“Indeed, he has. I am sorry to say that eviction will not be possible. You need not fear, however, for I suspect he will remain in town.”
“And Jane? What of her heartbreak?” Elizabeth longed to comfort her cousin and take away her pain.
“I believe we will invite her to Gracechurch Street after Twelfth Night. Town will provide her with some diversion. I can introduce her to some of my associates, and perhaps one of them will be a good match.”
Elizabeth was not entirely satisfied with that answer but reasoned it would do Jane some good to be removed from the vicinity. Distance, she reflected bitterly, seemed to be the favored remedy for wounded hearts—whether or not one welcomed it.
The Gardiner children—four in number and ranging from solemn to irrepressible—filled the corridors with laughter and the nursery with activity. Paper chains were fashioned in the afternoons, guided by Mary’s patient instruction, while Elizabeth and Mrs. Gardiner planned to oversee the cutting of holly and ivy brought in from the hedgerows on Christmas Eve. Even Jane joined them at times, though her smiles came less readily than before and faded more quickly.
Local society made its expected calls. There were small dinners, modest musicales, and an afternoon gathering at Lucas Lodge that Elizabeth attended with mixed interest. It was there she first noticed Mr. John Lucas’s particular attentiveness to Mary. He positioned himself near her at the pianoforte, listened with marked seriousness as she played, and afterward engaged her in conversation—not with condescension or amusement, but with genuine curiosity.
“I did not know you favored Handel,” he said after one such performance.
Mary inclined her head. “I find his compositions orderly. They reward patience.”
“I should like to hear more of them,” he replied, plainly meaning more than the music.
Mary did not preen, nor did she withdraw. She merely smiled—small, composed, and unmistakably pleased.
Elizabeth observed the exchange with quiet satisfaction. It was not a romance to inspire poetry, perhaps, but there was respect there, and that mattered far more.
At home, the household followed familiar Advent customs. Mrs. Bennet directed the preparation of mince pies and syllabubs with uncharacteristic calm, praising her cook’s efforts and accepting suggestions without protest. Evergreen boughs adorned the mantelpieces, and a kissing bough was hung—carefully, and with an amused admonition that it was for decoration only, given the presence of unmarried young ladies not yet out in society.
Kitty and Lydia, confined to their proper station, chafed only mildly. They were permitted to assist the Gardiner children with rehearsing small recitations for Christmas Day and took great delight in correcting them with exaggerated seriousness.
Jane, however, remained subdued. She attended family gatherings and spoke kindly to all, but her laughter rang hollow, and she often excused herself early. Elizabeth found her one afternoon seated near the window, mending a ribbon that needed no repair.
“You need not be cheerful for us,” Elizabeth said gently, settling beside her.
Jane smiled faintly. “I know. I only wish not to burden everyone with my disappointment.”
Elizabeth took her hand. “Your heart is not a burden.”
That evening, as the household gathered in the drawing room, Elizabeth found herself beside Mrs. Gardiner, who watched Jane with perceptive eyes.
“She bears it with grace,” Mrs. Gardiner said sadly. “But grace does not prevent pain.”
“No,” Elizabeth agreed. “Only time, perhaps.”
Mrs. Gardiner considered her niece. “Jane has been taught to think well of others. It is a lovely habit—but a dangerous one when misused.”
Elizabeth exhaled. “I fear she will blame herself for not speaking sooner.”
“She must not,” Mrs. Gardiner replied firmly. “Affection that requires impropriety to survive is not worth preserving.”
Elizabeth glanced at her aunt, grateful for the steadiness of her counsel. “You think inviting her to Town will help?”
“I think it will remind her she is admired, valued, and not alone,” Mrs. Gardiner said. “Sometimes the heart needs distraction before it can heal.”
As Christmas approached, snow fell at last, light and clean, blanketing the grounds and lending the world an air of promise.
Elizabeth stood at an upstairs window one evening, watching Jane walk slowly along the path below with her youngest cousin, speaking softly and smiling at something the child said. The sight eased her heart a little.
Christmas would come, with its traditions and comforts. And whatever the new year held, Elizabeth resolved, they would meet it together.
On Boxing Day, an express arrived for Mr. Bennet. He took it to his study upon viewing the sender and closed the door. Elizabeth and her cousins glanced at each other, expressions of curiosity mirrored on their faces.
The timing alone was enough to unsettle her. Expresses were not sent lightly, and never for trivial matters—least of all on a day customarily reserved for visiting, charity, and quiet familial cheer. Elizabeth felt a faint tightening in her chest as the door shut with a decisive click.
