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2

Sisterly Consolation

The next few
days proceeded in much the same melancholy fashion common to all humanity.
Death being no respecter of rank and privilege, it afflicted the Bennet
household no less grievously than any other. They bore their pain, each one in
his own style, as the customary rights and rituals attending Mr. Bennet’s
passing were conscientiously observed. Then they endured the comfort of their
friends and neighbors with equal fortitude.

When all these
well-meaning visitors had gone away, Mr. Bingley and Mr. Darcy also departed,
traveling to London for the purpose of seeing the family’s solicitor and
settling Mr. Bennet’s affairs.

That afternoon,
Elizabeth took her turn attending her mother, who still insisted on keeping
to her room.

“Perhaps,
Lizzy, your clever husband will be able to discover something – something to
our advantage – whilst he and Mr. Bingley are in town,” said Mrs. Bennet in a
rare moment of optimism. “With Mr. Collins out of the way these five or six
years, it may be that the entail can be broken at last and Longbourn pass to
Mr. Bennet’s own poor daughters. Not so much for your sake or Jane’s, mind you;
neither one of you shall ever find yourself in want. And, you know, Kitty may
yet get hold of a rich husband too. But think of Mary! Despite what she says,
she cannot go on playing at being a governess forever. And with her father
dead, how is her future to be secured? At the age of seven-and-twenty, she
might as well take to wearing a cap, for any bloom she once possessed must have
long gone off.”

“I cannot agree
with you about Mary, Mama. I think she is much improved in her looks this last
two or three years, and the best may yet be ahead for her. It sometimes happens
that a woman is handsomer at twenty-nine than she was ten years before.
Furthermore, her manner has softened with the passage of time. She is now not
so quick to judge or forever moralizing as she used to do. Have you not noticed
it yourself?”

“Mary is a
steady girl with a good head on her shoulders. However, I see little else that
might serve to recommend her.”

“Regardless of
her personal prospects, none of you – Mary, Kitty, or yourself – shall lack
anything in this world, so long as Mr. Darcy and I draw breath. As for any
relief from the entail, though, your hopes are wholly unfounded, Mama. You know
very well that Mr. Collins had a brother. We have been told that Longbourn
shall simply pass to the younger sibling, now that the elder is deceased. There
can be no doubt of it.”

“Why should
that be? Surely a daughter has more right to it than a younger brother to some
sort of cousin!”

“I do not argue
that it is fair. I simply mean that the death of Mr. Collins will make not the
slightest bit of difference. If we girls could not inherit before, it will be
the same now.”

The door opened
at this juncture, and Jane stepped in, saying, “Tea is ready, Mama. Will you
not come down and take it with your family today?”

Mrs. Bennet
sank deeper into her chair and closed her eyes, as if the exertions of the
recent conversation had stolen her final ounce of strength. “Impossible,” she
groaned. “You must see how weak I am, Jane. I would faint dead away should I
even attempt such a thing. No, no, you girls go on and join your sisters. Think
nothing of me.” She heaved a great sigh, and then added as an afterthought,
“Only do tell Hill to bring my tray up as usual and… and that I especially
asked for scones… with strawberry preserves, of course. I do believe that if
anything can revive me, it must be scones and strawberry preserves.”

Mrs. Hill,
having already anticipated her mistress’s instructions down to the last detail,
entered the room at that moment carrying a tray set with, amongst other things,
the very items wished for.

Jane and
Elizabeth did as their mother bade them. They joined their sisters in the
parlor, where Lydia and Kitty were already settled and Mary had taken charge of
pouring the tea.

“Jane, you sit
here,” said Mary, indicating the chair to her right. “And Lizzy, on my other
side, if you please.”

Elizabeth received her instructions and her tea from her younger sister with composure, and
with a spark of amusement. “Thank you, Mary,” she said wryly. “I see that, as
usual, you have everything well in hand. How efficient you are.”

Mary nodded,
acknowledging the compliment. “I believe it is a gift of nature, one which is
of particular use in the current situation.”

“Yes,” agreed Elizabeth. “Mama could hardly have done without you these many days, I am sure. How good of
the family at Netherfield to spare you so long.”

“No doubt they
are quite impatient for my return; they have come to depend on me so. Despite
the inconvenience, however, Mr. Farnsworth cannot deny the higher claims of
blood at such a time.”

“How do the
Netherfield children do?” asked Jane. “Is the younger girl still your
favorite?”

