Page 145 of The Crown’s Gift

"Lady Bennet has found the birthday cake. Lydia hid it from the children, then tasted the icing herself," he reported.

"Consistency remains too much to hope."

Sir Thomas raised his glass toward the words above the desk.

A life well used is thanks enough.

"I did not use all of it well," he said.

Elizabeth took his hand. "No one does."

Darcy raised his glass. "You used enough to teach the rest of us."

Sir Thomas set down his port.

"There is something in the desk for each of you. I intended to distribute it after dinner, but your mother found the cake and may soon command the remainder of the night."

He opened the bottom drawer and removed five narrow boxes. Each bore a daughter's name in his hand.

Elizabeth took hers. Inside lay a copy of the King's six-word message and a letter sealed with dark green wax.

"Are we to read them now?"

"After I am gone would be more dramatic. I have discovered I prefer hearing whether I made errors while able to correct them. Call your sisters."

Jane, Mary, Kitty, and Lydia returned to the library. Lady Bennet came too, suspicious of any family event organized without her.

"You have a box?" she asked.

Sir Thomas produced a sixth.

"I have been married long enough to anticipate one question."

They opened the letters.

To Jane, Sir Thomas had written of the burden goodness could become when everyone relied upon it.

Your gentleness was never permission for others to decide you did not feel. You taught this family that quiet love must still be believed and that kindness may require a boundary. I am sorry I once praised your goodness more often than I asked whether it cost you anything.

Jane read the final sentence twice. Bingley stood behind her chair and rested his hands upon her shoulders.

To Elizabeth:

You were the first child who knocked upon my library door as if expecting it to open. When it did not, you learned to laugh outside it. I am grateful you tried again. Your questions made me uncomfortable long before the King made comfort impossible. Continue asking them, especially when the answers are your own.

Elizabeth looked at her father through tears. "That final instruction is dangerous."

"Darcy may destroy the copy."

"I would not dare," Darcy said.

Mary's letter honored what no early relation had seen.

I mistook your seriousness for vanity because I did not listen long enough to hear fear beneath it. You did not need sermons. You needed instruction suited to your gift and praise that did not demand performance. The music was always yours. Forgive us for making you believe accomplishment must compensate for being overlooked.

Mary covered her mouth. Mr Avery knelt beside her and read only when she turned the page toward him.

Kitty's letter was the longest.