Leaving Longbourn
Morning came pale and uncertain, as though the sun itself were reluctant to look upon such a day. A soft rain pattered against the panes, blurring the view of the familiar lawns and hedgerows, so that Longbourn seemed half-remembered already.
Hill met Elizabeth on the landing, a folded letter upon a tray.
“From Lambton, Miss. Addressed to Mrs Bennet.”
Elizabeth exchanged a glance with Jane. Together they entered their mother’s chamber.
Mrs Bennet lay propped against pillows, her eyes swollen, her cap askew, the remnants of tears still glistening upon her cheeks. She managed a faint, wavering smile.
“A letter from your Aunt Gardiner?”
Elizabeth shook her head gently. “From Mr Harding, Mama.”
Mrs Bennet blinked. “Mr Harding? I do not believe I have met the gentleman.”
Jane sat beside her, taking her hand with careful tenderness. “He is Mrs Gardiner’s uncle, the owner of the cottage.”
Elizabeth broke the seal.
The letter was elegantly phrased, respectful, formal, even courtly in its manner.
Mr Harding expressed his condolences upon Mr Bennet’s death, praised Mrs Bennet’s fortitude in adversity, and assured her that a lady of such grace and maternal devotion ought never be left without a respectable home.
He declared his willingness to offer the small dwelling near Lambton, consisting a sound cottage with five bedchambers, an orchard, kitchen garden, and the comforts suited to genteel economy, at the rent Mrs Gardiner had named.
He concluded with a flourish of deference, trusting that Mrs Bennet would honour the cottage with her presence, and assuring her that Derbyshire would be greatly improved by such amiable society.
Jane looked up softly. “He means to welcome us.”
Mrs Bennet stared at the letter as at something foreign, hope and fear warring plainly upon her face. Her voice came small and trembling.
“Leave Longbourn. Leave everything we have known.”
Elizabeth took her mother’s hand, steady, warm, certain.
“We cannot remain, Mama. But we need not be cast out. We may choose our future, together.”
Mrs Bennet’s eyes filled once more, though the tears lacked the violence of the day before. “I am frightened to stay, and frightened to go.”
Jane leaned close, her voice like a balm. “Then let us go together.”
A long silence followed.
Mrs Bennet closed her eyes, nodded once, and whispered, “Very well. We shall go to Derbyshire.”
It was done. For the first time since Mr Bennet’s death, the future had taken shape.
Mr Phillips arrived early the next day, with a leather folio under his arm and an air of grave determination that suited Elizabeth very well and comforted her more than any expression of pity could have done.
There was something bracing in his briskness, as if the work before them were not the dismantling of a life but only business that must be set in order.
They began in the hall. Hill had already assembled the household accounts and keys, and stood ready, outwardly composed, though her reddened eyelids betrayed how little she had slept.
“We shall proceed room by room,” Mr Phillips said quietly to Elizabeth. “Those articles which belong to the house must be listed and left. Those which may fairly be claimed as your mother’s property will be packed at once. It is the surest way to avoid dispute.”
Elizabeth inclined her head. “Very well, sir. We are ready.”
He opened his folio, dipped his pen, and turned to Hill. “We shall begin with the parlours.”
The work was not loud, nor hurried, yet it altered everything. By mid-morning, trunks had been carried from the attics, dust sheets shaken out, and the house had taken on the unsettling air of a place preparing to forget its inhabitants.
In the front parlour, Mr Phillips moved slowly about the room, noting each article with impartial precision.
“Sofa, included in the marriage settlement. Carpet, fixed. Curtains, affixed to the poles and therefore part of the freehold. Side table, Mrs Bennet’s purchase five years ago and so removable. ”
At his direction, Hill placed a discreet chalk mark upon certain pieces, while the younger maids followed with linen covers and cords.
The pianoforte was left untouched, for it had been Mr Bennet’s gift to his daughters and no provision in the will could make it otherwise.
Elizabeth felt a rush of gratitude at the sight of it standing safe and unmarked, a familiar dark shape in a room that was beginning to look strangely bare.
From the parlours they passed to the bedchambers. Jane and Elizabeth had already folded most of their gowns into trunks, and these now stood open at the foot of their beds, awaiting final inspection.
Mr Phillips glanced only briefly inside. “Personal apparel, unquestionably yours,” he said, with a faint attempt at cheer. “Mr Collins has no claim upon a single ribbon.”
