At the Bennet family breakfast table, an oval mahogany affair, which over the years had seen many exclamations of joy, tears and tantrums, there was an unusual lack of noise. Longbourn, being a house of five daughters and one very excitable mistress, was often cacophonous. Now, though, only the rustle of a newspaper as it was turned, studied and folded carefully by Mr Bennet, occasionally broke the silence.
There were two other readers in the room. Jane Bennet had received a letter; the sentiments it contained were doing much to soften and warm her already lovely features. Mary Bennet sat with a book in her lap, a sententious and dull tome. Her sisters and mother were all secretly wishing she was not planning on reading aloud from it later, after dinner, as was sometimes her habit.
Kitty Bennet yawned.
There was a clink of china as Mrs Bennet drank her coffee and set her cup down again afterwards. She had a distinct lack of news to impart; no recent scandals, no new young gentlemen in the neighbourhood to speculate upon and no balls to plan for. She was at a rare loss for words.
Elizabeth Bennet gazed out of the window and wished she had taken a longer morning walk. Longbourn felt very dull and she could not think of a single thing she might do that day to pique her interest, or lift her spirits. “How is your letter, Jane?” she asked her sister. Jane tore her gaze away from the sheets in front of her for a few moments to smile at Elizabeth in response, but she said nothing.
“When you reply, Jane, you must be sure to mention the setting of a date,” Mrs Bennet instructed her eldest daughter.
“Mamma, you know very well the reason for our delay,” Jane replied with a quick, nervous glance at her father.
Mrs Bennet sniffed.
Elizabeth picked up her fork and considered the food on it for a few moments, before laying it back down again on her plate, too apathetic even to eat.
Kitty yawned again.
Mrs Bennet scolded her for not covering her mouth.
Mr Bennet’s paper turned again and the minutes ticked by slowly.
Elizabeth stared out of the window once more and watched the progress of a low grey cloud in the distance, until her father’s voice unexpectedly interrupted her thoughts.
“There is an announcement in the paper regarding your old adversary Mr Darcy, Lizzy,” Mr Bennet said over his spectacles, which were perched precariously on the end of his nose.
Elizabeth was startled at the mention of the name and as much as she wanted to be disinterested, she could not be; not after all that had passed between that particular gentleman and herself. “He was hardly an adversary, sir.”
“Well, whatever. You were not exactly the best of friends were you? It says here he is married. ‘On 4th May, Mr Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley, Derbyshire, married to Anne de Bourgh, daughter of Lady Catherine de Bourgh of Rosings Park, Kent’. It was the match he was supposed to make, was it not? I am surprised I have not had an account of it from my cousin Mr Collins.”
Elizabeth felt Jane’s gaze upon her but would not meet it. Her sister was still her only confidante; the only person at the table who knew Mr Darcy had once made Elizabeth an offer of marriage, almost exactly a year ago now. She turned instead towards her father. “Our cousin is probably still penning it. It may take him several weeks, for it is sure to contain much detail, including the cost of everything and the value of nothing.”
“Too true,” chuckled Mr Bennet. “No doubt, I shall hear much more of it in good time than I should ever have wished to know.”
“I never liked that Mr Darcy,” Mrs Bennet remarked. “Always fancying himself so important; so proud and disagreeable. What of the new Mrs Darcy, Lizzy? What was she like? Did you not meet her in Kent?”
Elizabeth nodded. “I did. I am afraid I cannot offer much of an opinion. Her health was not good. She was very quiet. I was there for several weeks and I do not think I exchanged more than ten words with her.”
“Too ill to speak was she? Probably just proud too, like him, I daresay. Well, they are well suited then.”
Mr Bennet threw the newspaper aside and reached for a letter he had read and discarded earlier. He waved it at the table. “Although I have not heard from Mr Collins, my sister is a better and more welcome correspondent. She has suggested one of my daughters might like to visit and keep her company for some months.”
“I will not send one of my daughters so far north just for Mrs Mountford’s benefit, Mr Bennet. I have heard it is very rugged country. Who knows what may befall them there!”
“It is Staffordshire, Mrs Bennet, not the wilds of Africa. I am pleased that, since her husband’s passing, some efforts have been made on both sides towards reconciliation. I find I am not opposed to the idea. She has a pretty little estate, I believe. One of the girls might enjoy such a visit.”
“Papa, I confess I would much rather remain at Longbourn. It is within an easy distance of London and…”
Mr Bennet cut short Jane’s protest. “Yes, yes. You want to be somewhere your intended may visit you, I understand. I had no intention of sending you, Jane. I was thinking this might be of benefit to Mary.”
All eyes turned to Mary, who not having attended to the conversation was quite surprised to find so much focus upon her. “Excuse me, Father?”
“Your aunt, Mrs Mountford, has requested the pleasure of some company and I wondered if you might consider a visit there?”
“You mean to go on my own? To a lady I have never met!” Beneath her spectacles, Mary’s eyes widened in horror at the idea.
