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That afternoon she wrote to Jane. She described the rooms and the books, Lady Matlock's conversation, and Richard's defeat at chess. She did not write that she had cried over her morning chocolate, for she knew Jane would worry. Instead she wrote that she had been given a place at the breakfast table and suspected it would remain hers even on the days when she preferred bread to toast.

Jane's answer arrived several days later. Charlotte Lucas had visited, and Mrs. Bennet had spent most of the afternoon finding fault with the house they would shortly occupy near Meryton. The smaller girls missed Elizabeth, though Lydia was more inclined to miss the audience Elizabeth had provided for her exploits. Mary had asked that she be sent a German prayer, provided the spelling was sufficiently clear to copy.

Elizabeth read the letter twice, then took it to the music room and wrote Mary a short verse in German with a careful translation. She included a private note to Jane: You are not to believe that a new household makes the old less dear to me. I carry you all with me, whether you approve of the arrangement or not.

By Christmas the arrangements for her residence had become less startling. She knew which doors Richard would leave ajar, which servants the Earl greeted by name, and which hours Lady Matlock preferred for reading. Saye came and went upon business concerning his own estate, but he never returned without inquiring whether she had finished the book he had lent her. Once he found her puzzling over a passage in German and sat beside her while she translated it.

"I cannot judge the language," Saye said when she finished, "but I know a man who can turn an ordinary request for firewood into a complaint concerning the rights of all mankind. Your poet appears to have a similar gift."

"He is speaking of freedom," Elizabeth protested.

"Then he ought to be allowed to speak longer. I only wish he might make his point before supper."

In the spring of 1808 Mr. Collins married Charlotte Lucas. Jane's letter announcing the engagement was written with enough care that Elizabeth could detect the worry beneath its congratulations. She took it to the Earl, who read the first lines and glanced at her.

"You are troubled for your friend," he said.

"I am afraid she is choosing a difficult life because it appears the only secure one. I have no right to condemn her. Without your kindness, I might have been facing the same question."

"You would still have had the right to refuse."

"A right may be difficult to exercise when every other door is shut."

The Earl considered her words, then set aside his correspondence. "That is a distinction I should have made sooner than I did."

Elizabeth slipped her hand into his. "You made it when it mattered."

The years did not pass in a single happy blur. There were evenings when she missed her father so acutely that the words of a book swam before her eyes; mornings when the scent of lavender brought Minna to mind; visits to Hertfordshire where Mrs. Bennet managed to wound her without even appearing to notice. There were also new habits that grew slowly into certainty. On her seventeenth birthday Lady Matlock gave her a writing case. Richard supplied a dreadful book of military anecdotes and defended his taste with considerable eloquence. Saye sent a finely bound German atlas from his estate, its margins wide enough for her notes.

In 1809 the Earl engaged a German-speaking companion, Frau Adler, to visit twice weekly. The lady had been educated in Hanover and was delighted to discover that Elizabeth's German was not the neat, schoolroom variety usually spoken by English pupils.

"Your mother taught you to choose your words as though addressing a drawing room," Frau Adler observed in German after their first lesson. "But she also taught you a thousand affectionate little household phrases that no governess would think to include."

Elizabeth treasured that distinction. When Frau Adler corrected her written grammar, she accepted it readily. When the older lady advised her to abandon a quaint phrase Minna had favoured, Elizabeth smiled and said she would keep it for private use.

"Then it is not an error at all," Frau Adler said in German. "It is a remembrance."

One evening in the autumn of 1809 Elizabeth returned from a charitable visit with Lady Matlock to find Richard and Saye disputing over the disposition of chairs in the music room. Richard wanted a small table removed; Saye insisted it would be needed when their mother received guests.

"We require an impartial judge," Richard declared.

Elizabeth inspected the room. "Then you must send for one. I have already been offered bribes from both sides."

"Mine was only a promise of tea," Saye said.

"Yours was an offer to allow me the final word, which is much more tempting."

Richard moved the table before either could stop him. A pile of music slid to the floor. Elizabeth and Saye looked at one another; both began laughing.

Later, as they restored order, Saye said quietly, "You have made this house livelier than it was."

"Richard might dispute that it needed assistance."

"Richard was perfectly capable of making noise. I meant something rather different."

She did not ask him to explain. His affection was never theatrical, and she had learned to value it all the more for that.

When the music room was finally put to rights, Richard announced that he had won the dispute on principle, despite the considerable evidence of fallen music sheets. Saye had quietly arranged for the smaller table to be moved before the next guests arrived; Elizabeth discovered the arrangement only when she returned to look for a misplaced score.