Fear of the Future
The door had scarcely closed behind Mr Collins before Mrs Bennet’s composure shattered entirely.
She sank onto the nearest chair in the small sitting room, her hands trembling so violently that her handkerchief slipped to the floor. Jane retrieved it at once, kneeling beside her mother, one arm steady around her shoulders.
“Oh, Jane—Jane, my poor nerves!” Mrs Bennet cried, her voice high and breaking.
“To think of him sleeping under this roof, commanding this house, walking these halls as if they were his own—oh, what shall become of us? Cast out into the hedgerows, five unprotected girls and a widow—oh, it is too cruel!”
Kitty began to weep. Lydia followed instantly, clutching her sister’s sleeve. Mary sat stiffly, pale but silent, the devotional she had been reading still open on her lap.
Elizabeth stood a little apart, her hands clasped before her, every nerve drawn tight.
“Mama,” Jane murmured softly, “pray do not distress yourself. We are not without relations. We shall not be abandoned.”
“Abandoned?” Mrs Bennet gasped. “What else do you call it? A week—only a week before we are turned out of the only home we have ever known!”
Elizabeth stepped forward, keeping her voice calm. “We do not yet know what Mr Collins intends.”
Mrs Bennet turned on her, eyes shining with panic. “He intends to take possession! He intends to sit in your father’s place! Oh, to be so mistreated by fate—after all those years, all those hopes—”
She broke off with a choking sob. Jane held her closer, murmuring soothing words that did little to steady her mother’s shaking breath.
Elizabeth drew a slow breath. “We must think clearly. We must act with sense.”
Mrs Bennet only moaned. “Sense! What use is sense when one is ruined?”
The next morning broke colourless and damp, a thin mist clinging to the lawns and pressing against the windows. Longbourn felt altered—quieter, heavier, as if every room were listening.
Hill met Jane and Elizabeth in the passage outside their mother’s chamber, curtsying softly.
“Mrs Bennet is quite overcome, Miss Bennet, Miss Elizabeth,” she said in a low voice. “She remains in her room. She has taken broth, though only a sip.”
Jane’s expression tightened with concern. “Thank you, Hill. We will look in on her shortly.”
Hill withdrew, leaving a hush in her wake. Kitty and Lydia hovered at the top of the stairs, their eyes wide with unspent tears. Mary stood a little apart, her hands clasped tightly around her prayer book.
Elizabeth glanced toward the closed door of her mother’s chamber. “She will not rise today.”
“No,” Jane murmured. “I do not think she can.”
They descended the stairs together. In the breakfast parlour, the fire was lit but weak, and the table was set for six rather than seven. Mrs Bennet’s place was empty. No one reached for the tea. No one ate.
Kitty finally whispered, “What if we are made to leave before we find anywhere to go?”
Lydia shuddered. “We shall be wandering on the road—forced to beg—or—or—”
“We must not succumb to wild imaginings,” Mary said, as she sat at the small writing desk beneath the window, spectacles perched on her nose, a blank ledger before her. “Providence provides for the righteous.”
Elizabeth forced a steady breath. “Providence will expect us to use our wits.”
Beside Mary lay neatly arranged papers:
A list of household expenses
Notes on wages and provisions
The estimated income from Mrs Bennet’s jointure
Mary dipped her pen, her voice quiet but firm. “We must ascertain what we can afford.”
Kitty blinked. “Afford?”
Mary did not look up. “If we are obliged to leave Longbourn, we cannot go blindly into some unsuitable lodging. We must know the limits of our purse.”
Elizabeth stared—not in reproach, but with surprised admiration.
Mary continued, turning a page. “Food, coal, candles, clothing… even with frugality, a household of six cannot be maintained on sentiment. We must allow for a maid. Mama cannot manage without some help.”
Jane moved closer, soft and earnest. “Do you think we can manage, Mary?”
Mary paused, then nodded once. “We must. But our rent must not exceed fifty pounds a year—or we shall be eating nothing but broth ourselves.”
Lydia let out a strangled squeak.
Elizabeth felt something shift—small but steady. Not hope, exactly, but direction.
Mary paused, tapping her pen thoughtfully against the ledger. “We must also consider domestic labour.”
Kitty blinked. “Labour?”
Mary’s brows drew together. “We do not know how to cook. Or preserve. Or bake. We have never lit a kitchen fire or prepared a single dish without Hill’s direction.”
A flush crept up Lydia’s neck. “Well—young ladies are not meant for such things.”
“No,” Mary replied quietly, “but poorer ladies must be.”
Elizabeth felt the truth of it strike deep. They could embroider a sampler, host callers, and dance every figure of a country reel—yet none of them could make a pot of tea without a servant’s hand.
