Beyond First Impressions (Pride and Prejudice Variation)

Prologue

The afternoon had drawn long and mellow by the time their carriage left the bustle of the Great North Road behind and began to near the familiar turning that would, in another quarter hour, bring them home.

The sky had softened into that pale gold peculiar to late September, when the sun no longer blazed but lingered with affectionate reluctance upon hedgerow and field.

Dust rose in faint clouds behind the wheels, and the steady motion of the carriage, combined with the day’s exertions, might have coaxed another young lady into drowsy silence.

Elizabeth Bennet was not, however, another young lady.

She sat opposite her father with one gloved hand resting lightly upon the seat and the other curled about the ribbons of a bandbox that contained, as she had already declared no fewer than four times, the prettiest evening slippers ever made by human ingenuity.

At her feet rested two smaller parcels; beside Mr. Bennet, an additional box had been wedged with care, though not, she suspected, with any true regard for millinery.

“It is very well for you to look so smug, Papa,” she said, lifting her chin with playful dignity. “You have not been made to carry half your fortune home in satin and tissue paper.”

Mr. Bennet regarded her over the top of the newspaper he had not opened for the last ten minutes. “On the contrary, my dear, I believe I have borne the greater burden. You have only chosen the gowns. I have been obliged to pay for them.”

Elizabeth laughed. “And most handsomely, too. I shall think of your generosity every time I am admired.”

“I see. Then I may expect gratitude to become your ruling principle.” He winked, softening his tease.

“You may expect it to be displayed with elegance and moderation, like a proper accomplishment.”

Mr. Bennet chuckled, shaking his head. “That sounds suspiciously like a promise to forget me the instant you enter the assembly rooms.”

She widened her eyes in a look of perfect innocence. “Never. I shall remember you every time some gentleman bows and requests the honor of my hand, and I shall think, there is Papa’s money, turned into blue silk and trimmed sleeves.”

Mr. Bennet lowered the paper altogether. “Blue silk very likely. But if gentlemen swarm you in numbers, as I am persuaded they must, it will not be because of my purse.”

Elizabeth made a face. “Swarm is a very disagreeable word.”

“It is, however, an accurate one. You are coming out, Lizzy. Meryton has been spared the full effect of you long enough. The neighborhood will never recover.”

“The neighborhood has Jane.”

“Yes and has therefore grown indolent. They have accustomed themselves to admiration. It is time they were made to work a little harder.”

She smiled and shook her head. “You always speak as though I were some dreadful trial to society.”

“You are a dreadful trial to those who prefer dull company.”

She met his gaze. “That is not what I meant.”

“No, but it is what I choose to mean.” Her father smiled kindly, his eyes crinkling in the corners.

Elizabeth leaned back against the cushions, the corners of her mouth still curved.

She had always found it easy to laugh in her father’s company.

Even in childhood, when her mother fretted and her younger sisters ran riot and Mary improved every occasion by quoting something grave and unnecessary, Mr. Bennet had possessed the rare gift of making the world feel both smaller and kinder.

In his presence, every absurdity became bearable; every vexation, temporary.

The carriage rocked over a rut, and Mr. Bennet laid one hand automatically atop the nearest bandbox to steady it.

“You must not crush my bonnet,” Elizabeth said at once.

“My dear, if that object within is truly a bonnet, then fashion has taken an even darker turn than I had supposed.”

She drew herself up. “Mrs. Gardiner declared it elegant.”

“Mrs. Gardiner possesses excellent sense in nearly all matters.”

“In nearly all?” She raised a brow and pursed her lips.

“She encouraged you in the purchase.”

Elizabeth laughed again. “She did no such thing. She was the soul of prudence. It was I who admired it.”

“Then I may hope your admiration will cool before anyone is required to see you in it.”

“You are very severe.” In fact, her father was anything but. Mr. Bennet’s teasing nature was well known.

“I am a father. Severity is part of the office.”

“It seems to sit strangely upon you.”

“That,” said Mr. Bennet, folding the paper with great composure, “is because you have always been indulged.”

“By you, perhaps.”

“Certainly by me. It is one of my principal failings, though I bear it with fortitude.”

Elizabeth could not help but reach across the carriage to touch his sleeve in affectionate reproach. “You have no failings.”

“My dear child, I have a thousand.”

She scoffed. “Name three.” No, she was quite certain her father was perfection itself.

“I dislike noise, endure foolishness with poor grace, and have spent an unconscionable amount on lace this week.”

“That last is a virtue.”

Mr. Bennet shook his head again. “It is ruin.”

“It is an investment.”

“In what?” He raised a brow, appraising her solemnly. The twinkle in his eyes was the only thing that betrayed his humor.

“In my future success.”

Mr. Bennet looked at her with mock suspicion. “You speak very confidently for one who maintains that gentlemen prefer Jane.”

“They do prefer Jane,” Elizabeth replied, though more softly. “Everyone prefers Jane. She is handsomer, sweeter, and infinitely better qualified to inspire admiration. I shall do very well to be overlooked beside her.”

There was enough seriousness in her tone to alter his expression. Some part of the playful ease left his face, though the fondness remained.

“Lizzy.”

She looked back at him.

“You know I will not contradict you where Jane is concerned, for your sister is indeed lovely, and so good that she improves every room merely by entering it. But do not be foolish on your own account.”

“I am not foolish. Only realistic.”

