Chapter Text
Chapter 1
Longbourn, 1807
The nightmare always went the same. She could never throw herself in front of her husband. Mr. Collins would strike Lydia. Elizabeth struggled to move as the sound of his blows echoed: knock, knock. Lydia’s tear stained face and accusing eyes were vaguely deformed. Action and speech were impossible, and her screams would not come. Mr. Collins’s fist rose. Fell. She hurt when the blow struck. That awful sound echoed.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Fifteen-year-old Elizabeth Collins awoke, soaked in sweat with a racing heart. The person outside knocked on the bedroom door again. “I’ll be up presently,” Elizabeth cried. The knocks ceased.
Elizabeth took deep breaths, but could not calm herself; she was very scared. Her father’s death’s six months earlier had made her life an endless nightmare. Jane had decided to listen to her mother’s demands and marry Mr. Collins. Elizabeth did the only thing she could to stop her. Despite everything she could not repent that choice.
Elizabeth placed her hand on her stomach — she’d miscarried this afternoon. She mourned the child, but did not feel really unhappy that Providence had chosen to take him away. Motherhood terrified her: her husband would treat her child the way his brutish father treated him.
Mr. Collins became angry when he heard — very angry. Only once had Elizabeth seen him this enraged. While the doctor remained he maintained appearances, but Elizabeth saw his carefully controlled tone and clenched fist. Once alone he pushed his face inches from Elizabeth’s, and exclaimed as she forced herself to not gag at the alcoholic odor of his breath, “I told you to give me a healthy son!”
His manner frightened Elizabeth, and tears began as she responded, “It is not my fault. I tried—”
“You disobeyed me. You may pretend otherwise, but it was disobedience. Disobedience. If you were a good wife this would not have happened. You owe me. Elizabeth, you owe me. You promised to never disobey. Remember?”
Tears rolled down her cheeks. Elizabeth frantically nodded. The memory of the day he extorted that promise made her sick with anxiety, “I did all I could.”
“You should have done better. You should not have destroyed my child. You — you have not behaved as a wife ought. You must be punished. I do not know how — I must think on it. What you have done demands great severity.” He looked down with a curled lip, “I cannot bear the sight of you. You are not sorry at all. You shall be.” He walked to the door. “When I return, I will have decided how to correct this insult.”
Mr. Collins left the house. Elizabeth nervously waited for his return so she could beg forgiveness again, but when he had not come home by midnight Elizabeth fell asleep in his bedroom while she waited.
Elizabeth knew not how to act. Last time, the only time, she’d disobeyed him he hurt Lydia. In her dreams he would beat her again and again; really he had only struck Lydia thrice before Elizabeth threw herself on her knees between them and swore to Mr. Collins she would never, ever, do anything he did not wish. Elizabeth kept that promise. Mostly.
Elizabeth and Lydia had told their mother what happened. Elizabeth wanted Mrs. Bennet to leave and live with her brother, so Elizabeth’s sisters would be safe from the monster she’d married to protect Jane. Mrs. Bennet screamed at them, “Liars! You lie! You both lie. Lydia, you gained those bruises when you fell. You know that is what really happened. Do not lie! Not to me. Do not make up such stories about Mr. Collins. He is an excellent son-in-law: he treats me with respect; he lets me stay in the house I was married in. You make up such stories because your father let you run wild, and now you hate that your husband expects you to act as a lady.”
Mrs. Bennet stood, and dramatically pressed her hand against her forehead. “Oh! Lord! Lord, what is to become of me. You shall offend him, and break poor Mr. Collins’s heart. He then shall throw us all into the hedgerows. Oh! If only you had not stolen Jane’s place — she would have been a good wife; she would not have created such lies.”
Mr. Collins had beaten Lydia when she visited Charlotte without permission. How would he punish her for losing his child? Who would he hurt? What would he do? Could he be convinced to only harm her, and spare her sisters?
Elizabeth stared at the door, dimly visible in the light given off by the flickering candle on her bedstand, and the red glow of the fireplace. She had no need to dress. When she fell asleep she had still been in her day clothes; the fine yellow silk of her dress was terribly wrinkled. Elizabeth hated how its quality had been purchased with his money. She would far rather be poor and unmarried.
