Kitty nodded quickly. "Yes. I promised I would help."
Lydia scoffed. "Since when do you care about that?"
Kitty did not answer, but the flush on her cheeks deepened. Mary gave her a quiet, approving nod. The moment passed without argument, but not without significance.
Elizabeth met her gaze across the table and felt a spark of unexpected gratitude.
And so the party divided, as it must—Lydia bounding off in anticipation of gossip and glory, Mrs. Bennet not far behind in a flurry of bonnets and self-congratulation, and the rest left in the quiet after her storm. The breakfast room, so lately full of bustle and design, had at last fallen still.
Mary and Kitty departed for the music room with solemn purpose—Mary upright with quiet resolve, and Kitty trailing after her, subdued but not reluctant. Elizabeth watched them go, noting the quiet understanding that had begun to form between the two. They had spoken more often of late, and Kitty—who once might have mocked Mary’s solemnity—now seemed to draw calm from it. Though their voices were low and indistinct, the shape of their companionship was plain to see.
Still thoughtful, Elizabeth lingered behind to collect the abandoned napkins and pour out the last of the lukewarm tea. When the parlour had emptied entirely and the clatter and chatter of the morning were but a memory, she made her way to the sitting room, where the fire had been stirred and a peaceful sort of hush had begun to settle.
Jane took up her usual seat by the hearth, her hands resting in her lap with the composure that never deserted her. Mr. Bingley sat beside her, his manner easy and attentive, though there was in his voice a kind of reverence now—as if he could scarcely believe his happiness had returned to him at last. Their conversation, though quiet, was unmistakably tender; Jane’s words were never extravagant, but her eyes, bright with feeling, needed no embellishment.
Elizabeth, unwilling to intrude upon such intimacy, chose a chair at some distance and reached for her needlework. Her fingers, however, were not so quick as her thoughts, which turned inward even as the needle moved. She had hoped for such a morning for Jane—had worked toward it, in fact, by every subtle means within her power. And now that it had come, it brought with it not only satisfaction, but a touch of wistfulness too.
Her own heart, though far from idle, was less easily defined. Their last conversation in London had been interrupted. She had been ready—ready to answer him, to tell him everything. And sometimes, in quiet moments, she wondered what might have happened had she been given time to speak. But perhaps it was better that he had not heard it all at once. He had asked how long—not as a man recalling a life, but as one striving to picture a future he could scarcely name. The words had cost him. She had seen it in the way he held himself, the careful weight of his voice. There had been no declaration, no vow—only a question. But it was enough. In that question, she heard what he could not yet say: that he wished to know her still. And if he was not yet at Longbourn, it was not from want of will.
She was still turning these thoughts over when the door creaked open and Mary re-entered with a book in hand. She gave Elizabeth a contemplative look, then settled herself near the window with the quiet resolve of one content to be present, yet unobtrusive.
Elizabeth laid down her needlework. The sitting room, though calm, felt suddenly close.
“I believe,” she said, rising with a lightness she did not entirely feel, “I shall take a turn in the garden.”
Jane looked up with a smile, and Elizabeth kissed her brow in passing.
The morning air, still crisp but softened by spring’s first warmth, met Elizabeth like a balm. She walked without any particular direction, guided only by a desire for solitude. The garden was a familiar friend—less tidy than the Netherfield grounds, less grand than Pemberley, but no less beloved. It was in bloom now, shyly at first: crocuses in the beds, daffodils along the borders, and the gentle hum of bees already at work.
As she passed the south hedge, Elizabeth paused. Beneath the flowering linden tree sat Kitty, still and small, her embroidery lying idle in her lap. The sight gave Elizabeth pause—not merely because it was rare to find her sister alone, but because of the stillness in her posture. Lydia’s shadow no longer clung to her heels, and something in Mary’s quiet presence—never insistent, only steady—seemed to have created a hush around Kitty. One she had not known she needed.
Elizabeth stepped closer, her tread soft upon the grass.
Kitty looked up, surprised but not startled. Her fingers toyed with the embroidery silk in her lap. "You’re not usually out here at this hour," she said, voice tentative.
Elizabeth offered a gentle smile. "No—but it seemed a morning worth claiming. May I join you?"
Kitty gave a quick nod, and Elizabeth sat beside her.
They were quiet for a time. The rustling leaves above them filled the silence, broken only by the rhythmic chirping of birds nearby.
"Mary told me you've changed," Kitty said suddenly, still not looking at her.
Elizabeth turned slightly, her brow raised in surprise. "Did she?"
Kitty nodded. "She said you might be more willing to listen now. I didn’t know if that was true. But I hoped… it might be."
Elizabeth’s smile softened, touched by something deeper than amusement. "Then I am very willing, if you would like to speak."
"Lydia was dreadful yesterday," Kitty said at last, her voice low. "On the walk home, she told Nathaniel Pratt I was looking for a husband—and then laughed and said even the baker’s boy would not have me. She said it loud enough for everyone to hear. I nearly dropped my basket, I was so mortified."
Her voice didn’t break—but it wavered.
Elizabeth’s expression hardened, though her tone remained gentle. "That was unkind."
“I told Mary,” Kitty continued. “She didn’t say much. Just said if I wanted to stay home today, I could tell Mama I’d promised to help her.”
“And you did,” Elizabeth said.