“It will do you much good, my child, to strike out on your own path, away from your sisters and home; to broaden your experiences.”
“Oh no, sir, I would not wish it. Please.”
“Well, I feel it would be wrong to refuse the invitation completely, when such efforts have been made to patch up the connection. Kitty, may I tempt you?”
Kitty pulled a face and shook her head vehemently, “companion to an old lady, no thank you.”
“Old lady,” her father protested, “I shall have you know she is my younger sister.”
Elizabeth sighed and decided to offer before she was inevitably asked. “I shall go, Father. You may write and tell Mrs Mountford to expect me.”
“But, my dear, you have only just returned from the Lake District, after your tour with Mr and Mrs Gardiner.”
Elizabeth laughed. “That was almost eight months ago, Papa, last summer!”
“Was it now? How time flies. Are you sure, Lizzy?”
“Yes, quite sure, I should like to meet your sister and I would welcome a change of scene.”
If Mrs Bennet had to lose a daughter for a few months, she would always choose Elizabeth, so her agreement was soon easily won and the plan became a fixed thing. Mr Bennet spoke to his daughter in the warmest terms of his sister and Mary and Kitty were very grateful to her for having spared them the nuisance of going.
Later in the day, on passing the music room, Jane found her sister picking out a complicated, sombre piece on the pianoforte in the music room. She sat next to Elizabeth on the seat before the instrument, without a word, until she had finished. “I shall miss you, Lizzy.”
“Aye, and I you. Yet I confess, Jane, that I feel a great desire to be away doing something. I cannot always be at Longbourn. I have walked every path many hundreds of times. I have read every book in papa’s library. I might sew and practice, but I find myself restless. I do not have clear sight of a future, as you do.”
“Maybe you will find life just as quiet in Staffordshire.”
“Perhaps, but I do not go to prison, Jane. I may come home whenever I wish. I shall certainly return home for any happy events. I hope you and your Mr Turner do not have to wait too long.”
“He expects an improvement in his circumstances very soon and has already begun his search for a home for us. He said so in his letter.”
Elizabeth smiled and squeezed her hand. “Well, that is news to make even your most cynical sister happy. Why did you not tell our mother this morning?”
“Is it wrong of me not to have done so? I know how she will be. There will be such talk of wedding clothes, lace and furniture. I am not sure I could bear it just yet, Lizzy, before there is an actual date. Is it ungenerous of me?”
“No, I am all agreement. Preserve your sanity and keep your own counsel.” Elizabeth was thoughtful for a while. “How are you so certain of Mr Turner? Your life with him will not be as comfortable as it is here.”
“No, he is not wealthy, but he is a determined and clever man, handsome and kind. I confess nothing gives me greater pleasure than his company. I could talk to him all day. He makes me laugh, as you do and when he holds my hand…”
Elizabeth raised an eyebrow, “when he holds your hand?”
Jane shook her head.
“Oh, Jane! How I am to live vicariously through you when you give me no details?”
“I will give you this detail, my dear sister. To me he is the best of men. I love him.”
“He is certainly a persistent man; to have been refused by papa two times and still to try once more! His devotion to you certainly makes him a favourite with me.” Elizabeth began to play again from memory, a soft sweet tune.
“May I ask,” Jane ventured, “what you thought of the news of Mr Darcy’s marriage?”
Elizabeth faltered, played a wrong note, but quickly recovered. “What is it to me?”
“Oh nothing, except it might have been your name next to his in the paper, if you had accepted him.”
“He has done what he ought to do. He has married a woman whose connections will not embarrass him; whose position in society and fortune will complement his.” Elizabeth bit her lip and when she spoke again there was hardness to her tone. “There is no ‘degradation’ to be suffered, for which I am sure he is exceedingly grateful.”
“Elizabeth,” Jane touched her arm. “You do not suffer from something like regret, I hope.”
“I regret, perhaps,…no, I do not regret. Rather, I am unhappy that I once misjudged him so badly, as regards Mr Wickham, and I hope he does not despise me for rejecting him so bluntly, so rudely. But I cannot regret my refusal, Jane, can I? I cannot envy the new Mrs Darcy her taciturn and haughty husband. I would not have been content in such a marriage, with a husband I did not respect or love. Though, I do confess to being a little jealous of your happiness,” she said, in an effort to change the subject.
“You know, I will never be truly happy until I see you likewise.” Jane tucked an errant curl of Elizabeth’s back into its rightful place. “What shall we do with you, Lizzy? If only I could find a man as good as Mr Turner for you.”
“Jane, if you were to give me forty such men, I never could be as happy as you. Till I have your disposition, your goodness, I can never have your happiness. No, no, let me shift for myself; and perhaps, if I have very good luck, I may in time meet with another Mr Collins.”
Jane laughed and shook her head again.
“Until then,” Elizabeth went on, “you might as well send me to Staffordshire. What harm can I do there?”