Before Mary
could respond, Lydia declared, “
I
should not hurry back to Netherfield
for all its grandeur, not wearing your shoes at least, Mary. I think I should
much rather suffer anything than be a servant, even in one of the finest houses
in England.”

With a decided
glare, Mary rejoined, “A governess is
not
a common servant, whatever you
may say. It is a perfectly genteel occupation and a position that commands
respect, even esteem. Mr. Farnsworth has entrusted me with his children’s
education. That is proof of his good opinion.”

“I see!” Lydia laughed mischievously and went on. “And I suppose he has the same high opinion of the
gamekeeper’s wife, whom he hired as wet nurse to his infants.”

“Lydia!” cried Jane.

Elizabeth lifted up her eyes in amazement, but was too much oppressed to make any reply.

Kitty looked
from face to face round the table and then offered in a conciliatory tone, “I daresay
she meant no offense.”

“Lord, no!” Lydia confirmed. “I am happy to allow that Mary is far more accomplished and quick witted
than any old gamekeeper’s wife. I only meant that it is all one to me – the
office of governess no more tolerable than that of wet nurse. Do not pretend to
be so shocked, Lizzy. You, of all people, should know how I feel about small
children.”

“I had depended
on your opinion of them being improved over these five years by your own
daughter!” said Elizabeth.

“Well, as these
things go, I suppose Isabella is not really a bad sort of girl. Only, in so far
as it is preventable, I certainly do not mean to have any more.

“Your husband
may have something to say about that,” advised Elizabeth.

“Lizzy is
right,” agreed Jane. “Surely Mr. Denny wishes to have a son. All men do, you
know.”

“That may well
be,” Lydia responded, “but it does not signify in the least, for Denny always
gives me my own way in the end. And his mother is just as obliging, especially
as regards the child. The woman fairly dotes on her, and she cannot tell me
often enough how she looks on Isabella the same as her own grandchildren,
though the girl is every inch her father’s daughter. That is my one consolation
– and my greatest sorrow – that I am, through Isabella, every day reminded of
poor Wickham.”

Mary held her
tongue through the last, still feeling the cut of Lydia’s belittling of her
situation at Netherfield, as well as finding herself out of her depth in a
discussion of husbands and offspring. She nevertheless had no very good opinion
of her younger sister’s attitude… or of her first husband either.

Mr. Wickham’s
conduct in life had been nothing short of infamous, yet Lydia persisted in holding him up as some sort of martyred hero, still to be mourned long after his
death. Even with her limited experience, Mary counted herself a better judge of
male character. She had no complaint against Mr. Denny, yet it was her other
two brothers-in-law that now set the standard – a standard to which Mr. Wickham
could never have risen, even should he have aspired to do so. As for her
employer, Mr. Farnsworth, his true character was more difficult to develop.

~~ * ~~

Lydia, finding nothing to hold her at Longbourn, took leave of her grieving mother the following
morning to return home to Plymouth. She embraced each of her sisters in turn on
the stoop, and then climbed into the Bennets’ carriage, which was to take her
as far as London.

“Do write to
me,” she told Kitty through the open window, “and tell me what is to become of
you. I am vastly curious to hear news of the heir, and how soon he shall arrive
to turn you and Mama out onto the street.”

Kitty’s eyes
grew wide with alarm.

“Of course, I
am only joking,” Lydia continued. “If you are flung out of this place, you are
sure to come to ground somewhere far better. Jane or Lizzy will take you in,
and I should feel no pity for you ending up at either Heatheridge or Pemberley.
You have been used to spending half your time at one or other of those houses
as it is.”

“It would be a
sad event nonetheless,” Kitty repined. “Longbourn should have been my settled
home until I married. I am only a visitor any place else, no matter how
comfortable.”

“Well then, I
suppose you must hope the new owner is disposed to letting you and Mama stay
on, though I shouldn’t think it likely. Now, I must be off.” With that, the
youngest of the Bennet daughters waved cheerfully and was gone.

“Never mind,
Kitty,” said Jane, lightly resting her hands on her sister’s sagging shoulders.
“Lydia does not mean to be unkind. It is only her free and spirited way of
speaking.”

“You need not
always be making excuses for her, Jane,” said Mary. “We are, all of us,
responsible for curbing our tongues when the occasion requires it. Yet it seems
Lydia cannot be troubled to consider whom her careless words may injure.”

When the
carriage had traveled down the sweep and disappeared behind the hedgerow, they
turned back into the house.

