Fear of the Future #2
Elizabeth sank into the nearest seat, hands clasped tight. “Sixty-five pounds,” she echoed.
Jane looked from one sister to the next, her eyes soft but shadowed. “And yet, it may be our only choice.”
Late that afternoon, when the mist had lifted but the sky remained a dull, pewter grey, the sound of hooves and wheels approached along the lane.
It was not dramatic, not hurried—merely the steady rhythm of the daily post. Yet in the charged stillness of Longbourn, it seemed loud enough to make every head lift.
Hill appeared in the doorway of the breakfast parlour, a folded letter upon a small silver tray.
“A letter has come, Miss Elizabeth. From Gracechurch Street.”
Elizabeth’s head snapped up. Jane’s breath caught. Kitty and Lydia froze mid-whisper. Even Mary looked up from her ledger.
“From Aunt Gardiner?” Jane asked softly.
Hill inclined her head. “Addressed to Mrs Bennet, miss.”
A glance passed between Elizabeth and Jane—their mother would not rise. The letter must not wait.
Elizabeth stood. “We shall take it to her.”
Upstairs, Mrs Bennet remained in her chamber, propped against pillows, her lace cap askew, her complexion blotched from tears.
The room smelled faintly of lavender water and stale broth.
Lydia sat curled miserably in the corner, her embroidery untouched beside her.
Pudding, the old tabby, was asleep upon the coverlet.
Mrs Bennet stirred as Elizabeth and Jane entered.
“A letter,” Jane said softly. “From Aunt Gardiner.”
Mrs Bennet sat bolt upright, clutching at her shawl. “Give it here! Oh, give it here!”
Jane hesitated. “Mama, perhaps Lizzy should read it aloud. You are fatigued.”
Mrs Bennet waved her hand frantically. “Read! Read at once!”
Elizabeth took the letter, broke the seal, and unfolded the paper. The room seemed to draw inward.
“My dearest sister,” she began, her voice low but steady, “further to my former letter, I write with a proposal which may, I hope, bring comfort in this time of uncertainty.
“My uncle in Derbyshire, Mr Harding, has in his possession a small holding near Lambton.
Upon the grounds stands a cottage, well-kept, with five bedchambers, a cheerful parlour, a good kitchen, and an orchard that bears plentifully in autumn.
The situation is quiet, the air exceedingly healthy, and the aspect most pleasant, overlooking gentle hills.
“The cottage has stood empty these six months, and my uncle would be willing to let it at a fair and moderate rent to a family of good character. He would not have you pressed beyond your means; fifty pounds a year shall suffice, and he assures me the roof, chimneys, and windows are all sound.
“Though Derbyshire lies at some distance from Hertfordshire, you would find yourselves among friends, for Mr Harding and his household are sensible, kindly people, much beloved in the neighbourhood.
The village is respectable, the church well-attended, and Lambton within comfortable distance for all necessary shops.
“Should you choose to remove to Derbyshire, Edward and I would assist in every particular—advice, arrangements, and escort, if required. Pray do not feel yourselves without refuge. You have family who love you dearly and desire only your comfort and security.
“Your affectionate sister,
M Gardiner.”
A gasp escaped Kitty. Lydia sat up, eyes wide and startled.
Jane clasped her hands. “Five bedchambers…”
“Fifty pounds,” Mary said, making a note in her ledger.
Mrs Bennet stared, lips parted. “Derbyshire?” she whispered. “Leave Hertfordshire? Leave our friends? Leave—”
But her voice faltered. For the first time, the terror of staying seemed to equal the terror of going. Silence settled over the room—stunned, trembling, alive.
Then Jane exhaled, a tiny sound, half-sob, half-laughter. “There is another way.”
Mary nodded, slow and solemn. “Providence, Lizzy. It comes when one begins to act.”
Kitty seized Lydia’s hand. Lydia’s tears had stopped.
Mrs Bennet pressed her hand to her heart. “Derbyshire,” she murmured. “A cottage. Five bedchambers. A fair rent…”
Her eyes filled with tears. Elizabeth folded the letter carefully. Her pulse was steady now. They were no longer waiting for the blow to fall. They were choosing where to stand when it did.
Dinner that evening was a subdued affair. The long table, set for six instead of seven, seemed to stretch endlessly beneath the flickering candlelight. Mrs Bennet had not come down but remained in her chamber, and her absence cast a heavy stillness over the room.
Hill served in silence, her movements careful and precise. The younger girls took their usual places, while the chair at the head of the table remained conspicuously empty. No one spoke of it, yet every Bennet daughter felt its presence.
Mr Collins entered with great solemnity. After a moment of hesitation, he approached the vacant seat. His expression suggested a sense of duty, and with an air of ponderous propriety, he took the chair that had once been Mr Bennet’s.
Jane’s hands tightened around her napkin. Elizabeth looked down at her plate, willing her features into composure. Kitty and Lydia exchanged wide, uncertain glances.
When the first course was served, Mr Collins surveyed the dishes with grave attention.
“I trust,” he began, “that this meal reflects the modest yet respectable standards of the house. A clergyman values frugality joined with propriety.”
Hill offered a brief curtsy and withdrew. Mr Collins lifted his spoon, tasted the soup, and nodded.
“Plain, but sufficient.” He turned his gaze upon the girls. “May I enquire which of you oversaw the preparation?”
Kitty blinked. “Sir, cook manages the kitchen.”
Mr Collins appeared surprised. “Indeed. None of the young ladies are instructed in those useful accomplishments.”
Mary replied quietly, “We have not had occasion for it, sir.”
Mr Collins inclined his head, though his expression suggested mild disapproval.
“In smaller circumstances, such knowledge proves invaluable. A household must never depend solely upon servants.”
Elizabeth felt a flush rise, though she kept her voice steady. “We are aware that our situation may change.”
Mr Collins took another bite, then continued with earnest gravity.
“It is my intention to bring order and economy to Longbourn. In time, certain practices may be improved. I shall speak with Mrs Hill tomorrow regarding allocations and schedules.”
Jane’s breath caught. Lydia stared at her plate.
Even the silver seemed louder against the china.
The second course passed in near silence.
Mr Collins, however, spoke steadily of parochial duties, clerical propriety, and the importance of obedience within a household.
He addressed no one in particular, with the air of a man lecturing from a pulpit rather than dining in company.
When Hill removed the final dish, Mr Collins folded his hands.
“I must commend the household for its outward composure in a time of trial. Christian fortitude is most edifying. In due season, comfort will return, and suitable arrangements may be considered for the family’s future.”
Jane’s eyes lowered. Elizabeth felt a cold certainty settle within her heart. Mr Collins spoke as a master, not as a guest.
When the ladies withdrew, the chair at the head of the table remained occupied. Mr Collins sat back in it with tranquil satisfaction taking measure of what was now his concern.
No one claimed their father’s place again.