“Not inyou, perhaps. But your dowry inspires courage in the faintest of hearts,“ Charlotte replied with a wink. “Did Lord Westing reappear? I know he danced with you at Lady Ravenshaw’s ball and was positively luminous with hope. Or perhaps that odd little Viscount Stanhope? He still wears his collar three inches too high, but Mama says his estate in Kent is quite tolerable.”
Elizabeth summoned a practiced laugh. “I was not paying much attention.”
Charlotte narrowed her eyes. “That is a suspicious answer. You only say that when something interesting happened.”
“Charlotte,” the duchess said mildly, though she did not sound disapproving. “Let the girl alone. She has just returned from royal service, not a Bath cotillion.”
But Charlotte only grinned. “I shall extract the truth eventually. Mark me.”
The Duchess gave a soft, audible breath through her nose—her version of indulgent disapproval. “My dear Charlotte, perhaps your friend is simply not inclined to broadcast her affections.”
“Or,” Charlotte said, leaning forward with a grin, “she is concealing the fact that she fell madly in love with a stable boy and eloped to Dorset in secret.”
Elizabeth smiled again, but this time, it felt fragile. “I fear I have disappointed you. There were no elopements. No proposals. No stable boys.”
“Nothing?” Charlotte groaned. “Then I shall simply have to live vicariously through someone else. Mr. Audley, perhaps. Have you heard him lately? They say he has been carrying on at White’s about secret shooters and government cover-ups. He has the look of a man quite determined to write a gothic novel, only without the talent.”
Elizabeth’s spine tensed. Her fingers found the edge of her saucer and gripped it lightly.
“Ah! There, Iknewthat name would provoke some sort of reaction. I believe you found him rather more than agreeable once, did you not, Elizabeth?”
“To be quite frank, I have many other things in my mind that seem far more important than one Henry Audley,” Elizabeth replied.
“Just as well,” Charlotte continued, “for I think he has gone dotty in the head. I sat next to him at Lady Matlock’s dinner party last week and he nearly overturned the soup insisting there was more to Perceval’s death than met the eye. I said, ‘Well of course there was, Audley. There were pistols and bullets and probably a very cross debtor involved. What more do you require? A ghost?’”
The Duchess snorted—very nearly a laugh. “The man is a gossip in trousers. He ought to take up a hobby.”
Elizabeth summoned her voice. “Perhaps he merely wishes for answers.”
Charlotte shrugged. “Perhaps. Or perhaps he wishes for an excuse to be quoted in the papers. In any case, it is nonsense. Everyone agrees there was no grand conspiracy. Just an angry man and a pistol.”
“Two,” the duchess corrected, “if one listens to our dear Elizabeth.”
Elizabeth cleared her throat. “Oh, I think there was nothing in it, Your Grace. Her Majesty spoke to me more at Frogmore and now I understand it was merely a… a constable in plain clothes, who thought he could stop the shooter and was too late.”
Charlotte sighed. “Such a shame, really. It makes for a dreadfully dull story.”
Elizabeth’s mouth tasted of ashes. “Indeed. Dreadfully dull.”
The conversation spun on, touching on a new dressmaker in Grosvenor Street and Lady Celeste’s engagement to a man old enough to be her grandfather, but Elizabeth drifted from it. She smiled when expected. She laughed once or twice. But her thoughts had already left the room.
And by the time the visit concluded, she had made up her mind to write to Jane. There were too many things she could not say to anyone else.
Montclair House
London
June 11, 1812
My Dearest Jane,
How strange it feels to write to you from the silence of my father’s house rather than the warmth of yours. And how much stranger still to call it yours, when to me, it feels like mine. I hope you will forgive my clumsy pen—there is so much I wish to say, and not nearly enough elegance in my fingers to say it.
How are you, dearest? Truly? I think of you more often than I can say and send a little prayer each evening that you are safe, content, and well loved. Has Mr. Bingley continued to make his admiration plain? I shall be quite cross with him if he has not. And you must not be too discreet, either—do let him see your heart. He is not the only one whose affections ought to be assured.
Give my regards to your father, and tell him I am quite certain I should have beat him in chess by now, were I allowed to remain at Longbourn. I do hope he has found a worthy opponent—Mr. Bingley is too easily distracted by your beautiful eyes, I imagine, and not nearly ruthless enough to be entertaining.
Are Kitty and Lydia well? I imagine Lydia has already appropriated your best bonnet and Kitty has feigned ignorance. Please tell them I expect no fewer than three proper curtsies when next we meet. If they will not learn them for Society, then let them learn them for me.