Elizabeth said, “I doubt Lydia can fully appreciate the attachment to Longbourn the rest
of us feel, and thus the loss for losing it. When you think of it, she lived
here fewer years than any of us, and has been somewhat of a vagabond ever
since. That life may suit her, whereas it never would me.”

“Nor me,” added
Jane. “I can hardly bear being away from Heatheridge and my children, even for
a few days.”

Elizabeth echoed Jane’s sentiment, and the two of them led the conversation in a decidedly
domestic direction once again. It was not surprising that this should happen,
Mary reminded herself, for they had seven children between them – Lizzy with
her three sons, and Jane with two boys, two girls, and, according to early
indications, another child on the way. Kitty, who spent weeks at a time in both
households, could join in. Not Mary, however; she knew none of her nieces or
nephews well, and had never even set eyes on Elizabeth’s youngest.

“I had best go
and sit with Mama,” Mary said, excusing herself. “No doubt she is missing Lydia already.”

3

The Heir

The following
day, the watch began for the carriage that was to bring Mr. Darcy and Mr.
Bingley, returned from London. It did come, and exactly when it might be
reasonably looked for.

To Elizabeth
and Jane, who were happy to see their husbands for their own sake, the event
also meant they would the sooner be on their way back home to their families.
For the rest, the anticipation of what the men might have to report
predominated. Mrs. Bennet, feeling the import of the occasion, roused herself
so much as to dress and venture downstairs, assisted by her two younger
daughters.

They all
gathered in the drawing room as soon as the men had had time to change from
their traveling clothes and take a little refreshment. Mr. Darcy took his stand
at the head of the room, before the hearth, whilst the others seated
themselves, waiting in alert attendance upon his good pleasure. Even Mrs.
Bennet held her peace, seeming in no hurry to demand the news from town.
Silence was her friend. As long as the moment could be sustained, all things
were still possible; every one of her darling wishes, no matter how ultimately
unviable, still breathed. Yet she could not curb her curiosity and her tongue
forever.

“Oh, Mr. Darcy,
I can bear the suspense no longer!” she cried out. “What news do you bring,
good or ill?”

“Forgive me, Madam,”
he answered, “but what is there of good to be expected?”

“The entail, of
course! You must know that I have lived in the hope of Mr. Gerber discovering a
way of escaping it. What do we pay him for, if not to turn the tide in our
favor?”

“As with turning
the tide, Mrs. Bennet, escaping the entail would require a miracle… or at the
very least, an act of Parliament… and no such thing has occurred to spare
Longbourn, I am sorry to say. Mr. Bennet’s estate is just as entailed as it
ever was, and now must legally pass, as we anticipated, into the hands of Mr.
Collins’s younger brother – a Mr. Tristan Collins. If there is any good news in
the case, it is that he currently resides in the Americas, in a place called Virginia. Mr. Gerber is bound by law to notify him of his inheritance, and yet it will be
some time – a few months at a minimum, I should think – before he could arrive
to assert his rights. So you will have at least that long to make other
arrangements.”

“Then, all is
lost forever!” Mrs. Bennet wailed before abandoning herself to a noisy fit of
tears.

“There, there,
Mama,” offered Jane, patting her mother’s hand. “This is nothing so very
alarming, only what was to be expected. You shall always be well looked after.
Have no fear.”

When Mrs.
Bennet had quieted some, Mr. Darcy went on to explain the rest of the
information provided by the solicitor. There was nothing remarkable in it, only
such limited provisions for Mr. Bennet’s widow and daughters as had been known
to them all along, and which would go no very great distance towards their
comfort and keeping.

Unlike her
mother, Mary heard the news with a brave face. She had never entertained even
the slightest hope of a financial reprieve, nor did she particularly desire
one. What difference would a larger dowry make for her now? Enough money might
still have produced a marriage proposal, most likely one from a widowed old man
with ten unruly children for her to look after. When compared to that unhappy
scenario, however, she should infinitely prefer her current situation. After
all, it was what she had chosen with her eyes wide open… over the strenuous
objections of all her relations, some of whom had called it a lowering of
herself and an embarrassment to the family.

Mary did not
see honest employment as a degradation, though. In truth, she was proud that
she had within herself the resources to make her own way in life. Her natural
inclination for industry, study, and musical accomplishment had equipped her
well for the occupation of governess. And surely there was sufficient
consequence for any reasonable person in a job well done.

From these
contemplations, Mary was called back to the room by her mother’s sudden
outburst.

