“I was not nearly so much Wickham’s dupe as you were, Georgiana, but we were both of us taken in by him.”
“And I not nearly so much as poor Lydia, and that seems to have turned out well enough. I speak from no personal knowledge, however.”
“They seemed to do as well as any other married couple when we were with them in the north east last year. Lydia certainly still dotes upon him, and I believe a certain fondness has come with use upon him too.”
“I suspect that ‘a certain fondness’ is as much as he may be capable of. And that phrase could, in a way, describe how the two of us feel about him, at times, at any rate.”
“You are right, Georgiana, I cannot deny it for myself, though I never expected to hear it from you.”
“Oh, I was happy, for a while, in Margate. I am happy now, walking to Meryton with you, but there is happiness and happiness.”
“How did you become so wise for your years, my dear? But I am sure you will find your happiness, one day. It is not too late, you know, life is long.”
“Perhaps, but it is far too short to let such foolish considerations come between us. Henceforth let Wickham be as any other acquaintance. Let there be no more reserve between any of us about him, let him no longer be the ghost at the feast.”
“He shall not be. I will give Fitzwilliam his instructions tonight.”
“He will take them from you. From his sister he would not.”
So we walked on, arm in arm, with Lizzie pointing out such very important landmarks as the first apple tree she had climbed, the gulley where Jane fell down and hurt her knee, and so on, until Mary and Kitty came into sight.
We passed a very pleasant three weeks at Longbourn, entertained by such momentous events as calling at Fords and meeting local luminaries such as Mr and Mrs Cole, Mr and Mrs Philips, and, of course, Sir William and Lady Lucas and their family.
I was familiar with Charlotte Collins, of course, from Hunsford Parsonage, but I found it hard to reconcile this busy, efficient, bustling housewife, so much the manager of her husband and, in her own quiet way, of Lady Catherine herself, with the young girl who had been my sister Elizabeth’s best friend.
Sir William was every bit as absurd as I had been led to believe, with his constant references to St James’s, and his reminiscences of his times both in London and at Rosings. His daughter Maria had also been to Rosings while staying with her sister Charlotte along with my Elizabeth, and had apparently never recovered from the experience, for she would talk of nothing else. I could find no resemblance between either of them and Mrs Collins either. It is strange how families turn out.
We were not short of amusements, then, for those who are prepared to be amused with not a great deal. We dined out most nights, and attended more than one party given in our honour.
The most memorable of these was that given by Mrs Bennet’s sister. There were the usual round games and impromptu dances as might be expected at such a gathering. It was, in truth, nothing of any great consequence, a mere country gathering, but I could not help feeling a strange sensation of familiarity which nagged at me all evening. At last I had it and turned to Elizabeth, who was sitting next me at the time, while her sister Mary played country dances on the Phillips’s spinet and Kitty took her turn in dancing with the all too familiar young men of the district, only too perfectly aware that they would none of them consider a bride with such a small portion as hers.
“Lizzie,” I exclaimed, “I have had a strange feeling all evening, almost of déja vu, and I think I know why. Does this room in which we are sitting not strike you as familiar?”
“It would be strange if it did not, since I have been coming here all my life.”
“I can see how that might make the resemblance difficult to make out, but I am sure I have it now. But that I know it to be impossible, I might almost swear that we are in the small summer breakfast parlour at Rosings. Do you not agree?”
“For myself, I should not venture an opinion, for, to tell the truth, I have no great recollection of one room from another in that great, glittering overgrown gin-palace.”
“Rosings, a gin-palace? How wicked you can be when the mood takes you, Lizzie! But I think I see exactly what you mean, and this is part of it. Do you not see?”
“I cannot honestly say that I do, but if you really think the resemblance to be so exact, you must mention it to my aunt. It will quite make her evening, for I know such a resemblance was her aim when she last redecorated.”
“What a strange pattern to follow! Why should she do such a thing?”
