Elizabeth bit back a smile. Her aunt's brisk pragmatism was a tonic in itself.
"And if Jane prefers solitude?" she ventured.
"Then Jane must learn to prefer something else." Mrs. Gardiner softened, just a fraction, and rested a hand on Jane's shoulder. "My dear girl, I know your heart is bruised. But bruises heal faster in sunlight than in shadows."
Jane looked up at her aunt, and for a moment something flickered in her expression—doubt, perhaps, or the faintest stirring of hope.
"Very well," she said quietly. "I shall try."
"That is all I ask." Mrs. Gardiner turned to Elizabeth. "And you, Lizzy—you will endeavor not to let your sister brood, nor to brood yourself."
Elizabeth raised her brows. "I do not brood."
"You have done little else since you arrived from Kent."
The words landed with unexpected force. Elizabeth opened her mouth to protest, then closed it again. Her aunt was not wrong. She had told no one what had transpired at Kent—not even Jane—nor did she intend to. Yet somehow the weight of it had shown itself plainly enough for even Mrs. Gardiner to notice.
The thought unsettled her more than she cared to admit.
"I shall endeavor," she said quietly.
"Good. Now dress quickly, both of you. Your uncle has already inspected the breakfast arrangements with great solemnity and pronounced them adequate. We must not keep him waiting."
She swept from the room, leaving the door ajar behind her.
For a moment, neither sister moved.
Elizabeth glanced at Jane, who remained fixed on the window, her expression caught somewhere between despair and a fragile, trembling determination.
"Do you think it will work?" Jane's voice was barely above a whisper. "Coming here. Trying to forget."
Elizabeth crossed to the washstand, her hands moving automatically as she poured water into the basin. She thought of the way Jane's voice had trembled when she spoke of Mr. Bingley, the careful blankness that had settled over her face in the weeks since London.
"I think," she said at last, meeting Jane's eyes in the small mirror above the stand, "that forgetting may not be possible. But perhaps—" She paused, searching for words that would not be a lie. "Perhaps we might learn to carry it more lightly."
Jane's reflection showed a flicker of something—not hope, exactly, but something near enough to it.
"Then that will have to be enough," Jane said softly.
She rose and joined Elizabeth at the washstand. They dressed without speaking further, each lost in thoughts too heavy for words, and went down to breakfast together.
***
Breakfast was laid in the front parlour, where pale morning light spilled across the table and revealed Bath already bustling beyond the windows. Elizabeth watched a pair of ladiespass arm-in-arm, a sedan chair labouring uphill, a gentleman consulting his watch before disappearing into the house opposite.
It was all so purposeful. So relentlessly cheerful.
Mr. Gardiner folded his newspaper with a decisive snap. "One cannot reside in Bath without encountering half one's acquaintance. It is the most efficient crossroads in England."
Elizabeth's cup stopped halfway to her lips. "Then I suppose we must brace ourselves for efficiency."
Mrs. Gardiner's eyes flicked toward her, sharp and knowing. "We are not here in pursuit of society, Lizzy."
"No," Elizabeth agreed quietly. "Of course not."
Jane said nothing. Her gaze remained fixed on her untouched plate, her knife and fork arranged just so, as though the precise alignment of silverware might restore some semblance of order to her thoughts.
Elizabeth's chest tightened. She knew that look. It was the same careful composure Jane had worn when she spoke of London and how Caroline Bingley's calls had ceased. It was the same brittle civility she had maintained at Longbourn when their mother lamented lost chances and vanished fortunes.
