought what clarity she could claim into sharper focus.
She reached the chair by the window and sat.
The book lay where she had left it the previous evening. She picked it up and turned it in her hands, angling it so that the light fell most directly across the page.
The print was small.
There were no larger editions to be had—not in any common circulation—and she had long since abandoned the hope ofsuch accommodations. Instead, she read as she must: slowly, laboriously, with frequent pauses to rest her eyes when the strain grew too great.
It was enough, she reminded herself. It must be enough. She could see. Indeed, she had regained sight in her left eye when doctors had feared she would be completely blind.