“The comparison was first made by Mr Collins on his first visit to Meryton, and Mr Collins so enlarged upon the glories of such a comparison, and became such an important figure in Meryton by marrying Charlotte Lucas, that Aunt Phillips resolved to make the comparison as exact as might be. To that end she commissioned Maria Lucas to make watercolour sketches while she was at Hunsford. We none of us knew anything about it at the time, for Miss Maria was very sly about it, although I think it perhaps explains the shortage of flower sketches in her notebooks after her numerous ‘botanical walks’. But here comes my aunt now. We must hear what she has to say.”
And taking Mrs Phillips by the hand, she said, quite loud enough for all the world to hear,
“Aunt Phillips do you know that Miss Darcy here has been saying that she quite feels herself to be in the small summer breakfast parlour at Rosings, so exact a replica have you created here?”
Mrs Phillips blushed from head to toe.
“Oh, Miss Darcy!” she exclaimed, “Oh, Miss Darcy! Do you really think the resemblance to be so exact? Oh. Miss Darcy! Oh, Oh, Miss Darcy!”
Since there really did not seem to be any more to say, and since Mrs Phillips evident embarrassment was equalled only by my own, after confirming that I should never have believed such an exact recreation to be possible, I left her to her glory and to Elizabeth’s quiet laughter.
Was I, perhaps, I wondered, turning into a Bennet, finding amusement in the foibles of my neighbours, and providing entertainment for them with my own?
If so, it was a course much less brilliant than I had always thought would be mine, and I began to wonder whether this visit had been altogether advisable.
But all this was soon to change, however.
Chapter Twenty-five :Correspondence
We were at breakfast one morning, or at least the ladies were, for the gentlemen had gone out to call on Doctor Morland about a species of fossil in which my brother had, perhaps unwisely, expressed interest. This Doctor Morland has a story of his own, quite unusual for a country sawbones, and in his way is quite as learned as Mr Bennet but this is not the place to recount it.
Simmons came in as the plates were clearing with the post bag.
As well as a letter for Mr Bennet there were two others, one for Elizabeth and one for me.
Mine was in a canvas folder that looked as if it had survived much ill treatment, but I recognized the handwriting upon it immediately.
“Oh,” I exclaimed, “it is from Cousin Edward.”
“Mine is from Jane,” said Elizabeth, “I wonder what she has to say.”
“Well go on,” cried Mrs Bennet, “open them. We are all just as eager to hear their news as you are.”
Cousin Edward’s was full of the sort of inconsequential tidings that he normally sent, making out the soldier’s life to be nothing but a round of marches and parades and papers to sign. Never a shot was fired, never a sword drawn, and the French only featured by continually running away. The entire war was staged merely to prevent the Hon. Edward Darcy Fitzwilliam from enjoying his home comforts.
Enquiries after those home comforts were what formed the greater part of those letters, and the greater part of those enquiries were about the friends he had left behind him.
I had noticed for a while now that these latter questions, and especially those about me, had been couched in increasingly affectionate, almost romantic terms. Men are s
entimental creatures at the best of times, and under the stress of being far from home and the target of every musket in the French army are very apt to become more so, and I had thought nothing of it, so that it was only now, when I was besought by Mrs Bennet to ‘Read it all out now. Let us hear dear Colonel Fitzwilliam’s news,’ that I realized that some of the expressions used might perhaps be capable of being misinterpreted.
“Oh, it is nothing but marches and countermarches,” I replied, “from one place to another whose names are as unfamiliar as they are unpronounceable. I will not weary you with them. But there is one interesting bit towards the end. He thinks he may be coming home soon, with confidential despatches, and hopes to be able to see us.”
“Oh, that is good news!” cried Mrs Bennet. “And when may we expect him?”
“That is just the problem. How soon is soon? And when was this written? The date, you see, has been torn off. One corner is damaged. And this has gone round by Pemberley, too. He will not know we are here. We may expect him tomorrow or not at all. It is impossible to tell.”