“But, Mr.
Darcy, you have failed to answer for us a most vital question!”

“I do beg your
pardon, Madam; however, I am at a loss to understand on what point I could have
been so negligent.”

“About this Mr.
Tristan Collins!” she said impatiently. “Well, sir, you have not yet told us if
he is married or single.”

Mr. Darcy could
not resolve the mystery.

Mr. Bingley
could not either, although he went so far as to share the intelligence that
there was no record of Mr. Tristan Collins having taken a wife before
emigrating as a comparative youth. “Yet I think it reasonable to assume that he
might have done so since, once he established himself in America. He is a man of no less than thirty, you see, Mrs. Bennet, and must have wanted a wife by
now.”

Mrs. Bennet let
the business drop, but Mary perceived that her silence did not betoken loss of
interest, rather a mind fully engaged. Mama would have much more to say on the
topic of Mr. Collins’s marital status by and by. No doubt it would be the same
scheme as before, only a different Mr. Collins; the heir to Longbourn must
marry one of Mr. Bennet’s daughters. Nothing else would do.

~~ * ~~

Mrs. Bennet
retired to her room, leaving the others to ruminate over the events of the day
and, in particular, the need to make some provision for the soon-to-be homeless
Bennet females.

Mary, who could
not allow herself to be classed amongst the helpless, spoke up. “I thank you
all for your concern, but I believe I am not so much at a loss as to require
your assistance. I shall do very well on my own, so no one need exert
themselves on
my
account.”

“It is as you
say,” agreed Mr. Darcy. “However, should the inclination or necessity ever
arise, even in your case, you must know that you can rely on your family. That
goes for your mother and sister as well.”

“Yes, of
course,” said Mary. “That is very good of you, I am sure.”

“Well,
I
am not too proud to accept your kindness, Mr. Darcy,” Kitty rejoined, “or yours
either, Mr. Bingley. I find that I can tolerate the charity of rich relations
very well indeed. But what about Mama?”

“Mama must come
to stay with us at Heatheridge,” volunteered Jane, “at least temporarily.”

“She can
certainly visit us as well,” said Elizabeth, “from time to time, that is.
Still, I wonder if taking a house of her own would not be the best permanent
arrangement.”

“Her limited
income would not support the letting of anything suitable,” said Mr. Bingley.

“It would if
supplemented,” said Darcy. “The expense would be nothing, Charles. Perhaps an
investment of three thousand pounds. We could spare so inconsiderable a sum
with little inconvenience.”

“And that would
allow her to remain in the neighborhood of Longbourn,” added Elizabeth, “with
Mary and her friends nearby. She might well prefer that to being uprooted only
to live far away, as a perpetual guest in someone else’s home.”

What Mrs.
Bennet might prefer was the subject of some further conjecture amongst the
group, the various options being debated back and forth with eager interest by
those most concerned. Would she best like the comforts of Heatheridge? Or
perhaps the dower house at Pemberley? What about an establishment of her own in
Meryton, Bath, or even London? Mary at last pointed out the obvious means of
resolving the matter, that their mother must be applied to for her opinion. Yet
little additional light was shed on the question by taking this measure. Mrs.
Bennet foresaw insurmountable difficulties with every suggestion proffered,
finding each one more detestable than the last, and ultimately discarding the
lot as too loathsome to even admit contemplation.

~~ * ~~

The Darcys and
the Bingleys made ready to take themselves off the following day, over the
violent objections of Mrs. Bennet.

“It really is
too cruel!” she told her two eldest. “Deserting me as though you had not a care
in the world. I see how it will be. My trials shall soon be forgot. I shall be
left all alone, nothing to do except to await the inevitable, being cast out
into the gutter like so much rubbish.”

“Oh, Mama!”
cried Jane in distress. “You must not say such things.”

“Particularly
since not a word of it is true,” declared Elizabeth. “Kitty will be with you,
Mama, and Mary every Sunday. If any crisis should occur, the rest of us can be
here in three or four days’ time. As for having nothing to do, that is hardly
the case either.” She softened her tone, and laid a hand on Mrs. Bennet’s arm.
“Life goes on, and as soon as you can bear to, you really must begin collecting
your things – that is to say, packing up whatever possessions you wish to take
with you when the time comes.”

This, not
surprisingly, brought forth a new torrent of emotion from the ailing widow, who
needed to be calmed and cajoled into tolerable order before her daughters could
in good conscience finally depart. She was then assigned over to Mrs. Hill’s
patient ministrations, and Jane and Elizabeth made their way downstairs.

