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"You must keep that close," Jane murmured.

"I shall."

At last only the locket remained on the dressing table. Elizabeth fastened it around her neck and turned toward Jane.

"Do you remember my first night here?" she asked.

Jane smiled sadly. "You would not tell me whether you wanted another blanket. I thought you believed I might be offended if you were cold."

"I was afraid to ask for anything."

"You became very good at asking for my opinion whether I wanted to give it or not."

"And you became very good at telling me when my opinion was nonsense."

"Not often enough," Jane replied.

Elizabeth crossed the room and embraced her cousin. "I wish you were coming."

"So do I, sometimes. But Mama and the girls need me now, and you must not be unhappy because you have been offered something good."

"Will you write?"

"Every week, provided you answer."

"I shall send you such long letters that you will regret making the promise."

"Never."

They stayed together until Hill came to say that the carriage was ready. Mary offered Elizabeth a small volume of sermons, explaining that it might provide consolation in difficult times. Kitty wept openly and demanded a promise of another visit before Christmas. Lydia asked whether there would be grand parties in London and whether Elizabeth might send her a fashionable ribbon.

Elizabeth promised what she reasonably could. She embraced each of them, and found that the mixture of sorrow and affection threatened to overwhelm her.

Mrs. Bennet stood in the hall. "Well, Lizzy, you have been extraordinarily fortunate. I hope you will remember what an excellent home we gave you and conduct yourself in a manner worthy of your new connections."

Elizabeth looked at her aunt. She might have replied that the home had belonged as much to Uncle Thomas as to anyone, or that affection was not an item in a household account. But she had loved Longbourn, and she would not spoil her last moments in it with another quarrel.

"I shall always remember the kindness I received here," she answered. "I hope you and my cousins will be happy."

Mrs. Bennet appeared dissatisfied by the reply, yet she could find no fault in its words.

Lord Matlock offered Elizabeth his arm. The sight of the carriage waiting beyond the door brought a sudden recollection of another journey eight years earlier, when she had left her parents' home with a trunk and a locket and no notion of what awaited her.

She paused on the threshold.

"May I say farewell to the library?" she asked.

"Of course," the Earl replied.

Elizabeth went alone. The room smelled of leather, paper, and the faint trace of the pipe tobacco Mr. Bennet had sometimes used. His chair stood near the window. On the shelf beside it rested the history of Mediterranean voyages he had once shown her, its spine worn from years of handling.

She touched it lightly.

"Thank you, Uncle," she whispered. "For loving me."

Then she closed the door behind her.

The carriage traveled through Hertfordshire beneath a pale autumn sky. For some miles Elizabeth watched the passing fields without speaking. Lord Matlock made no attempt to draw her into conversation. He occupied himself with a letter, occasionally looking up to ensure she was comfortable.