“Then we must be ready to welcome him, but not so ready as to miss dear Jane’s news. What does she have to say, Lizzie?”
Lizzie looked up from the page she had been reading.
“Jane and Mr Bingley are at East Bourne,” she said.
“East Bourne!” cried Mrs Bennet. “Whatever possessed them to go all the way to East Bourne and not at least call in on us on the way.”
“Oh, you know Mr Bingley, mama, ‘Whatever I do is done in a hurry, and therefore if I should resolve to quit Netherfield, I should probably be off in five minutes.’ He takes these ideas into his head, and then nothing will do but that he must act upon them, and at once. Indeed, Jane says just as much in her letter. Come, let me read it to you.”
“East Bourne
Just arrived
My very dear sister Lizzie,
You will laugh when you see the superscription, and wonder whatever we are at. There is no cause to be at all alarmed, but we are here to take the cure. Charles has developed a slight pulmonary complaint with the endless winds of the Pennines, and has been prescribed sea air, sea bathing and rest. One of his fellows on the Bench having spoken highly of East Bourne, nothing else would do but that we must set off at once.
Personally. I think East Bourne a delightful place, but now that we are here Charles finds the sea-bathing not greatly to his taste, and complains of having nothing to do.
We have taken a monstrous great house on the sea front, whence the views almost make up for the constant noise of the spray washing on the shingle all night. It is far too big for us, really, and we could not help wondering, whether you might care to visit us, bringing Darcy and Georgiana, of course. We would dearly love it if Mama and Papa and the girls could come too, but, of course, it is out of the question for Mary and Kitty, and Mama and Papa might not care to leave them to their own devices at Longbourn.
I hope all are well at Longbourn, but if sea air might be beneficial, we have no shortage of it here.
I should say, “Do come” but that whatever you decide to do must be for your own pleasure, and I shall quite understand if the attraction of home and old friends and places outweigh the attractions of a new experience which at least is not Brighton.
We both long for but one answer, however, although we shall make shift to survive without it.
Your loving sister,
Jane.”
The reaction to the reading of this missive surprised me greatly.
Kitty sprang up from her seat, with a cough, and with a muffled cry of “East Bourne!” ran sobbing from the room, while Mary declared vehemently that as long as she had a good book she cared nothing for worldly pleasures and fashionable watering places, and least of al for such as East Bourne.
“East Bourne, what is all this about East Bourne?” cried Mr Bennet, who entered just at this moment, “And what on earth is the matter with Kitty?”
This appeared to be Mary’s cue to drop her book and announce that she truly cared nothing at all for East Bourne, but would go to comfort her sister. Her face was strangely white, and her lip quivered as she made this announcement, but she managed to stalk out of the room as if she meant what she was saying.
“What is going on this morning?” asked Mr Bennet. “Why is everyone so obsessed with East Bourne?”
“Oh, Mr Bennet,” cried Mrs Bennet, “Lizzie has had a letter from Jane. Jane and Bingley have gone to East Bourne, and taken a large house there, and they wish us all to go and stay with them for the summer, and it is so cruel of you to deny Mary and Kitty such an innocent pleasure just because of poor Lydia.”
“But why should I deny it? This is the first I have heard of it. Who says that I deny it?”
“Why, Mr Bennet, you say so yourself, or rather you said so. Do you not remember? None of this family is ever to go to Brighton, nor even so near as East Bourne, and the ten years are not yet up even for a review, and the girls have been so good and how you can be so cruel I cannot credit, and….”
“Enough!” cried Mr Bennet, “I will hear no more. I am going to my library. Anyone who wishes to give me a rational explanation of what has been going on in my absence will find me there.”
This, of course, was Mrs Bennet’s cue to run off after her daughters in concomitant tears, leaving Lizzie and me to ourselves.
“I shudder to ask what all that was about,” I said.
