A Cottage Near Lambton (Period-Authentic Dramas #4)

The Shadow of Loss

The morning light crept softly through the half-shuttered windows of Longbourn, its thin gold ribbons touching only the edges of the breakfast table, as though wary of intruding upon the mourning within. Outside, birdsong floated brightly over the garden; inside, silence pressed upon every room.

It had been five months since Mr Bennet’s death, five months since he fell insensible and never spoke again, and by morning he was gone, yet the house still felt suspended between past and future.

The draped mirrors, the black ribbons pinned to every servant’s arm, the crepe still fixed to the stair rail.

Nothing had been altered; nothing allowed to move forward. Even the air seemed to hold its breath.

Mrs Bennet sat at the head of the table, in the chair that had always been her husband’s, and the sight of her there still jarred every one of her daughters.

Wrapped in full mourning, her figure seemed small and drooping beneath the weight of bombazine and crepe.

Her eyes, faintly red, flicked anxiously from Jane to Elizabeth and then toward the window, expecting some fresh dread to appear on the drive.

The girls, occupying unfamiliar places themselves, were dressed in the soft lavender-grey of second mourning.

They kept their voices low and gentle, as if any careless sound might disturb the fragile peace of the morning or draw attention to the empty space that still lingered at the table despite their mother’s presence there.

Jane poured the tea with a quiet steadiness that Elizabeth admired daily. Kitty and Lydia whispered together at the far end of the table, muted, for once, by circumstance rather than instruction, while Mary read a devotional passage under her breath, her lips moving silently.

When Mrs Bennet finally spoke, her voice was bright in the way thin glass is bright, easily cracked.

“It is such a pleasant morning,” she said, arranging her napkin with trembling fingers. “I daresay the garden will be quite fine this summer, if we are still here to see it.”

Elizabeth and Jane exchanged a glance. They had become fluent in such looks, an unspoken conversation between sisters who understood that hope could sometimes be more dangerous than despair.

“We shall enjoy it while we can, Mama,” Jane replied gently. “The first primroses are showing in the hedgerows.”

Mrs Bennet nodded, though her lip quivered. “Yes… yes, of course. And Mr Collins, being a man of the cloth, surely he will not wish to hurry us. He is family, after all. It would be a cruel thing to turn out widows and fatherless girls. I cannot imagine he would do such a thing.”

Elizabeth kept her tone even. “We must be prepared for every possibility.”

Mrs Bennet looked at her sharply. “Prepared? Nonsense, Lizzy. Mr Collins is not unfeeling. Besides, he has not even seen the house yet. He may find it… inconvenient. Too small for a clergyman accustomed to better. Perhaps he will allow us a year or two before, before anything must change.”

Her voice wavered. Lydia’s eyes filled; Kitty dabbed at her own. Jane reached for her mother’s hand.

“Mama,” she soothed, “pray do not distress yourself so.”

But distress was hovering near; they all felt it. A knock sounded in the hall.

Hill appeared with a curtsy, her expression carved of solemnity.

“Mr Phillips, ma’am.”

Mrs Bennet startled. “Now? At this hour?”

Elizabeth’s breath stilled. Mr Phillips did not call in the morning unless something mattered. He entered with his usual formality, hat in hand, though today his eyes darted nervously toward the head of the table.

“Forgive the intrusion, Mrs Bennet, but I have received papers from London. Concerning… the entail.”

Mrs Bennet stiffened. Jane’s hand tightened around hers. Mr Phillips laid the packet upon the table. Elizabeth saw, at once, the official seals. Heavy. Irrefutable.

He cleared his throat. “It is settled. All formalities complete. The estate has passed fully to Mr Collins. The last uncertainty respecting the succession having now passed, there can be no further delay.”

Mrs Bennet drew a ragged breath. “But, but he said nothing of haste. Surely he cannot…”

“There is more.” Mr Phillips’s voice softened. “A letter arrived with the documents. Mr Collins intends to pay a visit at the end of next week, to offer condolences and… to take possession.”

Elizabeth felt the words like cold water down her spine.

Mrs Bennet stared at her brother-in-law, her face crumpling. “Next week?” she whispered. “But we are not prepared… I had thought… Oh, Lizzy, this cannot be!”

“Mama.” Elizabeth rose instinctively, reaching for her, but Mrs Bennet pulled her hand away.

“You are too quick to give up, Lizzy,” she cried, voice breaking. “You have no feeling for what it is to lose a home. You speak always of sense and plans and realities. Your father could be the same, and now the two of you together…”

“Mama,” Elizabeth said softly, though the words stung. “I only wish to spare you greater pain.”

