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They sat quietly for a little while. Then Minna began to sing a lullaby in German, one Elizabeth knew so well that she joined in before the second line. Her mother's voice faltered near the end, and Elizabeth finished alone.

The next morning Minna was too weak to speak. She died that evening.

In the days after Minna's death, Mrs. Hale discovered that the most difficult part of caring for an orphaned child was not persuading her to eat or sleep. Elizabeth obeyed whenever she was asked to do either. She folded her clothes with excessive neatness, answered questions politely, and stood at the parlour window whenever a carriage approached. Her very composure frightened the housekeeper.

On the second evening Mrs. Hale found her in Henry's study, arranging the scattered books into small piles. The unfinished natural-history volume lay open on his desk. Elizabeth had placed beside it the paper on which Henry had written the names of three birds he hoped she would recognize on their next walk.

"There is no need to put the room to rights, miss," Mrs. Hale said.

"I know," Elizabeth answered. "I thought Uncle Thomas might like to see Papa's things as they were. But I do not know which things he would want. If I put everything in order, perhaps he can choose."

Mrs. Hale sat beside her. She wished she could promise that the house would remain unchanged until Elizabeth was grown, but the lease would end, servants would seek other places, and books would be packed in boxes. She could at least spare the child the task of accomplishing all those things tonight.

"Your uncle knew your father before I did," she said. "He will know which things are precious. Come away, and let me fetch you some warm milk."

Elizabeth looked at the lists in Henry's handwriting. "He was going to teach me which birds sing after rain."

"Then perhaps you might teach your cousins," Mrs. Hale answered.

Elizabeth closed the book carefully and allowed herself to be led upstairs. She could not yet imagine a future in which she taught anyone anything, but she took the book with her.

Thomas Bennet arrived three days later.

He was a tall gentleman with a tired face and eyes that reminded Elizabeth painfully of her father's, although his voice was quieter. He spoke first to the physician, then to Mrs. Hale. Only afterward did he ask to see his niece.

Elizabeth waited in the parlour with her locket clenched in her hand. She had formed a plan for greeting him with composure. Her mother would have expected her to make a proper curtsy and inquire whether his journey had been pleasant. Instead, when he entered, she stood frozen beside the chair.

Thomas did not ask her to perform the duties of a hostess. He knelt on the carpet before her.

"Elizabeth," he said, "I am your Uncle Thomas. Your father wrote of you so often that I feel I ought to know you already."

"You look like him," she whispered.

His expression changed. "I am very glad if it pleases you."

"It hurts," Elizabeth admitted.

He opened his arms, and she went to him. She wept against his coat while he held her without promising that grief would soon be over. "Henry was the best companion of my boyhood," Thomas said when she could listen. "He was forever devising some scheme that obliged me to follow and retrieve him. I would have followed him anywhere, Lizzy. I loved your father very much."

"May I still speak German?" Elizabeth asked when her tears had subsided. The question had troubled her since the day she learned she would leave home.

"If you will tolerate my wretched efforts to understand you," Thomas replied. "Your father once attempted to teach me a phrase. I fear I pronounced it so badly that a maid thought I was asking for a saucepan."

Elizabeth gave a startled little laugh.

"Then I shall teach you properly," she promised.

"I should be honoured."

They travelled from Henry's rented house near Portsmouth to Hertfordshire several days later, after his belongings had been sorted and the house closed. Thomas engaged a posting carriage, and they broke the journey with a night at an inn along the Surrey road before continuing north towards Longbourn. Elizabeth carried a small trunk of clothing, her natural-history book, three volumes in German, and the locket. She watched the countryside through the carriage window, counting hedges until she lost track.

At Longbourn the front door stood open. Four girls peered from the hall behind a fashionable woman in a bright shawl. The eldest girl smiled with unmistakable kindness.

"Girls," Mr. Bennet announced, placing a hand upon Elizabeth's shoulder, "this is your cousin. I expect you to make her welcome."

"Of course we shall," said Jane, coming forward at once. "I am so glad you have come."

Elizabeth could not return the sentiment. She had not wanted to come at all. Yet when Jane took her hand, she allowed herself to be led inside.