He must have returned. It would be a servant sent to call her to the study so he could announce her fate. Elizabeth rehearsed a final time how she would grovel: he enjoyed it when she begged on her knees. While drunk Mr. Collins told her his father always demanded he and his mother beg on their knees whenever they really wanted something.
Elizabeth had created a list of things she would intensely hate. She could suggest them to him. Mr. Collins was fair. If she was sufficiently punished he would not do anything to hurt her further. No matter what she would protect her family.
Elizabeth’s pulse pounded as she walked to the door, her footsteps sounded eerily loud in her ears. Mrs. Hill stood there, her countenance grave. This was no mere summons to her husband. “What — what is it!” Elizabeth cried. Had he already hurt one of her sisters?
Mrs. Hill searched Elizabeth’s face for an eternity, then stated it baldly, “Mr. Collins is dead.”
The body lay on the parlor couch, the head tilted at a grotesque angle which showed his broken neck. The skin was chalky white in the flickering candlelight. Elizabeth’s stomach heaved and she clapped her hand over her mouth. But the nausea receded — and she’d been too nervous and sick to eat supper, so little could have come up.
His fat toad like face looked unusually ugly, and he lie there like a, like a — Elizabeth swallowed. There was no sufficiently vicious metaphor. He was the way he should have been born: dead. Elizabeth touched the frozen forehead. It was real. He was dead. He really was dead.
Relief flooded Elizabeth. She felt weak in her knees and couldn’t stop her smile as she collapsed onto the chair Mrs. Hill pushed behind her. Lydia was safe. Jane, Mary, and Kitty were safe. They all were. He’d not hurt anyone ever again. She could visit Charlotte freely. She could read novels and take solitary walks once more. He was dead, and could not hurt Lydia to punish her.
Elizabeth could do anything she wished. The entail had been for three generations; it died with Mr. Collins. As his wife she inherited Longbourn. They were safe from poverty. Elizabeth felt an elated bubble of joy envelop her, and she wanted to scream in happiness. She was free!
It would be terribly improper if she appeared happy, and the forms should be observed. Elizabeth attempted to be serious. “How did it happen?” Elizabeth asked with far too much smile in her tone.
The stable master had gone out to look for the master after Mr. Collins’s horse wandered home alone. The broken remains of his earthly dwelling place were found two hundred yards down the road from the manor house. Mr. Brown could not be certain why Mr. Collins fell, but the odor of alcohol that emanated from his clothes made a strong suggestion.
The apothecary and several local gentlemen, among them her Uncle Phillips, noisily arrived, and woke the rest of the household. When she entered the room Mrs. Bennet threw herself on the body of her son-in-law with sincere tears.
Elizabeth managed a stiff immobile expression which she hoped appeared proper. Her mother was contemptible. She sacrificed her daughters to that creature in exchange for money. It was unsurprising she’d mourn him.
Never. Elizabeth would never forgive her mother. She convinced Jane to marry him to save the family from poverty. Elizabeth would never forgive her for that. She cared more for her consequence in the neighborhood than what happened to Lydia and Elizabeth. Elizabeth would never forgive her for that. Elizabeth remembered the look in Lydia’s eyes when Mrs. Bennet called her a liar. Elizabeth would never forgive her for that.
Elizabeth’s sisters entered wearing their nightgowns and robes, Lydia ran and hugged Elizabeth. Since that day Elizabeth had grown close to Lydia, and Elizabeth caught a flash of Lydia’s sneer at the body before her sister buried her face in Elizabeth’s chest. Jane sat to Elizabeth’s other side and squeezed her free hand.
Soon the rest of the neighborhood arrived, and the house became quite crowded. Mrs. Hill stayed busy offering refreshments, and Elizabeth could hear Mr. Phillips speaking to the parson about funeral arrangements. Everyone was all that was kind and sympathetic to the family, but no one really grieved. Mr. Collins had not been well-liked: most had noticed there was something amiss in his treatment of Elizabeth, and his manners did not create fondness. Only Mrs. Bennet wept.
