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"In almost precisely those words. I remember being most offended by the charge against the birds."

Mary's lips trembled. She shut the book and began to weep, quietly at first, then with a grief she had been holding behind solemn remarks since the illness began. Elizabeth moved her chair closer. She could not repair the years in which Mary had felt overlooked. She could at least sit beside her now.

Later Mr. Gardiner came to the library carrying a packet of papers. He found Elizabeth replacing the book on its shelf and asked whether she wished to hear what had been arranged for the family. He did not speak as though money were an unfit topic for a young lady, an attitude for which Elizabeth was grateful.

"Your aunt will not be abandoned," he told her. "The marriage settlement provides an income of about two hundred pounds a year while she lives. It is enough to prevent destitution, not to maintain this house and its servants. Your uncle Phillips and I shall help her take a smaller establishment in Meryton; I have already written about a suitable house. The girls’ portions are modest and cannot sensibly be spent on everyday expenses."

"And the younger girls?" Elizabeth asked.

"They will continue with their mother. Their portions are small. Jane has been remarkably useful already, but I mean to remind her that she is entitled to some life of her own."

Elizabeth hesitated. "And what am I to do?"

Mr. Gardiner looked at her carefully. "Your father left some personal property, I understand, and there may be a small balance once the accounts are settled. Your uncle Thomas managed it for you. I shall ask his solicitor to examine those papers as well. I will not make promises before I know what can be done, but you are not without people who care for you."

His kindness warmed Elizabeth more than the promise of any sum. Still, she understood that her circumstances differed from her cousins'. They could move with Mrs. Bennet, however reduced the household might be; her own place there existed only if her aunt continued to offer it. She was ashamed of the thought, because Mrs. Bennet was grieving, but could not dismiss it. She told herself that she would be patient and useful. She would discover what assistance was needed and offer it before anyone thought to ask.

When the household gathered after the funeral to discuss the estate, Mrs. Bennet's distress acquired a sharper edge.

"Longbourn must go to that dreadful cousin," she declared. "After all these years! It is the cruellest arrangement imaginable."

"The entail is not newly invented, my dear sister," Mr. Gardiner answered gently. "But I understand your concern. We shall see what may be arranged for your comfort."

"Comfort? How am I to be comfortable when a strange man will occupy my drawing room?"

"Not immediately," Mr. Gardiner assured her. "Mr. Collins’s letter grants the family until Christmas to remove their belongings, although the estate is his from your brother-in-law’s death. He may come to inspect matters sooner. By the Christmas quarter day I hope the house in Meryton will be prepared."

Mrs. Bennet twisted her handkerchief so tightly that the lace began to tear. Elizabeth saw it happen and moved to mend it, then stopped when her aunt turned away. Mrs. Bennet had never been particularly gentle with her, but the white knuckles and the way she kept glancing toward the window were not inventions. She was afraid. That knowledge made Elizabeth want to offer comfort and recoil from the need for it at the same time.

Later Mr. Gardiner quietly arranged an inspection of the small house the family might rent. Elizabeth watched him fold the papers into his coat. Her uncle Thomas would have called the task tiresome, deferred it until tomorrow, and then made a joke about the landlord. The absence of his familiar impatience was almost worse than the empty chair.

That evening Elizabeth went into the library to straighten a crooked volume and discovered that someone had moved her uncle's spectacles from the desk. She searched two drawers before she remembered that nobody would need them again. She put the spectacles beside his unfinished book and sat on the floor until Jane came to look for her. Jane did not ask what was wrong. She lowered herself beside Elizabeth, heedless of her good dress, and remained there while the light faded.

"How generous of him to allow us to breathe beneath our own roof!"

Elizabeth, who had once found her aunt's complaints merely tiresome, now understood that grief and fear could make a person say things she would otherwise have kept to herself. She tried to meet Mrs. Bennet's distress with patience. Still, whenever her aunt spoke of Longbourn, Elizabeth thought of her uncle's chair in the library and had to look away.

A week later Mr. Collins arrived.

He was a tall, heavy-featured gentleman in his late twenties, dressed with more care than elegance and possessed of the solemn air of one continually preparing to make an important observation. He offered Mrs. Bennet his condolences at length and spoke of the unfortunate necessity of succession with such elaborate regret that Jane's expression became strained.

"I assure you, madam," he explained, "that nothing could be farther from my wishes than to cause distress to the daughters of my lamented cousin. My noble patroness, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, has repeatedly instructed me in the obligations belonging to gentlemen of property."

"Then perhaps your noble patroness might have instructed you not to take the property of five poor girls," Mrs. Bennet retorted.

"Four daughters, madam," Collins corrected, with an awkward glance toward Elizabeth. "I understand Miss Elizabeth is a niece."

Mrs. Bennet looked at Elizabeth as though a new idea had occurred to her.

"Indeed she is," she answered slowly. "A niece we have raised at our own expense these many years."

Elizabeth felt the words settle uneasily in her stomach.

That evening, Mrs. Bennet questioned Hill about the best room for Mr. Collins and instructed Jane to wear her prettiest gown at dinner. By breakfast the next day she had changed her mind about Jane's gown and began watching Elizabeth instead.

"Lizzy," she remarked with unusual sweetness, "you ought to wear your blue dress today. It becomes you rather well."

Jane looked up sharply. Elizabeth put down her cup.