She did not move. “I do not like the way you said that.”
He stepped past her. “If you do not mean to purchase anything, let us take our leave.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
19 January
They emerged from thepews just as the final hymn ended—a soft swell of voices folding into silence. Captain Marlowe hooked Elizabeth’s arm with careful politeness, the angle of his wrist so precisely correct it might have been rehearsed with a drill sergeant. He offered a gentle nod to the Gardiners and Mr. Bingley, his back already straightening as though someone had rung the bell for inspection.
“Thank you for coming,” he murmured, voice low enough for only her ear. “I know it is no easy thing to be stared at.”
“I am rather used to it,” Elizabeth said wryly. “Though the quality of the whispers has certainly declined.”
Marlowe chuckled—too quickly. His eyes skated past her shoulder, already half-searching for the exit.
A gentleman approached—uniform immaculate, face wind-burnt, and bearing the clear, weathered edge of someone more accustomed to rigging than hymnals.
“Ah—Harcourt,” Marlowe said. “Miss Bennet, may I introduce Commander Harcourt? We served aboard the Inflexible. Harcourt once lost a tooth in the middle of the Strait because he would not let go of the ropes until the sails were stowed.”
“A misplaced sense of duty,” Harcourt said with a crooked grin. “I regret nothing.”
Elizabeth inclined her head. “It sounds rather more valiant than anything I have achieved this week. I only lost my appetite.”
“Do not be so sure,” Harcourt said with a brief glance at the onlookers. “Captain,” he added, more quietly, “might I steal you for just a moment? A bit of navy business.”
Elizabeth caught the hesitation in Marlowe’s step. He looked to her, then back to Harcourt. “If you will excuse me, Miss Bennet—just for a moment.”
“Of course,” she said sweetly. “You are nothing if not diligent.”
He bowed and walked off with Harcourt, their heads already close. Elizabeth folded her hands and focused grimly on the cobblestones. Around her, the air thickened—tight with judgment, prickling with the unmistakable cadence of whisper and glance. A dozen faces she would not recognize tomorrow. A dozen opinions she could not change today.
The letters in her pocket rustled like bad decisions.
Her father’s had been all irony and mild doom. “I admit to some admiration for the efficiency with which you’ve undone every hope of your mother’s acquaintance.” It might have been a joke. Possibly. Or not.
Her mother’s had been four sentences long, all of them sharp. No my dear. No signature. Just a warning about her “ruined name” and a promise never to introduce her again. As if introductions had ever been the problem.
She did not mean to carry either letter. But they felt oddly suited to the occasion.
Across the walk, Marlowe stood in tight conference with Harcourt. They kept glancing back—subtle, practiced, not urgent enough to be professional. She was not fool enough to believe they were talking about maps.
Then Mr. Bingley appeared, blessedly earnest.
“Miss Bennet,” he said, voice softer than the weather deserved, “would it be dreadfully forward of me to ask… might I call this afternoon?”
Elizabeth blinked. “You wish to be our guest?”
“If it would not trouble your aunt and uncle. I had hoped for something informal. Tea, perhaps. A few moments of company more hospitable than the broadsheets.”
Jane smiled—the first real one in days. “I am certain they would be very glad of it.”
“You are very welcome,” Elizabeth said. “The papers have been quite inhospitable of late.”
“Courage or folly to read them at all,” Bingley murmured.
“A weighted mix,” she said. “Heavy on the folly.”
He laughed, almost sincerely.
