She frowned, tapping the quill against her chin. Careful. She had to be careful. If this letter ever found its way into the wrong hands, it needed to be ordinary. Expected.
—terribly occupied with travel. The Queen’s ladies have been most gracious, and I find myself enjoying their company immensely.
That was good.
Vague, but believable. Almost.
Elizabeth pressed her lips together, her quill hovering over the page. She smirked wryly, imagining the Queen’s ladies. Surely the Dowager Duchess of Devonshire would be among them, with her sharp, regal bearing and maddeningly impeccable manners. Perhaps Lady Anne Hartington, whose voice alone was enough to send Elizabeth into a stupor. And Lady Sybil Havisham—good Lord, Lady Sybil. That woman had been born to preside over a tea table, offering precisely the correct pleasantries in precisely the correct order, until all involved felt their very souls stiffen into fine china.
The image was nearly enough to make her laugh—nearly. If she were going to make this believable to Charlotte, she should mention… something. A milque-toast correspondence would surely make Charlotte, of all people, take notice. And so, she must take care to sound like herself, and to be sure the letter arrived by some expected means.
She could not send it from Meryton, of course. That would be foolish. But perhaps from London—if she could find some way to get it there. Darcy might be traveling back and forth. Could she tuck it among his letters? Oh, no. He would notice. He noticed everything.
She sighed, tapping a finger against the paper.
Perhaps she should wait.
Then again, was not her very intent to ease suspicion? Charlotte would be concerned if Elizabeth didnotwrite. And she could do that convincingly, of that she was certain. What else should she write of to make the ruse sound authentic? Who else was she supposed to be with?
Lady Henrietta Westwood, who never spoke unless it was to criticize the cut of a gown.
Miss Eleanor Standish, whose greatest ambition in life was to marry well and be silent.
And of course, Lady Edith Montrose, whose conversation rarely extended beyond dogs and weather.
That was where she was meant to be.
And yet, she was here. At Longbourn. Playing chess with Mr. Bennet, watching Mrs. Bennet fret over the price of mutton at the market; where the biggest mysteries of her day were to wager with herself over which of the younger Bennet sisters would disgrace herself the fastest, and to ponder whether Jane Bennet truly pined for Mr. Bingley or if she just wanted someone to talk to.
Trying—failing—to feel like she fit among these people who were warm and welcoming and utterly unlike the world she had always known.
She let out a slow breath, setting the quill down for a moment. The firelight cast strange shadows across the desk, long and thin, flickering with the faintest draft that seeped through the old windowpanes.
She chewed her lip, trying to force her sluggish mind to focus on the one thing it required to slip into slumber. There would certainly be some satisfaction in this, and then she could sleep. Assure Charlotte she was well—even if the specifics were not true, the sentiment would be appreciated. And after that, the nagging blur that had jumbled her thoughts for so many days might clarify.
But what if this letter, this simple thing meant to bring her a shred of comfort, would only serve to reveal her?
She stared at the page.
No, she could be cleverer than that.
There were ways to disguise letters. She could think of a dozen schemes at once. Perhaps she could send it through a different town—Stevenage, perhaps—pay a coachman to carry it and post it from a place she ought to be, rather than where she was. A simple enough diversion.
Yes. That could work.
But…
There was still that feeling.
That creeping, insidious sensation that had followed her through Meryton yesterday. Through the market. Through the churchyard. The whisper of being watched.
Was it all in her mind? Probably.
Or… was she being foolish to ignore it?
She hated this uncertainty. This ridiculous, unnerving helplessness.
And worst of all, she could hear Darcy’s voice in her head, forced into unnatural evenness and ringing with infuriating prudence— “You cannot afford to be reckless.”