Mary then took
this, her last chance, to correct a perceived wrong. Her conscience had been
niggling at her the last two days, telling her that she should have taken more
of an interest in her elder sisters’ concerns. Instead of bowing out of the
conversation whenever it turned to domestic matters, she might have asked the
customary questions and listened with solicitude to their talk about their
offspring. Good manners called for this much, and her own sense of what was due
her sisters demanded it. Moreover, how could she hope to maintain those family
ties, which she valued more than she cared to admit, if she herself were
unwilling to make an effort?

She had paid
her penance with Jane at an opportune moment the day before, asking, “Am I
right in thinking that the twins are five years of age now?”

“Nearly six,”
said Jane, proudly. “I daresay you would get on famously with little Charles,
Mary, for he is grown into a great lover of books, like yourself. I am afraid
Frances Jane is a bit of a tomboy instead, preferring to take her play out of
doors or in the stables. Mrs. Grayling is forever scolding her for muddying her
frocks.”

“Perhaps the
girl will grow out of it,” Mary suggested. “And the other two children?”

“Oh, Phoebe is
a proper lady already, though she is only four! And John, the baby, has not yet
revealed to us much of his future character. They are, every one of them, so
very dear.” Jane daubed at her eyes with the back of her hand. “And now it
seems that God may see fit to bless me with at least one more.”

“Naturally you
miss them, being away so long… all except this new one, of course… whom you
carry with you…” Mary trailed off awkwardly.

“Yes.” Jane
smiled and reached out to squeeze her sister’s hand. “How kind you are to ask
after them, Mary. I wish you all could become better acquainted, but then, even
in your present circumstances, you are not left without children to love. You
must by now have formed quite a fond attachment to the Netherfield family.”

It had been
simpler to go along with that assumption than to attempt correcting it. There
was at least a little truth in what Jane said, after all. One could not spend
more than three years with a family without developing some kind of feeling for
them. So what purpose could it possibly serve to describe the true state of
affairs, the intricacies of which she did not fully understand herself? No
doubt in Jane’s world children were always both dear and dearly loved; their
parents were always kind, patient, and benignly indulgent. In such a household,
a governess’s job must be simple indeed – no divided loyalties, no competing
priorities, no complications. “Yes, of course,” Mary had agreed, “I am quite
attached.”

Now, with one
more act of reparation, her conscience would be satisfied. Though the Bingleys’
smart carriage had just started off, the Darcys’ equally excellent equipage was
not yet made fully ready for departure, so Mary drew Elizabeth aside. “I regret
that my obligations have left us with so little time to talk whilst you were
here,” she said.

“I regret it as
well, for I would have liked to hear more about your situation at Netherfield.
Does it still agree with you, Mary?”

“Every
situation has its little vexations and grievances, I believe. Yet on the whole,
I am satisfied. And it has allowed me to study music more seriously than I
might have otherwise, which is a great pleasure to me.”

“Oh, yes, how
you have raved about your Monsieur Hubert! Do you suppose he could be persuaded
into taking on a student as far north as Derbyshire? I thought perhaps five was
a bit too young to commence music lessons, but Mr. Darcy insists that, as
Bennet shows such an interest in the piano-forte, he should not be denied the
advantage of early instruction. There is some justification for optimism, I
suppose, since a good measure of natural talent can be found on both sides of
the boy’s family, with his Aunt Mary
and
his Aunt Georgiana being so
musically inclined.”

“I will be
happy to propose the idea to Monsieur Hubert. I only wish I had been so
fortunate as to have such a fine music master in my youth. How much more I
might then have accomplished! But enough about me; I meant to ask after your
children, Lizzy. I trust they are all three well and strong.”

“I thank you,
yes!” said Elizabeth, her countenance brightening at the enquiry.

“I am very glad
to hear it.”

“They are,
thank heaven, fine, healthy boys,” Elizabeth continued. “Bennet is quite the
apple of his father’s eye, and it is much the same with Edward and James. You
see, Mary, I live in a household of men, and I must make the best of it.
Fortunately, I would as soon sit atop a saddle these days as any other place,
so I shall stand some chance of keeping up with them as they grow older.” She
turned her address to her husband, who had that moment entered the parlor.
“There is nothing – or almost nothing – like the thrill of a good ride. Is not
that your opinion as well, Mr. Darcy?”