Her aunt sat across the room, surrounded by neatly stacked piles of correspondence, her brow furrowed as she sifted through letters, receipts, and financial records. The search for Anne Fletcher’s fingerprints on their lives continued, and Mrs. Gardiner carried the burden of ensuring that nothing had been overlooked.
Elizabeth stood and crossed the room. “Aunt, let me help,” she offered.
Mrs. Gardiner glanced up, startled from her work. “Oh, dearest, there is no need.”
“There is every need.” Elizabeth reached for one of the letters. “You should not have to go through all of this alone. If Anne Fletcher truly touched every account, every household affair, then another pair of eyes would hardly go amiss.”
Mrs. Gardiner hesitated. “I know you mean well, Lizzy, but—”
Elizabeth sat down opposite her, looking at the overwhelming stacks of correspondence. “Surely there must be something I can do.”
Her aunt’s lips pressed together before softening into a gentle smile. She reached across the table, taking Elizabeth’s hand in both of hers. “No, dearest,” she said kindly, squeezing her fingers. “You ought to be resting.”
Elizabeth’s fingers curled slightly beneath the warmth of her aunt’s grasp.Resting.
As if sleep would mend anything. As if idle hands and an empty mind would stop her from thinking—from feeling.
She swallowed and forced a small smile. “Then I suppose I shall have to find another means of occupying myself.”
Mrs. Gardiner patted her hand before releasing it. “That is the spirit, my dear.” She nodded toward the sofa near the hearth. “Perhaps you might read something pleasant. There are new periodicals on the side table.”
Elizabeth barely stopped herself from scoffing. Shewastired—more than tired—but she did not wish to lose herself in idle distractions. Instead, she wandered to a smaller desk on the far side of the room, smoothing the folds of her gown as she sat. “I think I shall write to my father.”
Her aunt’s expression flickered with understanding, but she merely nodded. “That is a fine idea.”
Elizabeth looked away before she could see the pity in her aunt’s gaze. She opened the drawer and found a decent pen, exhaling slowly as she examined the worn tip. It would have to be mended before she could start. She rummaged deeper into the drawer and found a knife to set to work.
If she had been born a man, she might have joined her uncle at the shipping yards today, pouring over ledgers, investigating every inch of his business to uncover what rot had been allowed to take root in his name. That would have been a useful distraction.
But she was not a man, and instead, she was left to her own thoughts—left to ponder over an “engagement” that never was, an “affection” she had been foolish enough to let herself believe in, and a life she never had any true claim to in the first place.
She finished mending the pen and reached for a piece of paper and the ink well. Then, her pen hovered over the page as she considered what to say to her father.
Would she tell him everything? The truth about the smugglers? The accusations made against her? No. At least, not yet. That would only worry him unnecessarily. She would simply say that she had done her duty in London, that she had helped her uncle and aunt where she could, and now, she wished to return home.
And as for the fifteen thousand pounds...
Elizabeth’s jaw set. Three thousand for each sister.
It was the fairest way to divide it. Jane would have her security, Lydia would have a respectable portion, and even Mary and Kitty would have something of their own.
But as she looked at the numbers, her fingers tapped restlessly against the desk.
Jane deserved more. She had always deserved more. And if the eldest of the Bennet girls married well, it could see their mother settled if widowhood ever came to her door. Yes, Jane ought to have more.
Elizabeth could do perfectly well with only two thousand—what did she truly need with a grand dowry? She had no intention of marrying Ambrose Whitby or whatever clever young barrister the earl had decided would be her fate. Besides, if the young man was only interested in the sum attached to her name, then he would be sorely disappointed, and deservedly so.
Her mouth curved faintly at the thought, though the amusement was short-lived.
Darcy would never have accepted such a match—being fairly paid to take her. He would have demanded she be wanted for herself, or not at all.
And yet, she reminded herself bitterly, Darcy himself had no further use for her. He had obligations—real ones, far greater than playing at courtship with a merchant’s niece.
Elizabeth closed her eyes, and blast it all if another tear did not fall onto the page. She swiped at it impatiently.
No more of this. She was done pretending. Her decision was made.
She would go home, as soon as a carriage could be found to carry her thence.
