Elizabeth’s breath caught. “No—”
But Charlotte had moved faster.
“Oh, let me,” she said smoothly, stepping between Mrs. Goulding and the book with such graceful timing it might have been choreographed. She bent, scooped up the notebook, and settled herself again on the sofa with a smile that was all warmth and absolutely no mirth. “I can keep this safe for you until you are quite finished, Lizzy.”
Elizabeth nodded and kept pouring the tea with fingers that felt vaguely numb. “Thank you, Charlotte.”
“What is that, dear?” asked Lady Lucas from her perch beside the fireplace, blinking at her through a veil of well-meaning curiosity.
“Oh, nothing,” Elizabeth said too quickly. “Just… notes.”
“Verse, no doubt,” said Mrs. Long, who had the hopeful tone of a woman ready to start a reading circle on the spot. “Youngladies are always composing now. My niece writes odes to her canary.”
Mrs. Goulding chuckled. “I suppose it is better than pining over a colonel. I once wrote twelve letters to a man in India and burned every one.”
Elizabeth choked on a laugh and turned back to the teapot, pouring with excessive concentration. “I am sure you were far more articulate than I.”
Mrs. Bennet beamed. “Lizzy has always been scribbling something. Since she was but a girl! I told her she ought to try her hand at a gothic novel—something with bandits. Or a governess in danger!”
“There is nothing quite so dramatic as Longbourn,” Elizabeth said, smiling through her teeth. “Truly, most of it is nonsense.”
Lady Lucas leaned forward. “But we must hear a bit of it—surely you have something that would not shame you?”
“I have many things that would not shame me,” Elizabeth said, “and a few that would shame everyone else.”
The ladies laughed, though a few exchanged glances that hovered between amusement and alarm.
Charlotte—blast her ability to look composed, even at a time like this—redirected the conversation with a gentle nudge toward a new tea cake recipe and the price of satin ribbons in Meryton. Elizabeth busied herself with pouring, keeping her eyes low.
It was not until much later, after the guests had gone and the air had cleared of perfumed opinions, that Charlotte found her again in the garden.
Elizabeth was seated on the edge of the bench near the lilac bush, sketching something in the dirt with the toe of her slipper.
Charlotte sat beside her and handed her the notebook—quietly, without ceremony. “I believe this is yours.”
Elizabeth took it with a wince. “I owe you a cake. Or a kingdom.”
Charlotte smiled faintly. “You owe me discretion. But I shall take a cake.”
Elizabeth flipped the notebook open, confirming its contents were still hers alone. “Did anyone see—?”
“No,” Charlotte said gently. “But they wanted to. And they will again.”
Elizabeth sighed. “I suppose I ought to write in cipher.”
“You might start by not writing about people at all while they are in the same room.”
“I was only recording Mrs. Goulding’s views on domestic investment. For posterity.”
Charlotte gave her a look. “I do hopeIam not one of the characters in that little journal of yours.”
“Of course not! I only write about the absurd.”
“Then do not leave it unattended,” Charlotte said softly. “Absurdities tend to read.”
Chapter Seven
August, 1811
