Page 82 of A Debt Inherited

“My dear, I am sorry you are to miss our summer frivolities,” her mother said, “but it is the penalty of capable conduct. You have chosen to become necessary to the estate’s success.”

That provoked general laughter.

“I shall write every day, Lizzy,” said Kitty earnestly. “You shall know every turn of the tide and every bonnet Mama buys.”

“And I,” declared Lydia, her eyes bright with anticipation, “shall bring you seashells by the dozen—and perhaps a ribbon or two from the promenade.”

Mary looked up from her glass of cordial. “I mean to keep a record of the tides for my journal. It may serve a scientific purpose.”

Mr Bennet raised his glass, the corner of his mouth lifting. “Then between scholarship and seashells,” he said, “Longbourn will be in excellent stead come the autumn.”

The girls laughed, and Mrs Bennet began at once to speak of linen, bonnets, and whether Margate required a new pelisse. The room filled again with plans.

Elizabeth smiled with the rest, yet her father’s earlier look remained with her: mild, affectionate, and watchful.

Outside, beyond the dark glass, the May night lay quiet over the fields.

Chapter 32

Longbourn, June 1812

The summer had settled kindly over Hertfordshire. With the departure of the militia, Longbourn stood quieter than it had in many months. Mr Bennet had dismissed Simms and Harris, the extra hands once needed to tend the horses and manage the visitors’ demands. Peace had returned to the stables and, with it, a welcome order to the days.

Elizabeth rose early and walked before breakfast, her bonnet left untied and her shawl gathered loosely at her elbows. The morning air was bright with new clover and the hum of bees about the hedgerows. Freed at last from the din of parades and gossip, she felt something near to happiness—the stillness of the fields seemed an answer to every restless thought she had known since autumn.

Her path led towards Oakham Mount. The climb was gentle, the grass damp beneath her shoes, and she paused halfway to look back over the valley.

A blackbird broke from the ash near the lower hedge and flew hard across the path. Elizabeth turned at the sudden rush of wings, saw nothing but leaves settling behind it, and shook her head at her own foolishness.

The roofs of Meryton lay faint in the distance, touched by sunlight; beyond them stretched the long road south that would, by now, have carried her mother and sisters well on their way to Margate.

She smiled at the thought—Kitty’s careful letters, Lydia’s imagined triumphs, Mary’s earnest record of the tides. She pictured her mother in a straw bonnet trimmed for the seaside, declaring that salt air was the finest remedy for idleness, and her father at his desk, perfectly content to have both silence and Lizzy.

At the summit she seated herself upon the short turf and drew out a small notebook. The breeze lifted the page, teasing at the edge of her pencil. She continued drafting the letter she meant to send to Jane that afternoon:

My dearest Jane,

Longbourn is as quiet as you might suppose. Papa has been all benevolence, though he insists I earn my keep as steward and clerk. I have reviewed the barley accounts, inspected the fences by Harris’s meadow, and discovered that one of the tenants keeps more geese than honesty allows. Such adventures must content me, though I own I am far from dull.

The hills are in their full green, and every lane smells of hawthorn. I hope Margate proves all our mother promises, and that the sea behaves with proper civility. Tell Aunt Madeleine that her letter will not go unanswered long.

Ever your affectionate sister,

E. Bennet

She read over the words with quiet satisfaction, folded the page, and slipped it into her reticule. Below her, the fields shimmered in the morning light, a patchwork of gold and green. The wind stirred her hair, and she let it—thinking, not for the first time, that solitude could be as companionable as company, if one only listened well.

* * *

The vicar stood near the door in his surplice, his smile mild and practised.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” he said. “The militia are most welcome. The rear pews have been reserved, if you please. It allows the families their usual places and keeps the aisle clear.”

Townsend accepted the direction with cheerful ease. “Very proper, sir.”

Wickham’s mouth curved as he turned aside. “We are banished with civility. Observe, Kerr, how the Church perfects the art.”

Kerr followed without answer.