“Then we cannot afford a situation that leaves us entirely to ourselves,” Jane murmured. “We must have at least one maid.”
Mary nodded. “Which means fifty pounds a year for rent is the very limit—or we shall be living in a cottage with no one to keep house and no knowledge to do it ourselves.”
The silence that followed was sober and new.
Before Elizabeth could speak, Hill reappeared at the doorway.
“Beg pardon, Miss Bennet—Mrs Phillips has called.”
Kitty sat bolt upright. “Aunt Phillips? Here?”
Hill nodded. “She says it is urgent.”
Elizabeth and Jane exchanged a glance. This would not be a social call.
The door had barely opened before Mrs Phillips swept inside in a rustle of shawls and purpose, her cheeks pink from the cold and her manner brisk with self-importance.
“My dears!” she cried, stopping short when she saw the sombre scene—the untouched breakfast, the hollow quiet, the empty chair. Her expression softened at once. “Oh! My poor sister. Hill says she cannot rise.”
Jane stood with gentle composure. “Mama is unwell this morning. She remains in her room.”
Mrs Phillips clicked her tongue sympathetically. “I do not wonder at it. After such a shocking business! Mr Bennet’s solicitor—my poor Mr Phillips—came home last night quite overset. He said Mr Collins has arrived and means to reside at Longbourn for the present!”
Kitty gasped. Lydia clutched her sister. Elizabeth felt her breath tighten.
Mrs Phillips lowered her voice importantly, though it still carried. “It is all quite settled. The papers from London leave no doubt. Mr Collins spoke very civilly, I am told, but made it clear he considers himself responsible for the estate. Such a change in so short a time!”
Jane swallowed. “Did my uncle say what Mr Collins intends?”
Mrs Phillips flapped her hand. “Intentions! My dear, Mr Phillips could not draw a single clear plan from him. Clergymen always talk round matters. But one thing is certain—he means to stay. And with that, you must think of your own arrangements.”
Elizabeth exchanged a brief look with Mary, who still sat at the ledger.
Mrs Phillips leaned forward conspiratorially. “Mr Phillips says you will have near four hundred a year between your mother’s jointure and her settlement income. Very decent. Very manageable—provided you choose your lodging wisely.”
She straightened, smoothing her gloves.
“And that, my dears, is why I am come. There are houses about the neighbourhood worth considering. One must act before all know the particulars. There is a house—small, convenient, perfectly suited to genteel economy—Purvis Lodge.”
Kitty blinked. “Purvis Lodge?”
Mrs Phillips nodded with great enthusiasm. “A most respectable little house. Newly papered in the parlour, a dry cellar, and only a mile and a half from Meryton. Quite the opportunity!”
Lydia’s face crumpled. “Purvis Lodge? But—but the attics—”
“Yes, yes, the attics are low,” Mrs Phillips said briskly, waving this aside.
“But one does not sleep in attics if one can help it. Attics are for trunks, not people. And there is a charming prospect from the upper windows. Quite genteel. What matters is that the drawing room is serviceable, the kitchen quite modern, and the rent”—her voice brightened—“very reasonable!”
Elizabeth felt her stomach tighten. “How reasonable?”
Mrs Phillips hesitated only a heartbeat. “Sixty-five pounds a year.”
Mary looked up sharply. “That exceeds our allowance for rent.”
Mrs Phillips blinked, then recovered. “By a mere trifle! With good management—and if the girls sew their own caps—you will do very well indeed.”
Elizabeth thought of five daughters, one maid, and a mother who had never boiled an egg..
Jane’s voice was gentle but steady. “We are grateful, Aunt. Truly. But we must consider carefully.”
“Oh, I insist upon thinking of you!” Mrs Phillips cried, clearly pleased. “Why, the whole neighbourhood will soon be buzzing with possibilities. If you do not take Purvis Lodge, someone else most certainly will. One must act swiftly in such situations.”
Mrs Phillips, oblivious, continued brightly, “And you are fortunate to have four hundred a year. Plenty enough for a servant and coals and a little carriage hire at Christmas.”
Kitty made a faint squeaking sound.
Mary murmured, “Coal prices alone would devour—”
But Mrs Phillips was already rising.
“Well! I must see my poor sister. She will need comfort—and guidance. I shall take her some hartshorn.” She paused, eyeing Jane and Elizabeth meaningfully. “Best not speak of Purvis Lodge just yet. She will hear it better from me.”
Without waiting for agreement, she swept toward the stairs, calling behind her, “Hill! Kindly show me up. Oh, what a shocking business!”
Her voice trailed upward, leaving the parlour suddenly still. The girls were alone. Kitty slumped into her chair. Lydia stared at the empty doorway as if doom itself had passed through it.
Mary dipped her pen again, her voice steady. “Sixty-five pounds. It is beyond our means.”