When Charlotte Lucas arrived wearing a hastily thrown on morning gown, and a heavy woolen shawl Elizabeth flashed her friend a half smile. Sitting next to his body, and attempting to appear sad was the oddest experience Elizabeth had ever had. Charlotte pulled Elizabeth up and embraced her tightly whispering, “You should not have to play for everyone at a time like this.” She ordered Jane to keep company with Mrs. Bennet, then dragged Elizabeth to an empty room. Lydia came with them, and when the three were alone Charlotte embraced Elizabeth and said fervently, “The Lord has been kind.”
Elizabeth smiled widely as she whispered back through happy tears, “He has indeed.”
Chapter 2
Meryton 1811
The evening was interminable.
Darcy hated balls. They held little opportunity for good conversation. He was expected to dance with women he barely knew. And, even at the very best gatherings, the wine was invariably terrible.
He wanted to enjoy Bingley’s company — and keep an eye on him — as his friend settled into his first estate. He looked forward to the good hunting and milder weather that Hertfordshire offered; he was not here to meet the local gentry. So why was he in this ballroom, with its gaudy chandelier and scratched wooden floors? Why did he let Bingley drag him here? He was surrounded by dozens of self-important people of no fashion and little beauty. People who stared at him.
Bingley and his partner smiled happily at each other — unsurprisingly she was the prettiest girl in the room. Darcy scowled. It always amazed him how Bingley could enter a room and be friends with everyone in it within an hour’s time. Usually it entertained Darcy to watch Bingley meet new persons, but now he was bored. With Bingley occupied there was no one he cared to talk to, and for the fifth time Darcy wished he was home with a book.
Miss Bingley came up as Darcy scowled at a violinist who missed notes in every passage with the slightest difficulty. “Can you believe it,” she pointed at a woman talking to an older man, “for the past year that woman has directly managed her land without a steward or estate agent. Have you ever heard anything so shocking?”
Darcy had been introduced to the woman as the widow of a Mr. Collins, and would not have guessed she was eccentric from her appearance. “Surely it is a small estate? It would not be odd then.”
“No, indeed her holdings are the largest in the neighborhood, except Netherfield. Can you imagine it: she negotiates contracts; she directs workmen; she even collects rents herself — it is the scandal of the neighborhood.”
The description fascinated Darcy more than appalled him. It was hardly feminine, but he approved of any landowner who took their duties seriously. “Is the estate well-managed? Do you know which it is?”
“Longbourn is the estate, I believe it is three miles or so from Netherfield. I can’t imagine she does well at all, though Mrs. Phelps was impressed. She is a woman after all — it brings to mind Doctor Johnson’s quip, a woman managing her own lands is like a dog walking on hind legs, the surprise is that it is done at all.”
Miss Bingley clearly expected Darcy to share her amusement at the well-worn quote. He was still annoyed by how she hounded him during the carriage ride from London — he’d not come to Hertfordshire to marry Bingley’s sister either. Darcy decided to be contrary, “My aunt, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, is quite involved in managing Rosings Park. She keeps a steward, but she supervises him most closely.”
Lady Catherine was not in fact a good example of estate management: three stewards had left due to annoyance at a her demands, and the primary qualification of the current was a remarkable ability to flatter and his willingness to never question orders, no matter how silly. Lady Catherine had been lucky to find him.
Before Miss Bingley recovered from his frosty tone, Darcy added, “I saw part of Longbourn’s lands during my ride this morning: it is a well maintained property — was it managed directly by her husband as well?”
“Oh, he died some four or five years ago. The steward was old and on his death last year rather than replace him she took all the work upon herself.” Miss Bingley placed a critical eye on the young woman again, “she has horribly misused her time, that dress is three seasons out of date — and her hair! That poor hair! Its potential is all wasted, alas. With an estate of that size she ought to have a better maid: all the Bennets are poorly dressed and coiffed.”
