Thomas retreated to his chair and took up a book, though he scarcely read a word.
Mrs. Bennet was tireless. Lessons were discussed. Deportment was scrutinized. Even their manner of speech came under review. They were to be accomplished, polished, and entirely beyond reproach. Longbourn, she insisted, must reflect the elevated connections it now possessed.
“It will not do,” she said firmly, “for you girls to behave as though nothing has changed.”
Thomas sighed inwardly but did not contradict her. Perhaps she was right, in her way. Thingshadchanged—irrevocably. Elizabeth de Bourgh was no longer merely a lost child returned to family, but a living reminder of how close Longbourn now stood to power, however unwillingly.
As he watched his daughters absorb their mother’s instructions with varying degrees of enthusiasm, Thomas allowed himself one private hope: that somewhere, at Blackheath, Elizabeth would find the affection and steadiness he could not provide her himself—and that, in time, she might forgive him for the bargain he had been compelled to strike.
Chapter Eight
The early days after Elizabeth’s parents died were filled with confusion for the young lady. Intelligent and precocious for her age, she knew her life had materially changed, even if she did not entirely understand how. With certainty, she knew her parents were gone, and that she would never feel the warmth of her mother’s embrace again. The one constant in her life was Princess Caroline, with whom she was very familiar. Her mother’s dearest friend welcomed Elizabeth to Blackheath, the house where she had been a frequent caller before her mother’s passing.
Elizabeth did not weep at first. Grief, when it arrived so suddenly, seemed to hollow her rather than overflow. She moved through those first days in a daze, answering questions when required, submitting to the attentions of strangers with a composure that unsettled the adults around her. They whispered that she wasremarkably brave, that she did not cry as other children did. Elizabeth did not know how to explain that crying required a certainty she did not yet possess. She was still waiting for her mother to come back.
Elizabeth remembered the moment distinctly: standing in the wide entrance hall at Blackheath, her gloved hand clasped in Princess Caroline’s, the great house hushed as though it understood grief. She had known this place before—had run laughing through its corridors, had taken tea in its smaller sitting rooms—but now it felt altered, quieter, heavier. Now, she was not visiting. She was staying.
The doors closed behind them with a soft finality that made Elizabeth flinch.
“You are safe here,” Princess Caroline said gently, as though sensing the child’s unease. Her voice was steady, but Elizabeth could feel the tension in the hand that held hers. “No one will hurry you. No one will ask more of you than you are able to give.”
Elizabeth nodded, though she did not entirely understand. She looked up at the princess, searching her face for reassurance, for familiarity, for something that had not been taken away. Princess Caroline’s eyes were red-rimmed, her expression composed but strained.
They spent the first weeks at Blackheath in leisure—if such a word could be applied to days shaped by grief. Yet compared to what would follow, those weeks were pleasant indeed. Princess Caroline spent much of each day with her new ward, refusing to allow Elizabeth to be hurried into lessons or formality before she was ready. Meals were taken, often together; mornings were given to reading or walking; afternoons to rest or small, purposeful occupations meant to steady rather than distract.
From the beginning, the princess insisted that Elizabeth call herAunt.
It was not a title recognized by law or court, but it mattered all the same.
“You may call me Aunt in private,” the princess told her one afternoon, smoothing Elizabeth’s hair as they sat together by thewindow, the winter light pale upon the heath beyond. “But in company, you will call meYour Royal Highness.”
Elizabeth nodded solemnly, absorbing the distinction with the seriousness of a child accustomed to navigating adult expectations. “Because words mean different things to different people,” she said carefully.
Princess Caroline smiled—a little sadly, a little proudly. “Yes. Exactly so.”
Elizabeth’s new rooms at Blackheath were larger than the nursery where she had slept in her father’s house. All her belongings were transported from Fielding House, and the place was let until Elizabeth found a use for it when she reached her majority. Her father had inherited it from his maternal grandfather, along with an estate in Hertfordshire. These, along with her mother’s dowry and her father’s fortune, were all now Elizabeth’s.
The rooms were bright and carefully prepared, with fresh hangings and a small fire laid ready, but Elizabeth scarcely noticed such details. She stood while her trunks were unpacked, watching as dresses her mother had chosen were lifted out by hands she did not recognize. Toys were placed upon shelves by servants who smiled too eagerly, as though kindness alone might mend what had been broken.
Elizabeth did not yet understand what it meant to own a house, an estate, a fortune. She understood only that trunks arrived, that familiar toys were unpacked by unfamiliar hands, and that nothing of her parents remained except what she carried inside herself.
Tears did not come until several nights later.
Elizabeth lay awake long past the hour she was meant to sleep, the unfamiliar bed too large, the silence too complete. She had been good all day—verygood, the governess had said—had eaten what was put before her, had answered politely whenspoken to, had not cried even when her throat ached with unsaid words.
When the sob broke free, it startled her.
She buried her face in the pillow, clutching it tightly as though it might anchor her to something solid. The sound was small, muffled—but not small enough.
“Miss de Bourgh!” A sharp voice cut through the darkness. A maid stood by the bed, candle in hand, her expression irritated rather than concerned. “What is all this noise? You must learn to be grateful, Miss. Many children would give anything to be housed in such comfort.”
Elizabeth struggled to catch her breath. “I want my mama,” she whispered.
The maid sighed loudly. “Your mother is gone. Crying will not bring her back. You ought to think yourself fortunate, living here, when others—”
“Enough.”
The word fell like a command.
