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"I mean to, Mrs. Collins. For the rest of my life."

I say it without thinking. It is only the truth.

Mrs. Collins looks at me for a long moment, with her sensible face very grave.

"Yes," she says quietly. "I believe you do."

She goes back to her husband, who bows to her.

***

Pettigrew has come to see us off as well. He is standing at the horses' heads, out of my aunt's line of fire, holding his hat in both hands and looking more anxious than I have ever seen him, which is saying a great deal.

"By easy stages, sir," he says, for the fifth time this morning. "Rest at every change. If the head aches, stop. If the light troubles you, draw the blinds. No reading in the carriage. No arguments. No excitements of any kind."

"I shall be as dull as a parish sermon."

"Not even a strong opinion, sir."

"You have said that before."

"It bears repeating, sir." He hesitates. Then, quite suddenly, he holds out his hand.

I take it. It is a small, dry hand, and it shakes a little in mine.

"You have been very good to me, Pettigrew," I say. "Better than I deserved. I have not forgot that you stood up to my aunt."

He goes crimson to the roots of his gray hair. "It was nothing, sir."

"It was the bravest thing I have seen a man do in Kent." I lower my voice. "Come to the wedding. I shall send you the date. I mean it."

He looks past me, quickly, at Elizabeth. Something passes over his anxious face that I cannot read. Then he looks back at me and nods, rather too many times.

"Thank you, sir," he says. "I shall—yes. If I am wanted."

"You will be wanted."

"Yes, sir." He swallows. "Miss Bennet. A word."

He draws her a little aside, toward the horses. I see him say something low and urgent. I see her nod, and nod again, and her face go pale. I put it down to Pettigrew's usual alarms. He has warned me about everything from draughts to strawberries. No doubt he is warning her that I am not to be allowed to carry the luggage.

***

I hand Elizabeth into the carriage. Her fingers are cold through her glove. I hand in Miss Lucas, who is coming with us to be returned to her family, and who climbs in with the air of a girl who intends to tell everyone in Hertfordshire about this for the rest of her life.

I set my foot on the step.

"Wait."

The voice is not loud. It is not my aunt's. It comes from the doorway at the top of the steps, and it is so unexpected that everyone on the gravel turns to look.

My cousin Anne is standing in the doorway.

She is wearing a traveling cloak. It is a dark blue, rather old-fashioned, and it does not fit her very well, as though it was made for someone else, or made for her a long time ago and never worn. She has a bonnet on, and gloves, and in one hand she is holding a small leather valise.

Behind her, Mrs. Jenkinson is wringing her hands and making small distressed noises, and holding a second, much larger valise, and a shawl, and another shawl, and a hot brick wrapped in flannel.

"Anne," says my aunt.