Mrs. Gardiner laughed. “Oh, I remember that. Was that the same winter you slipped on the terrace and insisted it was the fault of the syllabub?”
“Only because I saw the syllabub again when I hit the stones,” Mrs. Hartley replied cheerfully.
The laughter softened, settling into something warmer.
“Well,” Mrs. Hartley continued, straightening the letter, “if we mean to accept, we had better stay more than one night. No sense dragging everyone across the hills again, especially if there is to be music or a midnight supper.”
“I was thinking the same,” Mrs. Gardiner said, accepting the letter once more. “Lady Chiswell offers guest rooms for all of us. And I do not see the harm in a little nonsense. It may do us good.”
“We should speak to our husbands,” Mrs. Hartley added, already half-rising. “If they object, they may stay behind and mind the hearth.”
Elizabeth did not argue. But she did not smile either.
She had once thought the same—new faces, fresh air, a change of perspective. But her perspective had sharpened, not softened, and each new face only reminded her of one she would not see again.
Still. She could play the agreeable guest.
Even if it killed her.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
28 January
The sleigh jostled asit crested the ridge, runners squealing faintly beneath its weight, and Elizabeth Bennet pulled her cloak tighter across her shoulders. The wind rushed down the valley in sharp, cheerful gusts, blowing snow into eddies that chased the Hartleys’ sleigh like children demanding attention. Every breath clouded the air. Every tree branch bowed beneath the weight of winter.
It was too beautiful by half.
The Chiswell estate appeared at last—sensible, symmetrical, and half-buried in snow. Not romantic, precisely, but thoroughly respectable. The smoke curling from its chimneys was honest, and the wreath on the door still held a few dried berries. Elizabeth studied the icicles along the eaves as the sleigh came to a crunching halt.
A footman stepped forward to assist. “Welcome to Chiswell Hall, madam,” he said, steadying her as she descended.
“Thank you,” Elizabeth replied, her voice crisp from the cold.
Inside, the air was warm and perfumed faintly with orange peels and pine. Mrs. Hartley was already exchanging greetings with a tall woman in a russet gown—Lady Chiswell herself, every inch the glorious hostess that her husband’s rank demanded. Her smile was composed, her earrings sensible, and her memory was reputed to be as sharp as her diamonds. Which made Elizabeth’s stomach curdle in dread.
“Mrs. Hartley,” she said, inclining her head. “And Mrs. Gardiner. We are so glad you could join us.”
Elizabeth waited half a step behind as introductions were made, but Lady Chiswell’s eyes flicked toward her the moment her name was spoken.
“And Miss Elizabeth Bennet,” the lady said smoothly, holding out a gloved hand. “What a pleasure. Have we met before? Your name is quite familiar.”
Elizabeth accepted the hand without blinking. “I believe we were introduced several years ago. At a charity auction, I think.”
“Ah, yes,” Lady Chiswell said with a thoughtful hum, the corners of her mouth lifting just enough to suggest she remembered exactly. “Of course. You were the young lady with the… novel bidding strategy.”
Elizabeth smiled, cool as the weather. “Only moderately successful, I am afraid.”
“Well,” Lady Chiswell said, stepping back with a gracious sweep of her arm, “you shall find no auctions here—only parlor games and warm cider. Please, come in. We have made every preparation for your comfort.”
The footman who took her cloak did not blink at her name. The maid who carried her trunk upstairs asked only if she wouldlike warm water sent to her room. The gardener’s boy offered a grin as he hurried past with an armload of kindling.
It was heavenly.
London had been cold in other ways.
By the time Elizabeth had shed her gloves and boots and been shown to her guest room—a small but inviting space with a patchwork quilt and a fire already lit—her limbs were thawing. Her heart, less so. But at least it no longer rattled with every turn of thought.
She moved to the window. Below, the garden lay quiet under its snowcoat, the hedges bowed and docile beneath the frost. The world looked softer here. Calmer. There was a stillness in the hills that no scandal could touch.
