“You have grown,” he would remark, his gaze flicking over her as though measuring inches. “Your governess reports improvement in French.”
“Yes, sire.”
“And German?”
“Yes, sire.”
“Dancing?”
She executed a small curtsy. “I practice daily.”
“Good. See that you continue.”
He asked about her studies, her posture, her accomplishments—never about her feelings, her preferences, or her memories of her parents. After one such interview, when she was perhaps ten, he added, almost as an afterthought, “You will begin Italian next year. Music as well—seriously, not purely for your amusement.”
Elizabeth inclined her head, as she had been taught. But as she left the room, her thoughts were sharp and surprisingly clear.
He does not ask what I like,she reflected.Only what I can be made to be.
The prince’s attention confused her. She had overheard him more than once referring to her asof no particular importance, spoken with careless dismissal to courtiers who nodded in agreement. And yet his actions belied those words. He monitored her education; he dictated her movements. He removed her from Blackheath whenever it suited him.
Importance, Elizabeth was beginning to understand, was not always announced. Sometimes it was imposed.
In these absences from Blackheath, Elizabeth learned another lesson as well—that her presence could wound as easily as it could comfort. When she was taken from Aunt Caroline, the princess bore the loss in silence, her composure unbroken before servants and visitors alike. Only once did Elizabeth see the cost.
“You must go,” Aunt said softly, kneeling to straighten Elizabeth’s cloak, her hands trembling despite her calm voice. “And you must not be afraid.”
“I am not afraid,” Elizabeth said, and then hesitated. “But I do not like it.”
Aunt Caroline met her gaze fully. “Nor do I, but you are strong. And you must remember—this is not your fault.”
Elizabeth carried those words with her into every cold, glittering chamber of Carlton House.
She returned always to Blackheath when permitted, a little older each time, a little more guarded. And her dear aunt welcomed her back without reproach, without bitterness, as though no separation could diminish what they had built together.
In those early years, Elizabeth learned how power could reach into the quietest corners of a life—and how love, when it endured such reach, was both delicate and formidable. Her Bennet relations taught her, as did her dear aunt. When she missed hercousins, she was comforted by letters. And when she was taken from her aunt’s side, she found comfort in her friendship with little Princess Charlotte. All in all, Elizabeth took solace in those she loved—and those who loved her in return.
Her education was extensive. Aunt Caroline insisted upon it.
Elizabeth shared tutors with Princess Charlotte when she was in residence with the young princess—languages, deportment, history. She learned to walk, to speak, to sit like royalty, because she was taught alongside one. But Aunt Caroline added what the court would not: mathematics, natural philosophy, astronomy, encouraging her to sharpen her mind with extensive reading. Elizabeth adored these lessons.
“Why should a lady not understand the world she inhabits?” Aunt Caroline said firmly when objections were raised. “Ignorance is not a virtue.”
Elizabeth drank those words in, taking them to heart and applying them. She became fluent in French and German, conversational in Italian, and proficient in Latin. Her command of Spanish and Portuguese could not be faltered, either. She could discuss Euclid and Newton, knew how tides moved and why stars shifted across the sky.
She learned, too, how to guard herself.
“Do not give your heart easily,” Aunt Caroline told her one evening when Elizabeth was nearly fourteen, the words spoken softly but with intent. “Affection is precious. It must be earned.”
Elizabeth thought of the prince and princess, of power wielded without tenderness. “I will marry only for love,” she said quietly.
Aunt Caroline smiled. “That is my wish for you.”
Elizabeth traveled often with Aunt Caroline—quiet journeys when allowed, retreats to seaside towns for the princess’s health, visits to sympathetic households where she was welcomed rather than endured. Elizabeth saw England through these travels and learned how differently life could be lived.
She also learned fear in 1806.
At first, Elizabeth understood only that the household changed. Voices lowered. Letters arrived and were carried away unopened. Visitors who once called freely at Blackheath ceased to come at all. Aunt Caroline grew guarded, watchful in a way Elizabeth had never seen before. Her kindness was undiminished but sharpened by caution. Even as a young lady, Elizabeth sensed that something vast and impersonal had turned its attention toward them.