Darcy followed Miss Bingley’s eye, he saw no deep flaw in Mrs. Collins’s hair and dress. On the contrary, her black curls formed an elegant contrast to the white of her neck and they bounced prettily as she flung her hands about to emphasize her words. Her pale yellow ball gown enclosed a light and pleasing form. While he deferred to Miss Bingley as his superior in matters of female fashion, Darcy thought himself her superior in the judgment of female beauty.
The favorable impression Darcy had of her lands and the prettiness of Mrs. Collins’s figure aroused his curiosity. “I must properly meet this marvel for myself,” Darcy left Miss Bingley and cast about for a stratagem to enter her conversation.
“Mr. Long, I have tried to convince you out of concern for your wife and nieces. If you considered my arguments you would see borrowing to bring marginal fields under cultivation at this time is foolhardy. You should not attempt to clear that field.”
The florid gentleman patted Mrs. Collins kindly on her arm, “Nonsense, Lizzy, rents have never been higher — the increased income will pay off the mortgage in almost no time. As a woman you are naturally timid—which does you credit. But your female fears lead you astray when you meddle in business matters best left to men.”
There was a clear flash of irritation in the woman’s momentary frown. But almost immediately she forced a polite smile onto her face, “Of course, we are the weaker sex, and while my advice was well meant, you may ignore it as you choose.”
When he entered the assembly hall Sir William Lucas had introduced Mrs. Collins to him. Without preamble Darcy asked, “Why do you think this is a poor time to bring marginal lands under plow: rents are higher than ever.”
Mr. Long laughed self-consciously, “Don’t let Lizzy give you the wrong idea of Hertfordshire society, humor her if you wish, but her father, God bless his soul, taught her she should debate like a man.”
Now her irritation was very clear: she wrinkled her nose, narrowed her eyes, and tightened her lips. Her face was expressive. Darcy also disliked Mr. Long’s reply. Darcy had not spoken to him. Once his intense gaze made Mr. Long flinch in embarrassment Darcy turned to Mrs. Collins, “Your father taught you to debate like a man?”
She nodded.
“Then explain: what argument convinced you now is a poor time to enclose wasteland.”
Mrs. Collin’s lips turned up into a smile at his direct request, “I must warn you, I have given this much thought indeed. Grain is expensive, because the war keeps us from eating Baltic corn, and we have had several poor harvests. But, the war will not go on forever, and even if it does by my calculation at least a tenth more land has been brought under cultivation in Hertfordshire, and improvements have made the potential yield on already cultivated lands much higher. Our population has not grown nearly so much, should we have a few good years the price of wheat could easily go back to where it was a decade ago — you’ll never pay off that mortgage, Mr. Long, if that happens.”
“Besides — some land sells at simply ridiculous prices, I sold a field earlier this year for nearly forty times what it brought in rents.” The woman shook her head in exasperation and gave a small laugh, “indeed, I have no desire to sell land which has belonged to my family for generations, but when my neighbors beg me to cheat them it is hard to say nay.”
The woman gestured excitedly as she spoke, and Darcy thought her fine bright eyes were most fetching. He also agreed with her. The country was mad for improvements, but Mrs. Collins was right: the end of the war, or increased production, might reverse the sharp rise in agricultural prices; to be overextended then would be dangerous. Darcy still plowed bone meal and lime into his fields to improve their fertility, but avoided the more extravagant projects the boom in rents had convinced many of his neighbors to undertake. He also had sold all of his estates that were not part of the traditional family holdings.
Directly agreeing with her would not allow Darcy to see how deeply she’d thought on the issue, “It is true that should the war end prices likely will fall. Anyone can see that, but the war has continued almost twenty years: it might continue another twenty. While it does, it is likely that the Navy and Army shall absorb any excess.”
“Perhaps.” Mrs. Collins spread her hands, “But, even then I greatly doubt that prices will stay this high forever. And what if they do, I would greatly prefer to have plenty of capital and be unhappy I did not use it than no capital and heavy debts should incomes fall.”
“Yes, but as the Romans said, audentes fortuna iuvat — that is fortune favors the bold — you should not let fear of loss keep you from making investments likely to turn a profit.”
