ThebreakfasttableatLongbourn was a cacophony of sound.
It always was.
Elizabeth sat with her hands wrapped around her teacup, watching as the Bennet family moved around her in their usual morning chaos.
Kitty and Lydia argued over a bonnet, their voices rising and falling in an endless battle of frills and ribbons. Mary sat somewhat apart from the others, reading aloud from a book no one was listening to, undeterred by the lack of audience.
Mrs. Bennet sat at the head of the table, already deep in conversation—mostly with herself—about the latest gossip from Meryton. “—and I declare, Mr. Bingley is just the nicest young man! I only wish he would take more notice of our dear girls. But no, he is always all smiles and no action. I tell you, Mr. Bennet, he will let all his best years slip away before he realizes what a treasure is right before him!”
Mr. Bennet, safely ensconced behind his broadsheet, turned a page over with deliberate slowness. “How very tragic for him.”
Mrs. Bennet pursed her lips. “Itistragic, sir. If only he had the good sense God gave a goose, we might already be preparing a trousseau.”
Across the table, Jane cleared her throat and reached for the pot of honey, avoiding her mother’s pointed glance. “Mama, I believe you were speaking of Lady Lucas’s new gown?”
Mrs. Bennet brightened. “Oh! Yes, yes, I do not suppose you saw it, Lizzy—terribly unbecoming, poor woman. The color of boiled spinach.”
Elizabeth glanced up, amused. Whether Mr. Darcy liked it or not, it seemed she had become “Lizzy” to the Bennets. “I cannot think of anything more unfortunate.”
“Nor I!” Mrs. Bennet agreed, gesturing animatedly with her spoon. “What was she thinking? She ought to have consulted me. I always say, a lady must know what suits her.” She turned a critical eye on Kitty and Lydia, who were picking at their toast. “And that is why I say you two must have new bonnets. Yours are dreadful and you know it.”
Kitty and Lydia did not seem terribly put out by this observation. Lydia, in particular, beamed. “Then you shall take us shopping, Mama?”
“We shall see,” Mrs. Bennet said mysteriously, as if the fate of England depended upon it.
Mr. Bennet turned his broadsheet again, looking at his wife over the top of it. “Mrs. Bennet, I trust you are keeping a tally of all these necessary purchases? If I am to be ruined, I should at least like to know what tipped me over the edge.”
Mrs. Bennet scoffed. “Oh, you. I do not know why I bother speaking to you. You never take my concerns seriously.”
“My dear, I take them as seriously as they deserve.”
Mrs. Hill entered then, setting down another plate of warm biscuits. Jane murmured a polite thank you and reached for one, but Elizabeth noted the way her fingers whitened on the knife as her mother continued to lament Mr. Bingley’s inattention.
But whatever thoughts Elizabeth might have spared for Jane Bennet’s careful study of her breakfast were cut off by the sloshing of a pitcher of cream mere inches from her plate. Her eyes widened, but Lydia, who had caused the upset, carried on as if nothing at all were amiss.
And so did everyone else. They were the next thing to savages, it seemed. There were no dedicated footmen to bring in the morning meal. No maids standing quietly by to pour out tea and serve plates with cadence and finesse. Hill bustled in and out, bringing fresh dishes and taking away empty ones, but beyond that, the family helped themselves, passing plates and teapots, bickering over the last bit of jam.
Elizabeth had never seen anything like it.
She had thought herself prepared for country living. Had imagined, in those first chaotic days, that she was adjusting well enough. But she had never truly considered what it would mean to live like this.
With no schedule.
No formalities.
No one dedicated to her needs or waiting for her requests.
She was… untethered.
And she hated that it made her feel so inept. As if she could not do for herself—that somehow, these simple country girls were more capable, more confident, and better able to manage than she, the daughter of a marquess.
“Lizzy,” Jane said softly, drawing her attention.
Elizabeth blinked. “Sorry?”
Jane smiled gently, passing her the teapot. “Would you like more tea?”
Elizabeth hesitated. She had expected a maid to notice her empty cup. Had not thought to pour it for herself.
