Elizabeth went upstairs.
Kitty was cross-legged on the bed, a stocking stretched over her fist, needle flashing. She was four-and-twenty and restless, her energy directed at whatever task was nearest because there was nothing larger to direct it towards. She sprang up when Elizabeth appeared and hugged her fiercely.
“Tell me everything. Is the house enormous? Is the child a terror? Is Mr Darcy as grim as he was in Hertfordshire?”
“The house is large, the child is magnificent, and Mr Darcy is—” She hesitated for a fraction of a second. “Civil.”
“Civil.” Kitty wrinkled her nose. “That is the dullest word in the English language, Lizzy.”
“Then it suits him admirably.”
Elizabeth knocked on Lydia’s door and entered after the quiet “come in.” The room was small and dim, the curtains half-drawn. Lydia sat by the window, a book open in her lap. She raised her head and managed a smile that did not quite hold.
“Lizzy.”
“Hello, dearest.”
Elizabeth sat beside her and took her hand. They did not speak of anything important. They spoke of the weather, of Kitty’s mending, of the neighbour’s cat that had taken to sleeping on their doorstep. Small, safe, inconsequential things. Lydia’s fingers gripped hers tightly, but her eyes were elsewhere. Elizabeth held on and did not press.
She went back downstairs and Jane made tea. Jane, Elizabeth, and Mrs Bennet sat in the cramped kitchen. The tea was weak because it was expensive, and they squeezed the leaves to make the most of it.
“The child,” Mrs Bennet said. “What is she like?”
“Extraordinary.” Elizabeth wrapped her hands around the cup. “She is six and asks more questions than Parliament. She has a wooden horse named Muffin and firm opinions about potatoes.”
Jane’s mouth curved. The almost-smile, the one Elizabeth lived for. “She sounds wonderful.”
“She is.”
“And Mr Darcy? As an employer, I mean.” Mrs Bennet was watching her over the rim of her cup. “Does he treat you well?”
“He does, Mamma. He is considerate and fair.”
“Considerate.” Mrs Bennet set her cup down. “Fair. He sends his carriage for you on your half day. This is more than fair.” She pinned her daughter with her eyes. “Lizzy, I was not born yesterday, and I was not born stupid, whatever your father may have thought. That is not an employer. That is a man who—”
“Mamma.” Elizabeth’s voice was low and firm. “He is my employer. That is all.”
Mrs Bennet held her gaze for a long while. Then she picked up her tea, and said nothing, which was the most alarming thing she had done all afternoon.
At six o’clock precisely, Elizabeth kissed her mother, embraced Jane, and stepped out onto The Polygon.
The carriage was waiting; she had expected that. What she had not expected was the man leaning against it.
He was in regimentals. Tall, fair-haired, broad across the shoulders, with an easy stance and a face that belonged on a recruiting poster. He straightened when he saw her, and his expression broke into a grin so warm and immediate that Elizabeth stopped on the pavement, her breath catching.
“Miss Bennet!” Colonel Fitzwilliam swept his hat from his head and bowed. “I do not believe it. Seven years, and you have not changed a particle.”
This was generous and not entirely true, but the Colonel had always been generous, and Elizabeth had always liked him for it. At Rosings he had been the only bearable company in Lady Catherine’s drawing room. She liked him now, standing on a narrow street in Somers Town, grinning at her as though the intervening years, the scandal, and the poverty were details too trivial to acknowledge.
“Colonel Fitzwilliam.” She took his offered hand. His grip was firm, uncomplicated, carrying none of the charge that had shot through her when another hand had touched her. She pushed that thought aside. “What on earth are you doing here?”
“Escorting you home, of course.” He opened the carriage door and handed her in. “I arrived at Grosvenor Street this afternoon, fresh from Gibraltar and smelling considerably better than I did a fortnight ago. Darcy and Miss Darcy informed me of your situation, and when I heard the carriage was coming to collect you, I seized my opportunity.” He climbed in after her and settled into the opposite seat. “I hope you do not mind.”
“Not at all. Though I confess I did not expect a military escort for the journey from Somers Town.”
“The streets of London are treacherous, Miss Bennet. One cannot be too careful.” His eyes were bright with amusement. He had not changed either. He was older, certainly. Lines around his eyes that had not been there, and a tan that spoke of years under a harsher sun than England’s. But the warmth was the same, the directness, the refusal to stand on ceremony.
The carriage moved through the evening streets. The Colonel talked easily, filling the space between them with news of his regiment, an anecdote about a mule that had eaten his commanding officer’s dispatches, and a description of the Gibraltarian countryside that was vivid enough to make her smile. He did not mention her circumstances. He did not mention Lydia, or her father, or the house she had just left. He treated her precisely as he had treated her at Rosings: as an equal, as a companion whose wit he enjoyed, as Miss Elizabeth Bennet of Longbourn.