Mrs. Collins smiled, “I see what you mean to say, you agree with Mr. Long that it is merely womanly fears which lead me to think this way. Perhaps.” The woman’s smile deepened, and the corners of her eyes crinkled to show real amusement as she continued, “However, as one of our English poets said, fools rush in where angels fear to tread. I will keep my angelic fears, and leave what fortune is to be gained from bold foolishness to men.”
To his surprise Darcy laughed at Mrs. Collins’s sweet expression as she teased them, “In fact I agree. To make large outlays in the firm conviction wheat prices shall never fall seems foolhardy to me as well.”
At that reply she gave a pleased laugh which brightened her face beautifully, “I see you delight in expressing opinions contrary to your own. I will remember that.”
“Only for the sake of argument; in life I abhor deceit. But, if I directly agreed with you it would have been impossible to see how well you had thought on the issue.”
Mrs. Collins responded with another charming smile which Darcy could not help but return, “My father loved to make statements to discover how another party would respond as well—Mr. Long,” she nodded at the man who watched them bemusedly, “spoke rightly when he said that I was taught to argue.”
“Yes, but you do it so charmingly,” Mr. Long said. Then as the current dance had ended he gave a small bow and said “you must excuse me, I promised to dance the next with my wife.”
The brightness of Mrs. Collins’s eyes gave Darcy a sudden impulse. With his own bow he asked, “Are you engaged for this set?”
“I am not,” her face dimpled as she replied.
“Would you do me the honor of dancing the set with me?”
“It would be a pleasure, Mr. Darcy.” With that Darcy took her gloved hand and led her to join the line of couples.
As they danced, Mrs. Collins drew him out with a stream of questions— about Georgiana, about Pemberley, about how he managed his estate, about his thoughts on Hertfordshire. There was an intelligent look in her eyes, and her responses to what he said were invariably well-informed, and often humorous. Her manners were not those of the best society, but their playfulness — and how her lively smiles lit her face — delighted Darcy.
Mrs. Collins was claimed by another partner once the dance ended, and Darcy reflected with pleasure that he could not recall a more pleasant half hour spent in a ballroom. For the rest of the night the swish of her gown, or the flash of her eyes, or the merry tones of her voice caught his attention, and late in the evening they danced again. During the return trip to Netherfield Darcy smiled as the carriage bounced over the rural roads. The evening had started poorly, but in the end he enjoyed himself a great deal.
* * * * *
The morning after the ball Elizabeth hummed the tune from one of the sets she had danced with Darcy, and settled into the large padded chair in front of her desk. Last night had been a joy. She could not recall the last time she had conversed with a clever gentleman who would really listen to her. Further, Darcy was very handsome and danced delightfully. Elizabeth grinned as she remembered how he spent half the night walking the edges of the room with a proud look.
She had never been so surprised as when he entered her otherwise fruitless conversation with Mr. Long — his nieces were very good women, and Elizabeth wished them well, but few men ever took a woman seriously on matters of business. At first Elizabeth thought Darcy was one of those supercilious gentlemen with definite ideas about what a woman should speak on, and that he wished to prove her stupidity. However when he laughed it transformed his face: the pride disappeared, replaced by a good-natured sensibility.
Elizabeth smiled at the view of her garden through the window; it was the sort of overcast and drizzly day which made one happy to be warm in their own room. She briefly glanced over her study, Elizabeth loved how it showed a mix of masculine and feminine traits. The solid leather bound account books and neatly organized piles of business letters on her heavy mahogany desk showed she conducted business here.
The pretty chintz curtains, the watercolors drawn by Kitty and Lydia which hung around the room, and the flowered tea set on the coffee table near a dainty sofa showed, while a midsized estate was run from the room, it was run by a woman. Mr. Collins had lectured her at length on the imbecility of women, and their complete inability to manage their own affairs. Every time Elizabeth finished a negotiation with a tenant, or tallied up the rents from a successful year, or improved the drainage of a field for less than a neighbor had paid for similar project, every time she succeeded Elizabeth still felt the delightful thrill of proving him wrong.
