She forced a smile. “Yes, thank you.”
Shespenttheafternoonwatching.
Not intentionally, but she could not help it.
The Bennet sisters moved through the house with an energy that fascinated her.
Lydia and Kitty flitted in and out of rooms like a pair of restless birds, their chatter filling the house with relentless energy. Mary withdrew to the sitting room with a book, positioning herself in the best chair with an air of quiet triumph. Jane sat by the window, needle in hand, the sunlight catching in her golden hair as she worked a careful stitch into a delicate handkerchief.
Elizabeth had never embroidered anything in her life.
The thought struck her suddenly, absurdly.
She had learned Latin and Greek, could recite entire passages of Ovid, and had studied under some of the best painters and musicians in England—but she had never once held a needle for anything other than a perfunctory lesson in childhood.
Her mother had not been there for most of her life to see it done, her governesses were never able to gainsay her, and her father! Father had always said it was unnecessary. That she had noneedto mend or sew.
And he had been right. It was not as if she needed “arts and allurements” to attract a husband. Her dowry and title would see to that, when she finally found a gentleman worth putting up with for that long.
And she certainly would never appear in public attired in somethingshecreated or even embellished with her unfinished talents. The very idea! That was what her favorite modiste was for.
But sitting here, in this house, watching these girls move through their day, effortlessly weaving themselves into the rhythm of domestic life—Elizabeth felt like an intruder. Not unwelcome. But… an outsider, peering through a window.
She had never thought of herself that way before.
In her world, she had always known precisely where she belonged. The grand rooms, the structured schedules, the endless stream of lessons and tutors. Every moment of her day had been carefully arranged to shape her intosomething—a lady—countess, marchioness, or even perhaps a duchess—something that would be a credit to her father’s name.
But here, in a modest country house, where sisters bickered over ribbons and their mother fretted about bonnets and a father indulged them all with dry wit and mild exasperation… Elizabeth felt like a traveler who had lost her map.
And, for the first time, she wondered—had she ever known where she was going in the first place?
She swallowed, turning away.
She missed her father.
It was not as if they had spent every waking moment together. He had always been busy—meetings, affairs of state, the weight of his title deepening the lines in his face by the day. She had never minded. That was simply the way of things. And yet, sitting here in the Bennets’ parlor, where Mr. Bennet played chess with her and teased his daughters and Jane sat quietly sewing beside her…
It unsettled her.
Not because she wanted her father to be more like Mr. Bennet—he was a marquess, after all, not a country gentleman—but because, for the first time, she was beginning to wonder if she had ever truly known him.
And if she did not know him, then what exactly was she longing for?
The thought left an odd taste in her mouth.
He was safe, of course. She knew that. The Queen had seen to that much. And he had no reason to suspect anything was amiss.
But someonehadtried to kill her.
She had not allowed herself to dwell on it too much—the fire, the ruined bedroom, the implications of it all. But… if they knew where she lived, if they had expected her to be there… how long before they realized she was not?
How long before they decided to pursue her father to get to her?
The idea was absurd. Her father was a marquess, one of the most powerful men in England. He had allies, influence, a reputation that could not be touched.
But ten days ago, she would have said the same about the Prime Minister.
A chill crept up her spine.
