Reborn as 8yo Regency Girl, OP All the Way

Chapter 6 Elizabeth·Farewell

In the final days before Elara’s departure, the Bennet household was the most frequent caller to the Harringtons’ manor. Mrs. Bennet would arrive each time with her two little girls in tow—Jane, her eldest, with the soft grace of a young rose, and Elizabeth, the second, a toddling two-year-old with round, bright eyes and a fearless spirit.

Elizabeth had taken a great fancy to Elara from the first meeting, and she would stumble into Elara’s arms the moment she crossed the threshold, her small hands clinging to Elara’s gown. Elara found the little one utterly charming, and the two Bennet girls were far sweeter companions than her own brother Theodore, a rambunctious three-year-old whose days were spent tearing across the lawns, hunting for beetles and stirring up mischief wherever he went.

Once, as Elara played with the girls on the veranda, she caught Mr. Bennet’s gaze resting on Theodore, a faint, wistful envy in his eyes before he glanced at his wife. Mrs. Bennet met his look with a warm, reassuring smile, her voice light as she spoke for only him to hear: “We’ll have our own little boy soon, my love. Elizabeth is two now—our next child will be here before we know it.”

She ached for a son, an heir to the Bennet estate and lands. A son would spare their daughters the rush of a hasty marriage, would let them choose a match for love rather than necessity. Young and hopeful, she thought time was all they needed. She could not have foreseen that this wish would linger unfulfilled, even after three more daughters joined the family—Lydia being the last. That bright, easy optimism would fade, replaced by the frazzled urgency of a mother with five unmarried daughters, known all across Longbourn for her desperate quest to see them settled.

When the blistering heat of summer finally ebbed into milder days, the day of departure arrived. Reverend Bailey, the parish priest of Longbourn, would escort Elara to Lowood, and Mr. Harrington pressed ten pounds into his hand to cover carriage fares and lodging along the way.

“Lowood is a long journey from here,” the reverend said, his tone gentle with caution. “I fear Elara will not be home for Christmas this year.”

Mr. Harrington nodded, his jaw set with the resolve of a father who knew what was best for his daughter. “Better she gain the accomplishments of a lady than linger at home. It will shape her future, in ways we cannot yet see.”

The reverend agreed. To leave Longbourn—to see more of the world than the rolling fields and small village—would give Elara a wit and breadth of mind that no lesson at home could offer. It would make her worthy of any gentleman’s regard, one day.

The stagecoach arrived at the manor gate at dawn. Mrs. Harrington stood on the steps, a linen handkerchief pressed to her eyes, waving furiously as Elara climbed into the carriage. “Write to us, my darling! Every week, if you can!”

Elara waved back until the manor was a small dot on the horizon, her throat tight with the first twinge of homesickness—but also a flutter of excitement. She was leaving Longbourn, for the first time ever.

Reverend Bailey noticed her quietness, and he set about cheering her up with tales of his own travels: of bustling market towns, of vast textile mills with spinning wheels that whirred day and night, of pastures stretching to the horizon, dotted with sheep and cattle. He was a kind man, erudite and quick-witted, and Elara found herself hanging on every word.

She learned much from him along the way—of the industrial stirrings across the country, how the rise of textiles had made cotton cheap enough for even the poorest families to wrap themselves in warm cloth come winter; of the differences between the rural villages and the bustling cities, where the streets were lined with shops and the air hummed with activity. Elara drank in every word, her modern mind hungry to learn more about this world she’d been thrown into, a world far bigger than the small bubble of Longbourn.

The reverend was astonished by her curiosity, by how quickly she asked questions, by how her responses held the wisdom of someone far older than eight. He soon realized Mr. Harrington’s confidence in sending her away was not misplaced—this little girl was wise beyond her years, thoughtful and self-possessed, capable of looking after herself far better than most children her age. He found himself speaking to her as he would to a fellow gentlewoman, not a child, and the two soon fell into an easy companionship, chattering away for hours on end.

Only once did he let a thought slip, a quiet regret: Elara’s features were plain, unremarkable. Her face was neat, her eyes bright with intelligence, but there was no great beauty there—nothing that would catch a young gentleman’s eye at first glance. He knew how the world worked for young ladies; beauty was a currency far more valuable than wit, and superficial young gentlemen would always chase a pretty face over a sharp mind. It was a shame, he thought—her wisdom deserved to be seen.

The stagecoach rumbled on for more than two weeks, trundling through quiet country lanes and two bustling cities, where Elara pressed her face to the window, marveling at the crowded streets and tall buildings. At last, they reached the outskirts of the town where Lowood Charity School stood.

The school was a little way from the town itself, a half-hour carriage ride through tree-lined lanes—an hour or more on foot, the reverend told her. As they drew near, Elara’s eyes fell on the building, and she leaned forward. It was built of bright red brick, with crisp white window frames, no smudge of age or wear to be seen. It was new, plainly so.

Her murmur was quiet, but an elderly woman standing by the coach house heard it, and stepped forward with a warm smile. “Aye, miss, it’s new enough—rebuilt just over a year past. All the finest new fittings, top to bottom.” She curtsied low, her movements stiff but polite. “You’ll be Reverend Bailey and Miss Harrington, I reckon? I’m Burns Simpson, housekeeper here at Lowood.”

Reverend Bailey doffed his hat, his tone formal but kind. “Mrs. Simpson, a pleasure. I am Reverend Bailey of Longbourn, and this is Miss Elara Harrington.”

Elara slipped down from the carriage, lifting her skirt slightly in a proper curtsy, her posture straight and composed—less a nervous child, more a young lady raised with care. “A pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Simpson.”

Mrs. Simpson took her hands in hers, her weathered fingers gentle as she studied her face. “Well, you’re a delicate little thing, aren’t you? I thought a lass who’d travel all this way alone would be sturdier, but I suppose eight is still a tender age. You’ll grow, though—we’ll fatten you up a bit here at Lowood.”

Elara smiled, a soft, quiet thing. “I hope so, Mrs. Simpson.”

“Come along, then,” Mrs. Simpson said, tucking Elara’s hand into her arm. “The coachman will see to your trunks—no need for you to trouble your pretty head with that. Let’s get you inside, out of the sun.”

They walked through the iron gate and into the school grounds, and Elara’s eyes darted about. It was recess, and the playground was filled with girls—some sitting on the grass with their needlework, some running about with hoops, some chatting in small huddles. The moment Elara stepped into view, the chatter died down. Whispers rippled through the crowd, dozens of eyes turning to fix on the new girl, the stranger in their midst.