Jane smiled, though her eyes were bright.
Elizabeth stood in her own chamber, folding gowns she had worn for dances, dinners, and walks across the fields, pieces of a life that no longer felt quite real. The room, once so familiar, seemed strangely altered with its drawers half-emptied and the curtains drawn back wide.
Laughter, thin and uneven, spilled from Lydia’s room.
Elizabeth paused at the threshold. Lydia sat on the floor amid ribbons and bonnets, alternately chattering about fashions in Derbyshire and wiping her eyes when she thought no one saw her.
Kitty perched beside her, trying to tie a bow and failing twice before dissolving into tears.
“How shall we live without Longbourn?” Kitty whispered.
Lydia sniffed, attempting bravado. “We shall have new neighbours. New assemblies.” Her voice broke. “But it will not be home.”
Elizabeth crossed the room and gathered them both into her arms. For once, neither protested.
Across the corridor, in Mary’s room, the books formed the chief difficulty. Mr Phillips examined the shelves with more interest than anywhere else. Mary worked with meticulous calm. Her chamber was neat, her trunk already half-packed.
“These volumes here,” he said, touching the spines nearest the door, “were purchased by Mr Bennet before his marriage and entered in the estate inventory. They must remain. Those on the escritoire, however, bear later dates in the account books. Your father bought them from his own ready money. They may be taken.”
Mary looked stricken, but she bowed her head in acceptance.
When Mr Phillips and Hill moved on, Elizabeth watched her sister carefully gather the permitted books, smoothing each cover as if in silent farewell to the rest. The little Bible that had always lain by Mr Bennet’s elbow in the library she did not ask for.
She slipped it quietly into her reticule when no one was looking.
Upstairs and down, the process continued.
Carpets were left. Looking-glasses and bedsteads remained in place.
Small tables, footstools, and a worn but beloved armchair of Mrs Bennet’s were set aside to be packed.
In the nursery, long disused, Kitty and Lydia discovered a forgotten box of childhood treasures, and the mingled laughter and tears that followed carried faintly down the corridor, a poignant counterpoint to the scratch of Mr Phillips’s pen.
By afternoon, the yard was filled with trunks and crates bearing the Bennet name in Hill’s neat hand.
Under her direction, two men from the village carried each piece to the covered yard, where it was stacked in orderly rows, ready for the chaise and cart that were to be hired from Meryton on the day of their departure.
Elizabeth stood upon the front step for a few moments, watching as their lives were translated into numbered packages.
Here a trunk of linen, there a crate of china carefully wrapped in straw, a bandbox of bonnets, a long narrow case that held Mr Bennet’s fishing rods and which Jane had insisted must come, for they did not know what rivers there might be in Derbyshire.
From an upper window, Elizabeth heard Lydia’s voice exclaim, “How shall we ever know which box holds my gowns?” and Mary’s drier tones reply that a list had already been made. Even in sorrow, the house retained its old harmonies.
When the last trunk had been carried to the yard and the servants dismissed to their duties, Mr Phillips closed his folio with a decisive snap and turned to Elizabeth where she waited in the hall.
“It is done, so far as it may be,” he said. “The remainder can be completed tomorrow. Mr Collins has been apprised of all that belongs properly to the estate, and he has made no objection.” A shadow of disapproval crossed his face. “He appears well satisfied with his inheritance.”
Elizabeth’s hands tightened upon each other. “I thank you, sir. You have been more than kind.”
He hesitated, then lowered his voice. “Kindness has little to do with it, my dear. It is justice. There is no merit in forcing ladies to beg favours where the law allows them rights.”
She felt her throat close. “Even so, we are indebted to you.”
He looked at her then not as a solicitor, nor even as an uncle by marriage, but simply as a man who had known her since she was a child running wild in the Longbourn lanes.
“You have done wisely,” he said, his tone very gentle. “Better to go with dignity than to wait to be sent.”
The words struck deep, not as a rebuke but as a benediction. Elizabeth drew a careful breath, steadying herself.
“We shall endeavour to deserve your good opinion,” she replied.
He gave a short, approving nod and took his leave.
When the door closed behind him, Elizabeth turned slowly back into the house. The rooms she passed through were not yet empty, yet they no longer felt quite as they once had. Sheets covered some of the furniture; spaces yawned where familiar objects had stood for years.
The library door stood ajar. Elizabeth slipped inside alone.