“No, thank you, just inspections today.” Elizabeth smiled warmly as the woman pointed to a few cracks that had developed near the fireplace. She then asked after the thatch, made a note to send Hill with a parcel of muslin for the baby’s binding, and promised to speak to Mr. Harrow about making repairs before the winter chill blew in.
At the next house, little Thomas Newell burst out the front door with a triumphant cry and presented her with a frog in a jam jar. She complimented his catch, scolded him gently for leaving his school slate undone, and left him red-faced and giggling behind his mother’s skirts.
By the time she turned back toward Longbourn, the folio was fatter, her feet were sore, and she had three new items for the steward she did not have.
If only there were such a man,she thought, flexing her aching fingers.Someone to carry the weight. Someone to care as I do.
She was so deep in thought that she nearly missed the familiar figure waiting at the lane’s fork.
“Eliza!” Charlotte Lucas approached with a brisk smile and her usual folded hands. Her pelisse was modest but well-kept, her hair neat beneath her bonnet, and her expression as pleasant and obliging as ever.
“Charlotte,” Elizabeth returned, mustering a smile. “Have you come to meet me, or is this merely a fortunate accident?”
“A very fortunate one, I hope.” Charlotte glanced at the folio beneath Elizabeth’s arm. “Still about your business, I see. Your tenants must love you dearly.”
“They do not complain,” Elizabeth said lightly. “At least not until I mention rent.”
Charlotte laughed, but her eyes were already roving over the papers. “How you manage it all is beyond me. You really ought to have been born a man—you would have made an excellent magistrate.”
“I think I should prefer to be a steward.”
“Or a bailiff,” Charlotte teased. “If only you had the whip to go with it.”
Elizabeth arched an eyebrow. “A steward carries a quill, not a whip.”
“Oh, forgive me. I only meant that you are so very—capable. Everyone knows you run Longbourn more than your father does.”
“That is unkind, Charlotte.”
“But true.”
There was a pause, one Elizabeth could not quite place. It was not new; Charlotte had always been a friend—a sensible girl, several years her senior, with a generous patience and very few illusions—but lately there had been… something else. A keen awareness behind the soft smiles. A note of hunger behind her cheer.
“You are always so practical,” Elizabeth said, shifting the folio. “I suppose I ought to envy that.”
“And I envy you.”
Elizabeth blinked. “Me?”
“Of course.” Charlotte’s smile deepened. “Your intelligence, your responsibilities, your independence…. Besides being the daughter of a gentleman and having at least some bit of dowry. Many of us would be fortunate to be in your place.”
Uncertain of how to respond, Elizabeth bit her lip and shifted uncomfortably. As if recognizing that she had let her thoughts betray her, Charlotte grinned broadly and added cheekily, “And, if I may say so, your figure. You walk so much—you must be the only young lady in the county whose corsets do not cry out in protest.”
Elizabeth laughed, surprised. “Yes, well. That, at least, I may claim without vanity.”
They walked together for a moment in silence.
“It must be lonely, though,” Charlotte said suddenly. “Having the burden all to yourself.”
Elizabeth’s fingers tightened around the strap of her folio. “I manage.”
“You always do,” Charlotte murmured. “And everyone expects you to. You carry all of Longbourn on your back, and still your mother frets about sleeves and your sisters squabble over ribbons. No one offers to help.”
“No,” Elizabeth replied softly, “they do not.”
∞∞∞
By the time Elizabeth reached Longbourn again, her arms were sore and her mind was already sorting tenant requests into categories—urgent, can wait, and will probably be forgotten unless she personally climbs the roof to fix it.
