“Then it’s decided. We shall take the carriage to Cheapside.” Elizabeth scooped Nettle up, the dog’s tail thumping against her chest. A tap-tap of a cane echoed from the landing above, and Nettle’s ears perked up.
“What is this I hear? A fancy carriage through Cheapside?” Lady Sophia descended the staircase, her eyes bright and alert. “And children playing with Nettle?”
“We plan to visit our Uncle and Aunt Gardiner,” Elizabeth said. “Gracechurch Street. They have four children who will absolutely ruin Nettle’s dignity, but she will love every moment of it.”
Lady Sophia paused on the landing, considering. “I have not been to Cheapside in years. The pastry shops near Leadenhall are excellent, if memory serves. I should like to join you.”
“It is in Cheapside,” Elizabeth repeated, feeling the need to be perfectly clear. “A merchant’s residence.”
Lady Sophia regarded her with mild reproach. “I have often found that character and intelligent conversation are not confined to a single slice of society. If you think I am too refined for Cheapside, you have gravely misunderstood my character.”
The Mottistone carriage turned into the crowded streets of Cheapside with the smooth self-assurance of a swan gliding into a duck pond. Lady Sophia tapped her cane against the roof, and the coachman drew up before a bow-windowed shop displaying an impressive array of sugared confections.
Elizabeth reached for the door handle. “I shall go in. I know exactly what the children like.”
Lady Sophia’s hand settled over hers—light as air, immovable as stone.
“Let Peters go.”
“It seems rather a great deal of fuss when I am perfectly capable of walking through a door and pointing at tarts.”
“You are capable of a great many things.” Lady Sophia said it the way one might observe that rain was wet. “The question is no longer what you are capable of, but what is expected. You are not Miss Elizabeth Bennet of Longbourn, stepping into a shopin Meryton. You are Miss Bennet of Grosvenor Street. The shop comes to you now.”
She said it without unkindness, without condescension. It was simply a fact.
A tightness crept into Elizabeth’s chest, the same as when her maid plaited her hair or the footman presented Nettle, gleaming and unfamiliar. It was a small thing, smaller than the Sèvres teacups or the lavender sheets, but it felt like a chalk line drawn across her life.
Jane’s gloved hand found hers and pressed once while the footman departed into the shop, returning shortly with marzipan fancies, iced biscuits shaped like rabbits and hedgehogs, almond tarts, and a paper of sugar plums. And then the carriage rolled into Gracechurch Street, and Elizabeth caught sight of familiar shopfronts and children darting through the lane. The tightness in her chest eased, just a little.
“Your aunt keeps a blue door,” Lady Sophia observed. “I find I like her already.”
“You cannot judge a woman’s character by the color of her door.”
“Assuredly, I can. A blue door in Gracechurch Street argues for personality, the only quality I find consistently worth encouraging.”
The carriage had hardly drawn to a stop before the blue door burst open.
The Gardiner children emerged in a tumble of excitement—Rose launching herself at Jane’s midriff, Samuel stationing himself by the horses with proprietary interest, Alice appearing with a book still tucked under her arm, and two-year-old Thomas toddling after them with the determined focus of a small explorer who refused to be left behind.
Peters handed Elizabeth down first, followed by Jane and Mary. Lady Sophia watched from the window, her eyes gleaming with interest.
“Are they yours?” Samuel demanded, staring at the matched grays. “The horses?”
“They belong to the household,” Elizabeth said.
“What’s a household?”
“A very large concept that I am still learning to navigate myself.”
Nettle leaped from the carriage without waiting for an escort.
“She bit Mr. Darcy,” Mary offered, her tone uncharacteristically bright.
Samuel’s eyes went wide. “The horse did?”
“The dog. On the ankle.”
“Did he deserve it?”
