Page 73 of A Debt Inherited

“Try? Try? Hill, you are my last ally.”

“Then I will prevail, sir.”

“That is better.”

The corridor’s sounds shifted: fewer shrieks, more words. A voice—Mary, earnest and distant—counted something.

Bennet looked at the far sideboard and counted the distance in steps.

“One must be sober,” he said, “to admire one’s own family.”

He turned towards the music and waited for the carriage.

* * *

From below came the clear, deliberate notes of Mary’s piano—each phrase as steady as a heartbeat. Elizabeth smiled; the house always seemed better behaved when Mary played.

Lydia, charged with Jane’s bow, hovered at the glass; Kitty, armed with thread and patience, stood behind Elizabeth.

Through the half-open door drifted the low murmur of Mrs Bennet and Mrs Hill in pleasant conversation, testing ribbons and lace with the assurance of generals reviewing troops.

“Hold still, Kitty,” Elizabeth said, her chin slightly raised. “If that stitch wanders, I shall go to Meryton in a zigzag.”

Kitty bit her lip, dutiful and brisk. “I am as steady as Sunday, Lizzy.”

“Then we shall be late,” Elizabeth murmured, and smiled, for the thread ran true.

Jane, in pale muslin, turned to the light. Lydia, pleased with her own cleverness, set the final touch and stood back. “There. If you breathe, it will fly; if you do not, it will sit as a queen.”

“A difficult choice,” Jane said gently. “We will trust to moderate breathing.”

“Moderate!” Lydia laughed. “There is nothing moderate in an assembly.” She glanced at the door as if the corridor held a regiment. “Only think—red coats, and music, and the whole town obliged to look at us.”

Kitty’s needle paused. “If I were out, I should dance every set. I should not refuse a single officer, not even the short one.”

“The short one will be grateful,” Elizabeth said. “But you are not out, my dear, and must content yourself with pinning excellence upon others.”

Kitty’s mouth shaped a small, reluctant O. “It is very hard.”

“Not hard—only prudent,” Jane said, smoothing the muslin at her waist. “Your time will come; when it does, I shall stand at your side till you have as much pleasure as is safe to bear.”

The pout wavered; the eyes softened. “Will you?” Kitty asked.

“I promise,” Jane said, and the promise sat so well upon her that even Lydia forbore to jest.

From Mrs Bennet’s chamber came a gentle laugh and the rustle of silk. “No, Mrs Hill, the blue with the edge—yes, that one. I think the lace falls rather prettily, do you not?”

“Indeed, madam,” came Mrs Hill’s reply, warm with good humour. “The pattern flatters you most becomingly.”

Elizabeth drew on the glove and watched Jane in the glass arrange her necklace. Though her elder sister needed no ornament to command admiration, no other girl in Hertfordshire wore pearls so quietly.

“Now,” Lydia said, tying the shawl with a flourish, “do not be too perfect, Jane, or no one will look at Lizzy.”

“I am ever in danger of that,” Elizabeth said. “I carry my defence with me.”

“Your tongue?” Lydia said.

“My sense, you wretched girl.”