“No.” He shook his head. “Only unjust.”

Elizabeth tried to smile, but he was looking at her too steadily for her to dismiss the matter with levity.

“Beauty may turn a gentleman’s head for half an hour,” he said, “and perhaps persuade him to stand up beside the wrong woman at supper. But the man worthy of you will not see it that way.”

She blinked. “Papa—”

“He will not,” Mr. Bennet repeated, his voice stripped of teasing.

“He will see your wit before another woman’s complexion, your warmth before another woman’s prettiness, and your spirit before any fashionable nonsense that may distract lesser men.

And when he does, he will think himself fortunate indeed. ”

Elizabeth looked down at her hands. Her gloves were cream kid, newly fitted, the seams still stiff. She bent one finger against the other and smiled in spite of herself.

“You speak as though such a man certainly exists.”

“I do.”

“And if he does not?” She dearly hoped he did, for she longed for love.

“Then the loss will be his, and not yours.”

She looked up again, laughter and tenderness mingling in her expression. “You are determined I shall have a grand destiny.”

“I am determined only that you should never undervalue yourself.”

The carriage seemed very peaceful for a few moments after that.

Outside, the fields rolled on in softened greens and browns, broken by low stone walls and wind-bent trees.

Somewhere in the distance a rook called.

Elizabeth turned her face toward the window and watched the afternoon move past in fragments: a gatepost, a stand of ash, a flock of sheep pressed close together in one corner of a meadow.

At length she said, “If I am to inspire such violent admiration, perhaps we ought to have purchased another gown. The primrose muslin, for example.”

Mr. Bennet groaned. “Ah. There is the true object of this speech.”

She laughed outright. “No, indeed. I have surrendered it with grace.”

“You looked at it three separate times before we left.”

“I was saying farewell.” It had been a lovely gown.

“You were plotting.”

She put a hand to her chest and affected an air of innocence. “Can one not do both?”

“One can, but not honorably.”

“I had not understood shopping to be an exercise in morality.”

Mr. Bennet raised his eyebrows and laced his fingers together over his stomach. “It is, when undertaken with my purse.”

Elizabeth leaned her head back against the squab and smiled. “I do not know what Mama will say when she sees everything.”

“She will say that Jane ought to have had more ribbons.”

Mrs. Bennet always favored the eldest Bennet sister. “That is unfair. Mama may also say Lydia ought to have had more ribbons.”

“True. Kitty will want the same bonnet as yours, Mary will disapprove of feathers on principle, and Lydia will attempt to wear the new slippers before dinner.”

“And Jane?”

Mr. Bennet’s eyes softened. “Jane will kiss you, admire every stitch, and mean it.”

Elizabeth’s expression gentled in answer. “Yes. She will.”

The thought of home warmed her. Longbourn would be lively tonight.

Lydia would demand a full account of every shop they had entered; Kitty would ask after London fashions with breathless seriousness; Mary would pretend indifference and then inquire whether any respectable bookseller had been visited; Jane would wish to hear all, even while balancing tasks and managing some matter or other.

And her mother—well, her mother would have opinions enough for everyone.

Elizabeth smiled to herself and returned her gaze to the window.

They had nearly reached the turn. She knew the stretch of road well: the slight dip ahead, the elder hedge to the left, the narrow lane that would curve toward Longbourn.

She could almost feel home in the air already—the familiar fields, the distant smoke from cottages, the sense of nearing what was known and loved.

Then, so suddenly that there was no time to attach reason to it, the horses gave a violent start.

The carriage lurched.

Elizabeth caught at the strap beside the window. Mr. Bennet’s newspaper slid to the floor.

Outside came a sharp burst of barking—wild, frantic, too near—and then the unmistakable sound of snapping jaws and scrabbling claws against the road.

“Hold!” shouted the driver.

The team screamed.

There was no other word for it. The horses reared and plunged as the barking rose into a frenzy. Through the window Elizabeth glimpsed a blur of movement low to the ground—two dogs, half-maddened with pursuit, darting at the horses’ legs.

The carriage swayed so violently that one of the bandboxes flew from the seat and struck the opposite panel.

“Papa—!”

“Stay where you are!”

But there was no staying anywhere. The world had lost all order. Wheels struck stone. The carriage veered hard to one side, then the other. The driver shouted again, though his voice was nearly swallowed by the thunder of hooves and the dreadful, splintering rattle of wood under strain.

Elizabeth reached instinctively across the space between them, but the movement of the carriage flung her sideways. A parcel burst open. Tissue paper swirled like frightened birds.

One horse gave another shrill cry. The entire carriage seemed to lift.

Then Mr. Bennet was beside her.

She did not know how he had crossed so quickly. One moment she was clutching at leather and polished wood, and the next his arms were around her—strong, desperate, pulling her down against him with such force that she could scarcely breathe.

“Papa—”

“Hush, Lizzy.”

The words were close against her hair. She felt his hand at the back of her head, sheltering it, pressing her into the safety of his coat. The carriage tipped. Something shattered. A wheel struck what felt like stone, and the world turned over in a roar of wood and glass and terror.

Her shoulder slammed painfully against the seat. There was another crash—greater, final, as though the whole earth had risen to meet them.

Then her head struck something hard.

There was one blinding instant of white, not unlike lightning behind closed eyes.

After that, nothing.

Everything went dark.