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“Mine is the most sensible,” Mary announced. “Uncle Henry clearly understood that I, alone among my sisters, would appreciate a gift that emphasizes intellectual virtue over superficial adornment.”
“Yours has spectacles because Uncle Henry thought you squinted,” Lydia said. “I distinctly remember him saying so at Christmas dinner, the year you tried to read scripture by candlelight and set fire to the tablecloth.”
“I did not set fire—”
“The scorch marks are still visible if one tilts the cloth toward the window.”
“Girls.” Elizabeth’s voice cut through the escalating shrillness. “Jane has not yet opened hers.”
Jane, who had been sitting quietly on the window seat throughout the proceedings, accepted her box from Hill with a murmured thanks. She untied the ribbon with her usual grace, lifted the tissue paper, and drew out a doll so exquisitely lovely that even Lydia stopped mid-complaint to stare.
Golden ringlets cascaded over porcelain shoulders. The painted features held the serene perfection of a Renaissance madonna, with blue glass eyes that caught the afternoon light and seemed almost to follow the viewer. The gown was white muslin trimmed with forget-me-nots, and a tiny locket hung from a golden chain at the doll’s throat.
“The locket opens,” Jane said softly, working the minuscule clasp. Inside lay a curl of hair—not doll’s hair, but human, a deep chestnut brown. “It is Uncle Henry’s. He must have cut it before—” Her voice caught. “Mamma, look. He has given me a lock of his hair.”
Mrs. Bennet let out a dramatic groan, throwing her hands up to the ceiling and nearly knocking over her teacup. “Dolls! When I am a mother of established consequence with five grown girls, your uncle sends painted bits of china! It is just like him—malicious to the core, and utterly bitter because I broke his heart twenty-five years ago!”
“Henry danced with you once, my dear, and trod on your hem,” Mr. Bennet said, without looking up from his Euripides. “You have been breaking his heart about it ever since.”
“Elizabeth.” Jane looked up from her doll, curiosity on her face. “You have not shown us yours.”
“But I already have.” Elizabeth brought forth the doll Kitty had first claimed. “Mine is nothing special. Her bonnet is crooked, and her hair is windblown. But look at the eyes.”
“They look crossed to me,” Lydia said, looking over Elizabeth’s shoulder. “With a stabbing expression.”
“I would call it character,” Jane said gently.
“So does a pug, and I would not want one of those either,” Lydia retorted. “And Mary, yours has a serious little mouth, just like yours.”
Elizabeth held hers up, the tiny painted face caught in a half-smile—the very same smirk Elizabeth gave whenever she found the world either wildly absurd or profoundly wretched. “He had them made,” she said quietly. “To remind him of us—each one of us, exactly as we are.”
Mrs. Bennet sniffed loudly, folding her arms over her lace fichu. “Dolls and painted bits of china are all very well when one has nothing better to do with one’s time, but they will not secure a single pew at church or bring a gentleman to the scratch. I should like to know why your Uncle Henry only exerted himself to find a rich husband for Lizzy, while the rest of you are left to depend on trinkets and locks of deceased hair!”
“I am giving you what Uncle Henry meant you to have.” Elizabeth’s voice held steady, though barely. “He left dolls as consolation prizes, in case his gamble failed. But it did not fail. And so you have dolls and settlements, and I have the satisfaction of knowing that none of you need ever marry a man you do not love.”
“Unless we wish to,” Lydia said, with a pointed glance at Jane.
“I beg your pardon?” Jane’s face colored instantly, a delicate pink spreading from her collar to her temples as she smoothed the white muslin of her doll’s gown with excessive care. “Lydia, I can assure you that your imagination is running quite as untamed as your ribbons. You speak of matters of the heart with the easy confidence of one who has never experienced anything deeper than a new bonnet.”
The knocker blessedly sounded.
“Ma’am.” Hill appeared in the doorway, her face bearing the carefully neutral expression of a servant who has witnessed much and intends to survive more. “There is a carriage on the drive.”
“A carriage?” Mrs. Bennet’s fan halted. “What sort of carriage?”
“A very fine one, ma’am. Four horses. Liveried footmen. The crest appears to be—”
But Elizabeth was already at the window, her pulse quickening despite herself. The carriage that swept up the Longbourn drive was indeed very fine—Darcy-fine, with the Pemberley crest gleaming on the door and a familiar figure descending before the wheels had fully stopped.
A mere se’nnight’s absence, and the sight of her husband sent Elizabeth’s pulse into a lively reel as she slipped past a startled Hill and out the door.
Her husband looked up, caught her eye, and his face transformed in that way she had learned to read: the slight softening around his mouth, the warmth flooding eyes that strangers still called cold.
Georgiana descended behind him, her traveling pelisse dusty from the road and her expression bright with barely contained news.
“Happy birthday, dearest sister.” She embraced Elizabeth on the threshold, her voice dropping to a whisper against Elizabeth’s ear. “The Ashworths have sailed from Portsmouth three mornings ago. Brother and I watched their ship clear the harbor ourselves.” A pause, and then, even softer: “Brother and Richard have both agreed that I may write to Miss Ashworth, provided the letters pass through your eyes first. He trusts your judgment in all things, Elizabeth. As do I.”
Elizabeth’s throat tightened, but she pressed Georgiana’s hand with a smile. “I am delighted Fitzwilliam accompanied you to see them off. He is learning to trust your judgment, as well.”