It was a silly self-indulgence, but several times a year she took out the dusty old account books and compared the rents received under her management to those received under his. Men had managed Longbourn poorly. She beat both Mr. Collins and her father. The reduced expense and additional control was not the only reason Elizabeth chose not to hire a new steward. Running the estate without help required hours of work daily, but the ability to throw her success at the memory of Mr. Collins’s voice was worth it. Incapable. Ha! Imbecilic. Ha! Only if an income six hundred pounds a year greater than his was incapable. Only if growing her rents every year was imbecilic.
A portrait of her father hung above the fireplace. Fine bookshelves whose dark mahogany matched her desk covered the walls. Expensive and rare books filled them. Elizabeth both loved and hated the collection her father had created.
She’d spent her childhood, those happy years before her father died, in this room. He let her read with him; he encouraged her to argue and think. She’d read most of the books on the shelves, and spent hours with her father very carefully admiring the rarer specimens, such as a first edition folio of Shakespeare’s collected works. He would call her a silly girl, but her father always treated her as a thinking creature, and more importantly expected her to act as one. The books reminded her of his love.
And his failure.
He saved no money. They would barely have maintained their status as gentlewomen with the limited fortune settled upon her mother. It left Elizabeth no way to protect Jane from that odious man except to marry him herself. After Mr. Collin’s death Elizabeth carefully studied the estate’s old account books. Her father spent an average of two hundred and fifty a year collecting books. If he saved that sum each year after Jane was born it would have doubled the amount settled upon his wife.
He could’ve economized elsewhere. And his habits of indolence — the time spent with his beloved books — reduced his income. The estate had been neglected. Improvements that should’ve been made were not; the steward was not properly supervised; contracts were not properly renegotiated. Rents had steadily increased everywhere in England since Mr. Bennet’s death, which explained some of the rise in Longbourn’s income, but Elizabeth judged that if properly managed by her father the estate would have yielded two or three hundred more a year —if saved that too would have left his daughters well dowered and protected from concern.
Mrs. Bennet. The year she was too frightened of Elizabeth to speak to her had let Elizabeth’s anger cool. Still, Elizabeth thought very poorly of her mother. She had worried about the entail, obsessed about her daughters marrying well, and never economized. She then convinced Jane to marry Mr. Collins because she was unwilling to survive off the income of five thousand pounds a year. Her behavior combined greed with imprudence.
Elizabeth knew her family’s situation after Mr. Bennet’s death was more her father’s fault than her mother’s. But, perhaps because she never could forget how her mother reacted when they showed her Lydia’s bruises, Mrs. Bennet was the one she never really forgave. Elizabeth’s body still tightened with anger when she remembered their argument after Mr. Collins died.
Elizabeth had promised herself, before Mr. Collins had even been buried, that no one she cared for would ever again want for money. She intended to save enough so, not only her sisters, but any daughters they might have, and any daughters those daughters might have would be able to marry or not as they pleased. Elizabeth immediately gave notice to half the staff, slashed their clothes budget, and sold the new carriage Mr. Collins had bought to purchase a much older one.
Mrs. Bennet had nagged Elizabeth to change her decision. Elizabeth had little patience for her at the time, and ordered her to be silent. Despite the passage of years Elizabeth could clearly remember Mrs. Bennett’s shouted response, “You are selfish! A selfish child who cares nothing for Jane or Lydia or any of your family. Lord! I so wish you had not stolen Jane’s place.”
“One more word from you! One more, and I swear, I swear I will throw you out in the hedgerows you fear so much. I will tolerate no more of your demands. None. Another word and you will be turned out this evening. Do not speak to me again, ever.” Elizabeth had been serious. The only reason she did not actually turn Mrs. Bennet out was because the scandal would’ve hurt Jane’s prospects.
It had been years, and Elizabeth now regretted how she had treated her mother. Despite everything, Mrs. Bennet was her mother. It was not right for a daughter to control their mother through threats. It was something Mr. Collins might have done.
For a year after the two had not spoken: Mrs. Bennet too frightened to start a conversation, and Elizabeth too angry. Time though eased most wounds. They still spent little time together, but Elizabeth could now be polite to her mother. And her mother had learned to rarely ask for money. She could spend the income from her own five thousand pounds as she willed, but otherwise Elizabeth would run the household as she chose.
