Most in the room exchanged glances. Elizabeth raised an eyebrow at Jane, who merely pressed her lips together in good-natured resignation.
Mrs. Bennet continued with growing exasperation. "And to make matters worse, your father is being entirely unreasonable about the wedding budget. He says he will not approve a single shilling until he has spoken to the gentleman—assuming he even comes at all, which is the most provoking tease. I had half a mind to ask you, Lizzy, to reason with him, but it seems since your odd spell you’ve quite lost his favour. He listens to no one these days, locked away in that study."
Elizabeth blinked, startled by the sting of her mother's words and the revelation of her father's withdrawal. She glanced toward the study door, her thoughts shifting—concern joining the many threads already weaving themselves into her heart.
It was true that she had noticed a difference these past months. First, it was her refusal to allow him to tease Jane so heartlessly through the winter, and later her insistence that he not permit Lydia to chase after officers in Brighton. At the time, she had seen his acquiescence as a small victory, a hopeful change. Yet now, she recognized that it had only deepened his retreat from the family. Living three years under the care of a responsible and dutiful husband had sharpened her awareness of her father's shortcomings. She loved him still, and their conversations were sometimes companionable, but it was love tempered by regret. The head of Longbourn, once merely indolent, now appeared almost willfully detached.
Yet he was a grown man, and if he chose this path despite her efforts, she would let him be. It was her sisters who needed her more keenly now—Kitty, Mary, and even Lydia. She had seen in Kitty a spark worth tending, a spirit clouded only by proximity to Lydia's heedless influence. Mary, too, must not be allowed to withdraw again into solitude and silent longing. If she could guide them—truly guide them—perhaps they would each grow into women of sense and steadiness. Elizabeth resolved that she would not leave it to chance. She would help Kitty to bloom, encourage Mary to remain engaged with them, and even Lydia, if kicking and screaming she must.
Jane had told her she only did what love and duty demanded, and Elizabeth now saw with clarity that this second chance demanded no less of her. Her knowledge of the future was a burden and a blessing—a gift meant not merely for her own happiness but for the betterment of all those she held dear. If love and duty had guided her once, they must guide her now more firmly, more wisely. She had been given the chance to mend what had once been broken, and she would not squander it.
With renewed determination, Elizabeth rose and looked out the window toward the spring-bright fields. She would do her part. Come what may, she would not stand idle when so much could yet be saved.
Chapter 45
Elizabeth awoke with the first light of day slipping between the curtains, a soft hush upon the world. For a moment, she lay still, savoring the quiet flutter of anticipation that stirred within her. Today, Mr. Bingley would come—and perhaps, perhaps, Fitzwilliam would be with him.
Her heart quickened at the thought, bright with the kind of hope she no longer feared to feel. It had not been explicitly promised when last they parted, only gently implied inwords and glances half-spoken. In her first life, she had not known how to read those signs—or had not cared to, pride and prejudice clouding her judgment. She had not dared to trust in what she saw, unwilling to risk her heart on uncertain ground. But she had learned. And now, with the memory of what had followed etched in her heart, she understood his silences and subtleties far better. She believed she had understood him this time.
And though certainty could be a fragile thing, this morning it felt sturdier than most. Her thoughts were not anxious but expectant, like one waiting for the first note of a familiar melody.
She closed her eyes again, indulging a fleeting vision: the sound of wheels on gravel, a figure descending from the carriage, and then the door opening—quietly, unceremoniously—and there he stood. Might she look up from her teacup and find him there, tall and grave in the threshold, the morning light catching in his dark curls? She had dreamt as much the night before. And though she knew better than to place faith in dreams, the thought had warmed her more than the hearth.
Rising at last, she dressed with more care than she would admit, smoothing her hair twice before pinning it back and selecting a ribbon with deliberate thought. She descended the stairs with a lighter step than she had carried in many months. The early sunlight dappled the hallway, and the air held a hum of gentle activity—servants moving with purpose, breakfast scents already curling through the air.
Jane was already in the breakfast parlour, her cheeks faintly pink and her blue eyes bright with a happiness that needed no words. The room felt warmer for her presence. They shared a glance—a glance that said everything—and Elizabeth, feeling suddenly sixteen again, gave a soft laugh as she took her seat beside her sister.
"I feel as though we are young girls awaiting a fair," Elizabeth said under her breath.
Jane smiled, a soft and secret smile. "I know. It is most improper."
They were still exchanging gleeful looks when Mr. Bennet appeared, newspaper in hand, his spectacles perched upon his nose. He paused, surveying his two eldest daughters with a dry amusement.
"Well, well," he said, folding his paper with exaggerated care. "Two such radiant countenances at my breakfast table—surely the heavens themselves must be trembling."
Elizabeth, in her current spirits, found herself unbothered by her father's wit. She merely inclined her head, as if acknowledging a compliment.
"I hope, sir," she said sweetly, "that we shall not disappoint the heavens—or yourself."
Mr. Bennet chuckled and retreated behind his paper once more.
Mrs. Bennet, already in a flurry of agitation, issued commands with all the energy of a general on the eve of battle. A footman had been sent racing to the cook barely an hour earlier, and now her instructions were repeated at increasing volume.
We must have a proper dinner tonight!” she cried. “Fish, mind you—good fresh fish! And a capon, if one can be had! And Lydia must be fetched home immediately—Kitty, you will go into Meryton at once and bring her back. And on the way, do stop at the market and see if there is any fresh mackerel or trout to be had!”
“Yes, Mama,” Kitty said with a resigned sigh, rising from her seat. She cast a quick, uncertain glance at Elizabeth before slipping from the room. Elizabeth, catching the glance, felt a pang of pity. Poor Kitty, so often caught between sense and silliness, and always buffeted by stronger wills.
Mary sat at her usual place, composed and quiet, her hands folded neatly before her. She said nothing to interrupt her mother’s torrent of commands but once met Elizabeth’s gaze with a small, steady look of support that warmed Elizabeth more than any protestation could have done.
Breakfast was a lively affair, or rather, Mrs. Bennet’s unceasing commentary lent it the appearance of liveliness, though it left little room for reflection. But beneath it all, Elizabeth felt the stirring of real happiness—a happiness not yet complete, but nearer now than it had been in so very long.
She glanced at Jane and found her sister looking back at her with shining eyes. Whatever the day might bring, whatever fears still trembled in the recesses of her heart, Elizabeth knew she would face them with courage—and with hope.
Mr. Bennet, having finished his modest breakfast and surveyed the growing excitement of his household with an air of good-humoured resignation, rose from his chair and folded his newspaper with a decisive snap.
“I shall be in my book room,” he announced, addressing no one in particular. “Pray do not disturb me unless the young gentlemen arrive—or unless some fresh catastrophe strikes which cannot be borne without paternal wisdom. Though I doubt, my dear Mrs. Bennet, that even my talents could compete with five thousand a year.”
With that sally, and a slight, affectionate smile directed at Jane, Mr. Bennet departed, leaving the ladies to their bustling preparations.
