Elizabeth tilted her head. “Perhaps. However, conjecture has a way of leading to something more, especially when it comes to matters of the heart. There are simply too many knowing heads wagging whenever you and Mr Bingley are seen together.”
Just as Elizabeth was reaching for another bundle of lavender, a shadow fell across the doorway. She looked up to see her father standing there, his expression unusually serious. Mr Bennet’s brow was furrowed, and he seemed to be looking at something far beyond the confines of the room, his thoughts clearly elsewhere.
“Papa?” Jane asked. “Is something wrong?”
Elizabeth studied him carefully, her amusement fading as she noticed the slight twitch in his right hand, as though his fingers were moving of their own accord. His eyes were distant, and she could almost see the wheels turning in his mind as if he were carrying on a conversation with himself.
Mr Bennet blinked, his gaze finally settling on his daughters. He hesitated, his lips parting as if to speak, but no words came. Elizabeth and Jane exchanged concerned glances, the mood in the room shifting as they waited for him to say something.
“Nothing is wrong,” he said at last, though his tone lacked conviction. He seemed to be considering his words carefully, his hesitation unusual and unsettling. “I simply thought… perhaps I might have a drink in my study.”
Elizabeth straightened, wiping her hands on her apron. “Of course, Papa. I can bring it to you.”
Mr Bennet nodded absently, his eyes already drifting away from hers. “Yes… yes, thank you, Lizzy.” Without another word, he turned and walked slowly down the hall, his steps measured and deliberate.
Elizabeth watched him go, her heart sinking with unease. Something was clearly troubling her father, but what it could be, she could not guess. She exchanged another look with Jane, whose brow was now furrowed in worry.
“Jane, did you see—”
“I did,” Jane murmured, cutting her off. “What do you think it means?”
“I do not know. But I intend to find out.”
Papa might have goneto the still room seeking a glass of small beer or mead, but Elizabeth thought the distress in his face called for something a touch stronger. She measured out a draught of scotch from the locked cabinet, then, thinking he might prefer something more substantial to sustain himself, stopped off at the larder for a small seed cake, some cheeses and cold meats. Balancing the tray in her hands, she walked through the hall toward her father’s study.
Elizabeth approached the door to the study, her steps slowing as she noticed it was slightly ajar. She hesitated for a moment, peering inside.
Mr Bennet was seated at his desk, his posture slumped, one hand pressing against his forehead as though he could knead away whatever was troubling him. The sight tugged at Elizabeth’s heart. She had seen her father irritated, exasperated, and even amused, but this level of distress was new and unsettling. She stepped into the room quietly, setting the tray on a side table before moving to leave. But before she could take more than a step back, her father spoke in a low, strained voice.
“Stay, Lizzy.”
The words were heavy, laden with an unfamiliar gravity. Elizabeth turned back to face him, her heart tightening in her chest. She had known something was wrong, but the way he looked at her now made it clear that whatever it was, it was serious.
“I know you mean to ask, so let us not pretend.”
Elizabeth moved cautiously to the chair across from his desk and sat down, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. “What is it, Papa?” she asked gently, searching his face for answers.
Without a word, he passed her a letter, the paper crinkled and worn from where he had read and re-read it. Elizabeth took it with trembling fingers, unfolding it carefully.
The letter was from Sir Harold, the longstanding MP for Meryton. Elizabeth recognised the name instantly; her father and Sir Harold had known each other since their youth, though they were not close friends, merely acquaintances who had crossed paths over the years. Mr Bennet had written to him recently, offering well wishes for his “retirement” and inquiring after his health. But the contents of Sir Harold’s reply were far from what she had expected.
Elizabeth’s eyes moved steadily over the page, absorbing the careful phrasing of each sentence. The letter was brief, but its tone was unmistakably weary.
My dear Mr Bennet,
I have suspected for some time that my tenure would not last much longer, whether by the will of the people or by less direct means. I do not place the blame at your door, nor at any one man’s feet. However, I must admit that I have faced considerable pressure on my votes over the past two years—pressures that have worn me down more than I care to admit.
My health is not what it once was, and the demands of this position have become increasingly difficult to bear. What concerns me most, though, is the future of the office I leave behind. I urge you to carefully consider whoever is nominated for the by-election. There are interests at play that may not align with the best outcomes for our community. Take care to protect what we have built.
Elizabeth sucked in a breath as she finished reading. “This… this is not a letter of a man content with his departure.”
“No,” Mr Bennet murmured. “This does not sound like the Sir Harold I know.”
“What does this mean, Papa? What could Sir Harold be warning you about?”
Mr Bennet’s expression was grim as he leaned back in his chair. “I wish I knew, Lizzy. But I fear that whatever it is, it is more than just the usual political manoeuvrings. Sir Harold would not have written such a letter unless he believed the situation warranted it. It is not as though we were ever terribly close.”
Elizabeth swallowed. The idea that someone might be manipulating the political process in Meryton was deeply unsettling. “Do you think Sir Harold is right? Is there someone behind this who should not be?”