The family lived most comfortably, and Elizabeth had only modestly reduced their show of consequence in the neighborhood. Still, she spent barely half what the family did during her father’s life. It was a slow process, but over the past four years between economy, increased rents, and the very good return on capital she had given to her uncle, Elizabeth had put aside six thousand pounds towards her sister’s dowries. Another three thousand pounds had been gained from the fields she recently sold.
Several times a month Elizabeth took the Consol bonds, East India Company share certificates, and bank account books from her safe to look at the paper representation of the accumulated funds. They made her feel safe.
Jane clearly liked Mr. Bingley a great deal. And Mr. Bingley had paid more attention to her than any other girl at the assembly. It was very early, but Elizabeth wondered if she might soon lose her sister.
Mr. Bingley was worth four thousand a year. The number lit her mother’s eyes with avarice; it made Elizabeth apprehensive. She unlocked her strong box, and pulled the certificates and account books out. It was not a bad sum, but divided in four it would look pitifully small to a man with four thousand a year. Elizabeth would not mortgage the estate, or give Jane funds which ought to go to her other sisters.
Elizabeth shrugged and put the certificates away. She wished her sisters to marry, and marry well, but a good husband was a good man, not a rich one. A man who scorned a girl of Jane’s beauty and kindness due to her relative poverty, or her connections to trade, was not a man Elizabeth wished for her sister.
As the lock clicked back into place there was a knock from her door and Jane entered. Elizabeth smiled, and walked to embrace her sister, “what draws you here this morning?”
Jane seemed uncomfortable, and in a tense voice said, “Mama begged me to speak with you.”
“Oh?” Elizabeth refused to feel angry before she heard, but the fact that Jane was her intermediary proved Elizabeth would not be happy.
“She wants — Lizzy you know I wish nothing for myself, and entirely approve of how you run the house. I am only saying what Mama begged me to. She wants us to hire a new lady’s maid, a better cook, and lay out several hundred pounds to update our wardrobes and the house’s furnishings.”
“Does she now.” Tight anger leapt out of her stomach as Elizabeth bit out, “Did Mama give some reason for this application?”
Jane did not reply, her eyes unhappy. Jane always supported Elizabeth, but she did not like to see her and Mrs. Bennet at odds. It was that more than anything else which led Elizabeth to tolerate her mother.
Elizabeth gave the explanation Jane would not. “She wants to impress Mr. Bingley no doubt. All this time I had thought she may have become more reasonable. But no, it was merely that there was no gentleman worthy of her avarice in the vicinity. But now there is and she wishes again to sell her daughters.”
Elizabeth felt Jane take her hand and squeeze it. She slowly calmed and paid attention to the sensation of her breath leaving as she exhaled. She looked at Jane, “Do you wish new dresses? I will not spend a great deal of course, but —”
Jane shook her head, and Elizabeth added with a smile, “Not even to impress Mr. Bingley? You seemed to like him a great deal last night.”
Jane blushed, “He is just what a young man ought to be, sensible, good humored, lively.”
“He is also handsome, which a young man ought likewise to be, if he possibly can.”
Jane laughed, and said “I confess I was very much flattered when he asked me to dance a second time. But no, if I were to spend a great deal on clothes in hopes of attaching him — no, I would not wish to behave so.”
After some further words, Jane left Elizabeth to her correspondence. She refused to let her mother’s request ruin her mood. Mrs. Bennet had no power, and Elizabeth hoped she would know enough to not push.
Midway through a letter from Mr. Gardiner describing his purchase of a large set of drainage pipes for Elizabeth, Lydia entered the room.
She stood in front of Elizabeth, “You must tell me more about this man you danced with.”
After her mourning period ended it felt as if every unmarried gentleman in the neighborhood wished to court her. She had been just sixteen, and the nightmares which had ended months earlier returned as Elizabeth faced the sudden burst of male attention — and the idea of marriage. Lydia protected Elizabeth from much of this pressure. She acted like a brat in company to give Elizabeth an excuse to leave the room, and she never left Elizabeth alone with a man.
