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 Plym
outh. 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.
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