But Mamma was far too entranced by the spectacle to heed her suggestion. “Look at those brass fittings! And the coachmen—my goodness, the livery! Whoever this is must be quite important indeed.”
Papa set down his coffee cup and folded his newspaper, seeming resigned to having his peaceful morning interrupted. “Well, then. I suppose we shall have to receive them properly. Lizzy, ring for Mrs. Hill if you would, and warn her that we are to have company.”
Elizabeth had just reached for the bell pull when a sharp, formal knock echoed through the house. It was not the casual rap of a neighbour or the hesitant tap of a tradesman, but an authoritative announcement that the person on the other side of the door was accustomed to being admitted without delay.
“My goodness,” Mamma said, and began fluttering about the room. “Jane, fix your hair. Lizzy, put away that bonnet. Mary, for heaven’s sake, hide that dreadful book.”
“It is not dreadful, Mamma,” Mary protested, clutching it to her chest.
“Whatever it is, it is not suitable reading for morning callers,” Mamma replied firmly. “Quick, all of you, sit up straight and try to look accomplished.”
Elizabeth exchanged an amused glance with Jane as Mr. Hill’s voice could be heard in the hallway, followed by a deep, unfamiliar voice requesting an audience with the Bennet family on “a matter of utmost importance.”
“Utmost importance?” Mamma’s eyes widened with a mixture of anticipation and concern. “Oh dear, I hope nothing dreadful has happened.”
Before Papa could reassure her, Mr. Hill appeared in the doorway, looking unusually flustered. “Begging your pardon, sir,” he said, addressing Mr. Bennet, “but there is a gentleman here to see you. A Sir Reginald Whitmore. He says it is regarding Miss Elizabeth specifically.”
Elizabeth exchanged a shocked look with Jane.Me?
“Show him in, Hill,” Papa said, standing. But Elizabeth noticed something peculiar in her father’s expression, something she thought might be dismay.
Sir Reginald Whitmore proved to be a tall, imposing man of about sixty years, with steel-grey hair and a regal bearing. His clothing was impeccable,from his perfectly tied cravat to his gleaming boots, and he carried himself with stiff formality.
Upon entering the parlour, he bowed, his movements precise and deliberate. “Mr. Bennet,” he said as though meeting a former acquaintance. “Mrs. Bennet, ladies,” he intoned in a voice that seemed designed for making proclamations in vast halls. “I am Sir Reginald Whitmore, envoy to His Majesty, King Frederick of Thurnia.”
The silence that followed this announcement was so complete that Elizabeth was certain everyone in the room could hear her heart beating.Thurnia.The word sent an odd thrill through her. She had heard it before, of course, in the stories Papa had told her of her father, but it had always seemed like something from a book for children, not a real place with real people who sent real envoys to modest country estates.
Mamma’s mouth opened and closed several times, producing no sound whatsoever, while Papa stood still and pale.
“Thurnia!” Lydia exclaimed as she skipped into the room and the conversation.
“Where is Thurnia?” Kitty asked, following just behind her younger sister.
Sir Reginald’s placid expression suggested that this was not the first time he had been required to answer this question. “Thurnia is an island nation situated between the coast of Scotland and the Faroe Islands. We have maintained our independence from both England and Scotland for over four centuries, though we share a common language and many cultural traditions.”
Papa sank slowly back into his chair. “I did not think you would come so soon,” he said quietly.
“I bring news that should not come as a surprise to you, Mr. Bennet.”
What could this formal stranger possibly have to say that Papa had been expecting? Elizabeth glanced at her father and saw something in his expression that made her stomach clench.
“I meant to speak to you about this, Elizabeth, but I thought the King would wait until the spring.”
“Speak to me about what, Papa?” Elizabeth managed, though her voice sounded strange to her own ears.
Sir Reginald reached into his coat and withdrew a thick scroll bound with red ribbon. “Miss Elizabeth,” he said, turning to address her directly, “I have come on behalf of Their Majesties, King Frederick and Queen Sophia of Thurnia, to extend a formal invitation for you to join the royal family.”
Join the royal family.The words seemed to echo strangely in Elizabeth’s mind. She had always known, of course, that she carried royal blood. But because her mother had been a commoner, and English as well, there had been some sort of protest about the marriage. Elizabeth had long presumed that protest extended to her as well.
It had never bothered her. Thurnia and her father’s family had always seemed so distant. It was like knowing that one’s grandfather had once owned a fine work of art that had long since been sold; interesting family history, but nothing that affected one’s actual life.
“Miss Elizabeth,” Sir Reginald continued when no one else seemed capable of speech, “your father, Prince Maximillian of Thurnia, was the beloved son of the current king. When he married your mother and chose to remain in England, there was some protest from the King’s council. But it has been years since that was resolved—” he lifted an eyebrow at her father— “and I was sent to tell your uncle that the daughter of that union would be welcomed into the royal family when she came of age. In Thurnia, one comes of age at eighteen.”
Elizabeth’s mind raced. She had heard the story of how her mother had met her father at a reception he was attending with a group of Thurnian officers, how they had fallen deeply in love, how Prince Maximillian had chosen to follow his heart, how because he was the youngest son, his father had reluctantly allowed it. Her mother’s common English birth had been obstacle enough to the match; when her parents died, it became reason enough to exclude Elizabeth from the palace. But apparently there had been further developments.
Sir Reginald cleared his throat. “Their Majesties have requested that I extend an invitation for you to visit Thurnia and take your place at court. You would be granted the title of Her Royal Highness Princess Elizabeth, with all the privileges and responsibilities thereunto.”
Mamma made a sound that was somewhere between a gasp and a squeak. Mary clutched her book more tightly. Jane’s embroidery fell to the floor.