Elizabeth listened and contributed where she could, though her attention was drawn less to the particulars than to their broader effect. She found herself reflecting upon the changes that had taken place in such matters since her mother’s arrival at Longbourn.
Mary, who had once favored shades that did her few favors, now wore colors chosen with greater discernment—blues, gentle greens, and a warm yellow that suited her complexion far better than the somber tones she had formerly preferred. The change had come through guidance rather than command, and the improvement was unmistakable.
Jane required very little assistance. Almost every color seemed designed to enhance her beauty. Even so, Elizabeth recalled with a private smile a particular shade the dressmaker had insisted upon calling Aurora—a deep burnt orange that failed to improve upon Jane’s natural advantages, despite the modiste’s confident assurances. It had been worn once, with grace that only partly redeemed it, and quietly set aside thereafter.
Her thoughts were interrupted by Mr. Bennet’s voice.
“Thomas. Toby.”
The boys turned.
“I believe the ladies are engaged in a discussion that does not require our presence.”
Thomas considered this. “About gowns?”
“Among other things.”
Toby nodded. “Then we should not interrupt.”
“A wise conclusion,” Mr. Bennet said. “Come. We shall see whether either of you can be induced to play a respectable game of chess.”
The boys rose together, their interest shifting without difficulty.
“Will you let us win?” Toby asked.
“No.”
“Then we shall attempt to win regardless,” Thomas said.
Mr. Bennet gave a slight nod. “A commendable strategy.”
They left the room together, the door closing behind them.
The absence of their presence altered the atmosphere, though not absolutely. Kitty and Lydia, though excluded from the assembly itself, remained keenly interested in its preparations.
“We will help,” Kitty said.
“With the trimming,” Lydia added. “It is the only way we may have any share in it at all.”
Mrs. Bennet considered them for a moment, then gave her consent with a nod. “Very well. If you are to assist, you must do so properly.”
“We shall,” Kitty said.
Lydia nodded with equal determination.
The work was brought out—lengths of ribbon, lace, and thread. Needles were threaded; fabrics examined; plans set into motion.
Elizabeth took up her own portion with a degree of resignation that did not prevent her from applying herself to it. The task required attention, and she gave it.
Kitty worked with a degree of care that improved as she proceeded. Lydia’s efforts were more spirited than precise, though they produced results all the same. Jane moved between them, offering suggestions and making corrections when necessary. Mary applied herself with quiet diligence.
Time passed in this manner, marked by conversation that rose and fell, by the sounds of fabric and thread, and by the gradual transformation of what had been into something newly arranged.
At one point, Kitty paused, her hands suddenly still.
“I hope,” she said, with a sigh that carried more feeling than she perhaps intended, “that at least one of the new gentlemen marries Jane.”
Lydia agreed, “So do I.”
