When Elizabeth thought of Aunt Caroline during those months, it was Charlotte who eased the ache.
“She will come back for you,” Charlotte said once, with simple certainty. “She always does.”
Elizabeth believed her.
Charlotte was the one light during that dark time—the single presence untouched by calculation or cruelty. In her, Elizabeth saw what power could not yet corrupt: affection freely given, loyalty unquestioned, love without condition.
When Elizabeth was finally returned to Blackheath, she did not forget Charlotte any more than she forgot the fear that had preceded her removal. The two memories existed together, inseparable.
Years later, Elizabeth would understand the full cruelty of that period—not merely that she had been taken, but that she had been spared knowing why. She would recognize that Charlotte’s companionship had not been accidental but permitted because it served a larger purpose.
But at the time, Charlotte was simply her sister. And in that, Elizabeth found the strength to endure.
As she grew older, she continued to spend each autumn—September through December—with her Bennet relations in Hertfordshire. There, she used the name Elizabeth Bennet, as her aunt insisted.
“You must protect yourself,” the princess said. “Your true name carries power others may misuse, and your connection to me makes the temptation greater.”
In Hertfordshire, Elizabeth found something she did not have elsewhere: freedom. She walked through fields with her cousins, laughed without fear of censure, and learned to be herself without observation. Though two burly footmen accompanied her whenever she went to her uncle’s house, they remained unobtrusive.
She grew especially close to Jane Bennet, whose gentle steadiness anchored her. Mrs. Bennet, mindful of Elizabeth’s proximity to royalty, curbed her worst impulses and insisted upon proper education for her daughters. The Bennetgirls modeled themselves after Elizabeth—her composure, her intelligence, her restraint.
Only Jane and Mary were out in society, and only when they turned eighteen, but all were improved by example.
Elizabeth loved Netherfield Park, though it was rarely occupied. It was let carefully; the income was invested wisely. Her fortune grew, untouched, compounding steadily. Likewise, her cousins’ dowries increased through careful management by Mr. Gardiner.
Elizabeth understood money now—not greedily, but clearly. It was freedom, if wisely used.
At eighteen, she hoped to be presented.
Prince George refused.
“No,” he said coolly when Aunt Caroline pleaded. “She will not enter society.”
“Why?” the princess demanded.
“Because I have decreed it to be so.”
Elizabeth was furious, but she learned to master it. She enjoyed society only in Hertfordshire, under her uncle’s name, where she could be herself.
Now, as another autumn approached, Elizabeth stood at Blackheath, packing for Hertfordshire once more.
She smiled as she folded her gowns, carefully chosen so she would not stand out in the country society.
I will see Jane,she thought.And I will walk the fields. I will breathe freely.
Chapter Nine
Caroline kissed Elizabeth’s cheek as her dear niece prepared to depart for her yearly visit to Hertfordshire. She had a sense of foreboding, as if this visit would change the fabric of their existence. Still, she embraced the child she had raised—now a young lady—and bid her a fond farewell.
“Write to me, my dear,” she said earnestly. “I shall miss you.”
“And I you.” Elizabeth waved until the carriage disappeared.
“Elizabeth, my dear child!” Mrs. Bennet kissed her niece’s cheeks and embraced her warmly. “You are early—the other girls have all gone walking into Meryton.”
“Please forgive me, Aunt. The prospect of autumn in Hertfordshire proved too great to resist—we departed directly after breakfast.” She stepped inside with Mrs. Bennet, leaving her footmen, Jones and Weston, to unload the trunks. Baker,her lady’s maid, had followed her mistress inside, where the Bennets’ housekeeper, Mrs. Hill, directed her to Elizabeth’s usual chamber.
Elizabeth already missed herAuntCaroline. Since the conclusion of the Delicate Investigation in 1806, the Princess of Wales had lived in a state best described as social exile without formal banishment. Though the inquiry had failed to prove the accusations brought against her, suspicion lingered where vindication ought to have stood, and society—ever cautious where royal displeasure was concerned—had drawn back. Little though she deserved it, Caroline found herself avoided by many who had once courted her notice.
