Page 8 of The Earl’s Second Chance

“I spoke for eleven minutes,” he told his wife.

“Did anyone laugh?”

“Twice.”

“At the proper places?”

“Miraculously.”

She kissed his cheek. “I am proud of you, Thomas.”

No one had said those words to him in years. He closed his hand over hers.

At Herfershire, the girls advanced.

Jane’s harp seemed made for her: graceful, warm, never demanding attention and yet transforming a room. She still thought sometimes of Charles Bingley. In the early months she wrote his name in no letter and spoke it only to Elizabeth. The ache diminished not because her affection had been false, but because new responsibilities exposed how little foundation it had possessed.

“We danced,” she said one night as the sisters sat before Elizabeth’s fire. “We spoke of the weather, music, the neighbourhood. He admired me. But did he know me?”

Elizabeth folded her legs beneath her. “You did not make knowing you easy.”

“No. I thought reserve was modesty.”

“And he allowed admiration to stand in place of inquiry.”

Jane was quiet. “I hope he is happy.”

“That is very like you.”

“But I no longer know whether I hope he returns.”

Elizabeth took her hand. “That is progress.”

Kitty’s paintings grew astonishing. Mr. Bell entered one of her watercolours—a winter dawn over the lake—into a private exhibition under initials. It received honourable notice in two papers. When the family congratulated her, Kitty cried so hard she could not speak.

Mary broadened her shelves. She read history, political economy, poetry, and novels. She learned that fiction could cultivate sympathy and that laughter was not always frivolity. One evening, after performing a Haydn trio with real delicacy, she accepted praise without converting it into a moral lesson.

“I enjoyed playing,” she admitted.

Her father raised his glass. “A dangerous beginning.”

She smiled because she knew he was teasing with affection, not contempt.

Letters came from Lydia every Sunday under Miss Templeton’s seal. At first they were blotted with rage.

The bells wake us at six. We walk in all weather. Miss Templeton says a lady who cannot endure rain cannot endure disappointment. I hate her.

Later:

We must account for every shilling. I never knew how quickly money disappears. Miss Templeton made me mend my own torn hem.

Later still:

A girl named Anne tried to run away with a music master. He left her at an inn when he learned she had no fortune. I thought of the officer at the tenants’ dance. Do not suppose I admit Papa was right.

Lord Herfershire smiled over that line and wrote back without triumph.

I shall suppose only that you are beginning to be right for yourself.