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“Then, Lizzy, I shall take your place,” Lydia said, her dark eyes brightening. “After all, Lydia sounds like Lizzy, or close enough, and I am certain Mr. Darcy will not know the difference.”
“But why cannot it be me?” Kitty pouted. “Why did Uncle Henry not name me? I never sassed him the way you did.”
“You stood there sucking your thumb!” Lydia accused. “While Lizzy toadied up to him and his boring stories about ships and harbors—”
“Pirates, too!” Kitty said. “Scary stories that made my thumb seek shelter.”
Elizabeth longed to stuff her ears with cotton as they trudged what felt like the longest mile in Hertfordshire. “His stories were not boring, and I learned a great deal from them.”
Lydia kicked at a stone on the path. “It is not fair. Eighty thousand pounds should be divided among all of us. We are all his nieces. I do not see why you should have all the money simply because you were willing to sit through his lectures on the difference between a brig and a—whatever the other one is.”
“A schooner.”
“You see? You even remember the names. You were cultivating him, Lizzy. You were scheming for his fortune all along.”
“I was corresponding with my uncle because he was interesting and no one else in this family cared whether he lived or died.” The words came out sharper than Elizabeth intended. “If that is scheming, then I suppose I stand convicted.”
Lydia’s mouth opened to deliver the next salvo, but Mary interrupted her, having quickened her pace to contribute.
“The love of money is the root of all evil,” Mary announced. “First Timothy, six-ten. Elizabeth would do well to remember that eighty thousand pounds is a test of her moral character, not a reward for her presumption.”
“I did not presume anything, Mary. I answered Uncle Henry’s letters.”
“And now you must answer for the consequences. Mr. Darcy is a proud man—everyone in Hertfordshire knows it—and pride is the first of the deadly sins.”
“That would be wrath, actually,” Kitty said. “Or is it gluttony? I can never remember.”
“The point,” Mary pressed on, undeterred, “is that Elizabeth has been placed in a position of spiritual peril. She must choose between worldly fortune and the humility required of a Christian woman.”
“I was not aware that Christian humility required me to marry a man who despises me,” Elizabeth said. “But I thank you for the clarification.”
Lucas Lodge appeared around the bend, and Elizabeth nearly wept with relief. The house was modest, comfortable, and—most importantly—contained Charlotte, who would not quote scripture at her or demand to know why she had inherited eighty thousand pounds.
Charlotte, as it happened, was waiting on the front step, as though she had anticipated exactly this invasion. Her expression, as she took in the parade of Bennet sisters descending upon her home, was a masterwork of restrained amusement.
“Lizzy,” she said. “And Lydia, Kitty, Mary. What a delightful surprise.”
“We are in crisis,” Lydia announced as if Charlotte had not already been in the thick of it. “Lizzy’s uncle has left her a fortune, and she must marry Mr. Darcy or lose it all, and she is being impossible about the entire business.”
“I am merely attempting to think,” Elizabeth retorted.
“Ladies.” Charlotte stepped aside to usher them in. “Perhaps we might continue this discussion in the drawing room. Maria has been baking, and I believe there is still tea in the pot.”
The Lucas Lodge drawing room was smaller than Longbourn’s, but it possessed the considerable advantage of not containing Mrs. Bennet. Elizabeth sank into a chair by the window while Charlotte expertly dispatched the younger Bennets—Lydia and Kitty to the kitchen, where Maria’s baking would keep them occupied; Mary to the library, where Sir William kept a volume of sermons she had not yet exhausted.
The drawing-room door closed. Charlotte gestured to the chair nearest the fire, and Elizabeth sank into it with supreme gratitude.
“You look dreadful,” Charlotte said.
“You are the second person to observe that today, and neither of you has offered a remedy.”
“I have tea. I do not have a remedy for uncles who write incendiary wills.” Charlotte poured from a pot that was already waiting. “Now, tell me. Is your mother well? Your family?”
Elizabeth cradled the teacup, warming her hands. “My mother is well enough to command the cavalry, and my father is well as long as the library door is locked. Jane tends to my mother, and well, you saw my sisters. We are as well as well can be with eighty thousand pounds hanging over our heads like a guillotine blade.”
“Lizzy.” Charlotte’s voice was patient in a way that made Elizabeth want to throw something. “Two days ago, before your uncle’s will was read, you did not have the choice of eighty thousand pounds, and now you do. I should think your family is all the better for it.”
“Only if I marry a man I do not care for!” Elizabeth closed her eyes. The tea was hot and strong and did nothing for the hollow beneath her ribs. “Charlotte, what am I to do?”