“Oh, it was something and nothing,” replied Elizabeth, “one of the more minor footprints Mr Wickham has left on this family. I could have wished that Jane and Bingley had gone to Weymouth, however, or Hastings, or even Margate. When we heard that Lydia had run off from Brighton my father swore that none of his daughters should ever go there, nor even as near to it as East Bourne, although he did promise to take them to a review if they were good for ten years on end.”
“Oh,” I said. “I see,” although I was not at all sure that I really did. “Then this invitation to East Bourne must seem to them particularly unfortunate.”
“That is one way of putting it,” Lizzie replied, “but may I ask you a favour? Will you come with me to the library and help me intercede for Mary and Kitty? My father places great value on your sense and intellect, and I am sure you would help me persuade him.”
“He cannot place a greater value on my sense than he does on yours, surely?”
“In one sense, no, but in another sense, yes. I will always be the daughter he held in his arms as a baby. The same arguments from your lips would have a greater effect, I am sure.”
“Well, you surprise me, but we can but try.”
So we went together to Mr Bennet’s library. It was my favourite room at Longbourn, with a collection of books which, though they could not match Pemberley in quantity, quite outshone it in erudition.
Before we could say anything, however, Mr Bennet forestalled us.
“I have been puzzling this out,” he said, “trying to make sense of your mother’s words, Lizzie, although it is perhaps ambitious to try to combine such disparate elements as sense and your mother. Am I to understand that Jane and Bingley have taken a house at East Bourne and invited us all to stay with them? And that, for some reason your mother, Mary and Kitty think I will forbid the excursion?”
“Not just Mary and Kitty and Mother,” replied Lizzie, “but Jane herself expects it in her invitation, and indeed, I remember your words myself : ‘Another day I will do the same; I will sit in my library, in my nightcap and powdering gown, and give as much trouble as I can; or, perhaps, I may defer it till Kitty runs away.’ And then when Kitty said she would never run away, and that she would behave better than Lydia should she ever go to Brighton, you said –
‘You go to Brighton. I would not trust you so near it as East Bourne for fifty pounds! No, Kitty, I have at last learnt to be cautious, and you will feel the effects of it. No officer is ever to enter into my house again, nor even to pass through the village. Balls will be abso
lutely prohibited, unless you stand up with one of your sisters. And you are never to stir out of doors till you can prove that you have spent ten minutes of every day in a rational manner."
Kitty, who took all these threats in a serious light, began to cry, whereupon you said,
‘Well, well, do not make yourself unhappy. If you are a good girl for the next ten years, I will take you to a review at the end of them.’ That is exactly what you said, Papa, I remember it well.”
“Better than I do, evidently. That sounded to me word perfect. Have you been saving it for recital purposes?”
“No, of course not, but the occasion impressed itself on my memory, and on everyone else’s too.”
“Although perhaps not on mine, nor on Lydia’s, eh? But, good heavens, is every single word a man says in anger forever more to be held against him? What on earth made you think I should be so implacable?”
“I did not think so, father, but I think the others did.”
“This is a pretty mess, is it not, Miss Georgiana? What do you think we should do?”
“I think parental authority would not be greatly impaired by the exercise of parental clemency in this case. You may use me as an excuse, if you like, though I should hate to be thought of as a benefactress to those who have been so kind to me.”
“Oh, run along the both of you. Tell the silly females of my household that you have persuaded me, and that they may make their travelling plans as soon as they care to do so. Oh, and, Lizzie, Darcy says he will be along later. Morland was urgent that he should see his collections and meet Mrs Morland, and I could not think of a reason to gainsay them. I do not have the legs of these young fellows, however, and came directly home.”
I had had some little experience of Mrs Bennet myself, but was quite unprepared for the raptures with which she greeted the news of her husband’s approval of a family trip to East Bourne. We found her with Mary and Kitty, all busy in aiding each other in increasing their despondency. They were obviously enjoying their distress so much that it seemed almost a pity to curtail it.
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