Elizabeth was grateful to her sister, but that time had passed. Elizabeth eventually became comfortable enough to politely and clearly make her disinterest known, and with that confidence her nightmares and nervous anxieties had faded: she no longer needed Lydia’s help to fend off unwanted suitors.
Lydia did not agree. She wished to know everything about any man who showed the slightest interest in Elizabeth. Then she would behave in a quite ill-bred fashion towards them.
Most times Lydia’s behavior amused Elizabeth. However, she did not wish Lydia to act in her customary manner in this case. Mr. Darcy was a delight to converse with and Elizabeth liked him. Further, he was Mr. Bingley’s friend. It might hurt Jane’s position if Lydia offended him.
“He is a very nice gentleman — I enjoyed our conversation, he took my opinions seriously, and would take the other side of a debate simply for the pleasure of the argument. It reminded me of the talks I used to have with father.”
Lydia gave an unladylike snort, “He is still a man.” Elizabeth smiled at the way her sister’s face wrinkled in disgust. Despite the good example of the Gardiners, Elizabeth’s marriage led Lydia to loathe men and the wedded state. When Mrs. Bennet anxiously exclaimed, ‘Lord! All of you still unmarried, and Jane nearly an old maid!’ Lydia would inevitably reply, ‘well, I have determined to never marry. I think it good we all are free of men.’
The amusement in Elizabeth’s eyes annoyed Lydia and she stamped her foot, “He certainly wishes to marry you to acquire Longbourn. Men are greedy — and none of them are perceptive enough to realize how clever you are.”
Elizabeth laughed at the compliment, “Now don’t speak in that manner, while seldom as fair as the fairer sex some men do have their own virtues. Darcy, I believe, did perceive my great cleverness — which is a great deal less than you assume it to be. Now, promise you will not bother him, we are barely acquainted and I’m sure neither of us desires to be more than friends — Mr. Darcy is more than wealthy enough to not have any desire to marry me for Longbourn.”
Elizabeth held her sister’s eyes until she nodded, and pouted, “I should have met him and Mr. Bingley last night, when will you let me attend balls?”
With a laugh Elizabeth replied, “Not for another six months yet — don’t show me that face, you’ll meet them in a few days, I heard Sir William ask Bingley to his party the day after tomorrow.”
“La! It will be so much fun to see your and Jane’s new suitor — can I borrow your yellow ribbon?”
“He’s not my suitor. Now run along, I have work to do.”
“The ribbon?”
Elizabeth laughed, “Yes, you can borrow the ribbon. Now go.” Lydia darted forward and gave her sister a quick kiss, before she left.
Two of her sisters in one morning. Elizabeth smiled as she enjoyed the tactile pleasure of trimming her quill — as the total sum of money involved was so small Elizabeth indulged herself by buying the very best feathers. Would Mary or Kitty decide to stop by as well? Her other two sisters were very different. Mary, serious and studious; Kitty, flighty and flirtatious.
Mr. Collins’s taste for sermons and improving works had destroyed Mary’s preference for them, but not her desire to read serious books. Mary idolized bluestockings such as Elizabeth Montagu, and her favorite book was A Vindication of the Rights of Woman. She had given herself an extensive program of study, and, somewhat to Elizabeth’s surprise, mostly carried it through.
For several weeks after she read Wollstonecraft’s book Mary stopped playing piano, as it was an ornamental skill taught to woman so they could entertain their future husbands. However, Mary explained very seriously when she resumed practicing, as long as she played for her own pleasure and improvement, it was not an adornment but a reasonable exercise.
Elizabeth did not get on well with Kitty at all. She was her mother’s favorite, and Mrs. Bennet saw their family as made up of competing camps, where Kitty was the only one really on her side. Kitty loved being the main recipient of her mother’s attention, and little Elizabeth, or Jane, said could influence Kitty’s manners. She was a terrible flirt, with little in her mind beyond men, society, and dancing. Still, Elizabeth loved all her sisters very much, and hoped Kitty would eventually mature. Though she did not really expect her to.