But Mrs Bennet was already weeping. “And now he will come, today of all days. To see which rooms he will claim, which furniture, which parts of my life are no longer mine…”

The younger girls began to cry outright. Jane slipped an arm around her mother’s shoulders, murmuring soft reassurances that did little to soothe.

Mr Phillips cleared his throat, his voice low. “I shall return tomorrow to assist with any necessary arrangements. You will not be left without guidance.”

Mrs Bennet only shook her head, overcome. “A week… only a week… How are we to manage? How are we to endure such a thing?”

A week. Seven days until Longbourn would no longer be theirs in anything but memory.

Jane pressed her mother’s hand. “We shall think calmly, Mama. There is still time…”

“Time?” Mrs Bennet cried. “Time to be turned out. Time to lose everything.”

Elizabeth reached for her again, more firmly this time. “Mama, we will face whatever comes together.”

But Mrs Bennet buried her face in her handkerchief, unable, or unwilling, to listen.

Mr Phillips gathered his hat with a solemn bow. “I am truly sorry.” He hesitated, then added quietly, “Courage will be needed in the days ahead.”

When the door closed behind him, the silence he left behind was heavier than before. Elizabeth stood very still, her hand resting on the back of the chair that had once been her father’s.

Next week. And Longbourn, which had always been home, suddenly felt like a stranger’s house.

The following Thursday brought a damp, grey morning, the kind that made every room at Longbourn feel colder than it ought.

The Bennet ladies gathered in the small sitting room nearest the front hall, its fire newly stirred but offering little comfort.

Mrs Bennet sat upon the settee, her hands twisting her handkerchief, her breath coming too fast. Jane sat close beside her, one steady arm around her mother’s shoulders, murmuring soft assurances that did nothing to ease her trembling.

Elizabeth stood a little apart, positioned near the doorway, her posture composed but alert.

She could hear the occasional creak of the front step as Hill moved about preparing for the arrival.

Mr Phillips stood near the hearth, hat in hand, offering polite, nervous conversation that fell flat in the charged air.

“He may only wish to pay his respects and withdraw,” he offered gently.

Mrs Bennet let out a thin, broken sound. “Withdraw? When he means to take possession? Oh, Jane, my nerves. How am I to endure this?”

Jane tightened her hold. “You are not alone, Mama. We are all here.”

Before Mrs Bennet could reply, the unmistakable grind of carriage wheels sounded on the gravel outside. Every head turned. Elizabeth felt her pulse quicken.

Mr Phillips cleared his throat, straightened his coat, and stepped toward the hall. “I shall meet him and make the introductions.”

Jane helped her mother to her feet, guiding her carefully. Mrs Bennet swayed, and Jane steadied her at once.

“Lean on me, Mama,” she whispered. “Only stand if you are able. Say nothing you do not wish to say. Lizzy and my uncle will manage everything.”

Mrs Bennet nodded weakly, allowing Jane to guide her forward.

Together they stepped into the chill March air, the sky pale and thin above the house.

A hired post-chaise stood at the foot of the steps, its wheels still settling in the gravel.

The door opened, and a large, solemn figure descended, stiff, earnest, and already smoothing down his coat with the air of a man preparing to deliver a sermon.

Mr Collins.

He paused at the bottom of the steps, bowing deeply, so deeply, in fact, that his hat nearly brushed the ground. When he straightened, his expression was heavy with importance.

“My dear Mrs Bennet,” he intoned, placing a hand to his heart, “I am come to offer my profound condolences on the melancholy event which has so grievously afflicted your household.”

Mrs Bennet swayed. Jane tightened her hold.

Mr Phillips stepped forward, bowing slightly. “Mr Collins, may I present Mrs Bennet, and her daughters, Miss Bennet and Miss Elizabeth Bennet. The younger three are inside.”

Mr Collins bowed again, first to Mrs Bennet, then to Jane, and at last to Elizabeth, lingering a fraction too long, already weighing their futures like items in an inventory.

“To behold you all in such decorous mourning,” he said, voice thick with solemn admiration, “is most affecting. It speaks of Christian fortitude, and of resignation to the will of Providence.”

Mrs Bennet gave a broken little sound, a sob caught sharp in her throat. Jane drew her closer, murmuring something soothing beneath her breath.

Elizabeth felt heat rise in her chest. Mr Collins’s words, though meant for comfort, pressed like a finger upon a bruise.

“We are grateful for your concern,” she managed.