It was all Elizabeth could do to keep from running to her chambers after speaking with the prince’s secretary.I must write to my uncle and Jane at once!She seated herself at the little writing desk that stood by the window. She pulled a paper towards her and dipped her quill into the inkwell.
My dearest Jane,
I hope you will forgive the suddenness of this letter. Know that my thoughts have been with you so constantly since I departed. I write now with news and a request and hope to receive a favorable reply from you and my uncle. London is as bright and bustling as ever, and yet I find it a lonely place without one true heart to steady me. I have been much seen of late, and much spoken of, and though I meet it all with composure, I cannot deny that the noise and scrutiny weary me more than I expected.
It is for this reason—though not this alone—that I wish you with me. I know how heavy the past weeks must have been to you, and how youbear what others might lament aloud. My beloved cousin, there are wounds that do not heal in stillness. Town offers distraction, movement, and purpose, and I believe—with all my heart—that a change of scene would bring you relief. You have ever been my comfort; allow me now to be yours. I understand if your Aunt Gardiner cannot spare you, but I would be grateful for your company.
You would reside with me at Carlton House, under proper protection and arrangement, and I assure you there is nothing in this invitation that could occasion remark. I long for your presence—not merely for my own happiness, but because I know how much good your gentle spirit does wherever it rests. If you will come, I shall count myself profoundly grateful, and far less alone in what lies before me.
Yours, in the truest affection,
Elizabeth
Next, she wrote to her uncle. The letter would need to be carefully crafted. Mr. Bennet had long expressed his disdain for Town, as well as his wish that all his loved ones might never be tainted from an association with theton.
My dearest Uncle,
I write to you with humility and with full knowledge of the pain that London has long held for you. I do not forget—nor could I ever—that it was here your sister and my mother suffered socruelly, and that your aversion to this place was born of love and loyalty. It is precisely because I respect that devotion that I ask you now to trust me.
I have been received into circumstances I could not have anticipated, and I am lodged at Carlton House under the strictest propriety and oversight. I am safe, well provided for, and keenly aware that every step I take reflects not only upon myself, but upon our family. It is in this spirit that I beg your permission for Jane to join me for the Season.
She would be no burden—indeed, her presence would be a blessing. Jane’s steadiness, her gentleness, and her unimpeachable conduct would reflect only credit upon us all. More than that, I believe—with an earnestness I cannot adequately express—that she stands in need of change and consolation. The disappointment she has borne so patiently weighs upon me, and I fear that solitude will only deepen her sorrow. Here, she would find occupation, kindness, and the healing that comes of being valued for herself alone.
I do not ask this lightly, nor would I ask it at all if I believed Jane’s comfort or safety compromised. She would be with me always, under supervision, and her stay need be no longer than you judge prudent. But I entreat you, Uncle—allow her this opportunity. Allow me the comfort of her company and allow her the chance to mend a heart that has given so much and asked so little in return.
Whatever your decision, I remain your grateful and affectionate niece,
Elizabeth
There was nothing for it. She imagined her uncle would meditate on his reply before giving his consent—or his refusal. Elizabeth could only wait impatiently now for an answer.
Waiting, she discovered, was far more difficult than action. The days continued in their carefully ordered fashion—calls made and returned, fittings endured, lessons in etiquette delivered with polite insistence—each hour felt incomplete, as though some essential piece of herself had been set aside and could not be reclaimed until she heard from home. She composed herself outwardly, smiled when required, listened when instructed, but inwardly her thoughts strayed again and again to Jane, to the quiet certainty of her presence, to the relief of having one person beside her who required no performance.
The answer came at last on a gray morning, borne by a familiar hand. Elizabeth recognized her uncle’s script the moment the letter was placed before her, and for a heartbeat she could not bring herself to open it. When she did, relief swept through her so swiftly she was forced to sit. Her uncle’s words were cautious, affectionate, and pained—but consenting. He trusted Elizabeth’s judgment, he wrote; he trusted Jane’s character more. Though London would never be a place of ease for him, he would not deny his niece the comfort of her cousin’s company. Enclosed was a draft sufficient to meet any reasonable expense, accompanied by a gentle admonition not to stint where propriety required generosity.
Elizabeth pressed the letter briefly to her chest before composing herself. Gratitude came after relief—gratitude fortrust freely given, and for the quiet understanding that had always existed between them.
Lady Hertford was informed within the hour. She read the letter once, nodded with satisfaction, and immediately began issuing instructions. Arrangements were made for Jane’s journey; rooms were selected and ordered aired; a modiste was summoned with scarcely concealed enthusiasm. When Elizabeth attempted to protest that her cousin would not wish to impose, Lady Hertford silenced her with a look. “Miss Bennet will be seen,” she said decisively. “Therefore, Miss Bennet will be prepared.”
Jane arrived three days later, serene, grateful, and visibly moved by Elizabeth’s embrace. The sight of her cousin standing in the familiar halls of Carlton House did something Elizabeth had not expected: it steadied her entirely. For the first time since her arrival in Town, she felt anchored.
The days that followed were a blur of purposeful indulgence. Elizabeth insisted on bearing the cost of Jane’s wardrobe herself, despite the funds sent by her uncle; it felt right that the provision should come from her own hand. Gowns were chosen with care—nothing garish, nothing that might invite comment—just enough elegance to ensure Jane could move comfortably within the circles she would now enter. Gloves, slippers, shawls, and a single evening gown of quiet beauty were added, Elizabeth watching closely to be certain that nothing chosen overwhelmed the gentle dignity that was so essentially Jane.
At last, with wardrobes settled and instructions given, the ladies—cousins in name, sisters in all but blood—stood together before the mirror on the evening of their first engagement. Jane smiled softly, Elizabeth squared her shoulders, and in that moment, Elizabeth knew she had done something right. Whatever designs others might lay, she would not face them alone.
Together, they stepped forward to meet theton.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
“Darcy! Are you attending to the conversation?” Matilda Fitzwilliam, Lady Matlock, slapped her fan in her hand.
The sharp sound cut cleanly through his thoughts, which had wandered—quite against his will—into familiar territory.
“Forgive me, Aunt, I was not attending.” No, Darcy’s thoughts had been agreeably engaged in meditating on Elizabeth’s fine eyes. “What did you wish for me to hear?”
His slightly sarcastic reply was not lost on his lady aunt, who narrowed her eyes in disapproval. Lady Matlock had raised three sons and survived thetonfor more than four decades; she was not easily cowed by tone.
“I merely wished to ensure you would attend my annual ball. Lady Hertford has accepted her invitation. She is chaperoning two young ladies this season. With her patronage, they are certain to make fine matches.”
