Leaving Longbourn #2
Nothing had been disturbed. The faint scent of leather and paper hung in the stillness. Her father’s desk remained exactly as he had left it, quills bundled neatly, a paperknife laid across a stack of correspondence, a thin film of dust softening every edge. The sight pierced her.
She touched the back of his chair, then selected two small volumes, both worn from his hands. Books she had read sitting at his feet as a girl. Books she could carry without robbing the estate. She tucked them gently into her basket and stepped out before her resolve wavered.
Mrs Bennet’s distress rose afresh when she learned that Hill could not accompany them to Derbyshire. Tears came in torrents.
“Who will manage my things? Who will remember how I take my broth? Who will keep order when I have not the strength?” she sobbed. “Oh, everything is being torn away!”
Jane soothed her as best she could, promising they would find good help in Lambton, though her own eyes shone with unshed tears.
Mrs Bennet clung desperately to smaller possessions, her sewing box, the cushion from Mr Bennet’s armchair, a teapot she could not bear to leave, tokens of the life she was being forced to relinquish.
By evening, Longbourn had begun to look altered. Rooms echoed. Floors lay bare where carpets had been rolled.
As Elizabeth stood in the upstairs passage, gazing at the open doors and half-packed trunks, she felt the truth settle with a quiet finality.
They were already leaving.
The days that followed passed in a succession of small partings and quiet tasks that seemed, in their very ordinariness, to cut deepest of all.
Neighbours and friends came to call and to bid them farewell.
Kitty and Lydia shifted from tears to chatter and back again in the space of a quarter hour.
Mary made lists, corrected knots, and spoke little, but her mouth was very firm.
It was only when the old tabby padded into the parlour and leapt with practised ease into Mrs Bennet’s lap that their mother’s tears softened to quieter sobs.
“At least I shall not lose you,” she murmured, running an unsteady hand along the cat’s worn fur. “We shall all go together.”
The day of departure came sooner than any of them believed possible.
On their last full day at Longbourn, the house was very still.
Mr Collins took very little notice of the altered rooms, except as they afforded him fresh opportunities of importance. When Mr Phillips returned after breakfast to discuss the final particulars of their journey, Mr Collins appeared at once, as if summoned by the mere mention of business.
“A hired carriage, sir,” he repeated, folding his hands over his waistcoat with grave disapproval.
“And a cart besides. It is a considerable expense. Perhaps you might advise Mrs Bennet to send part of her family in advance, or leave some of the heavier items to be forwarded when convenient. Christian prudence requires that we avoid needless waste.”
Mr Phillips regarded him without visible impatience. “The ladies have no wish to impose upon your hospitality a day longer than is necessary, sir. The expense of a chaise and a covered cart has been calculated and will be met from Mrs Bennet’s own resources.”
“Very proper, very proper,” Mr Collins replied, though his tone suggested the exact reverse. “I only meant that young ladies often carry a great variety of unnecessary articles. Bandboxes, for example, and such ornaments as can be of little use in a place of retirement.”
Lydia, who was passing through the hall at that moment with a folded gown over her arm, coloured deeply. Kitty clutched a bandbox to her chest as if he might snatch it away on the spot.
Elizabeth spoke quietly. “We shall endeavour to burden the horses as little as may be, sir.”
Mr Collins appeared somewhat mollified by this submission. “I am glad to hear it, cousin. Order, moderation and a strict regard to propriety are the pillars of a well-conducted household. I shall pray that you acquire them in Derbyshire.”
Mr Phillips, with a civility just short of dryness, turned the conversation to routes and posting inns.
It was soon agreed that the Gardiners would meet the travellers part-way, and that a sturdy chaise should be hired from Meryton for the ladies, while a covered cart followed with the heavier luggage and such furnishings as could not be left behind.
The cat became a subject of debate only when Elizabeth appeared in the hall with a wicker basket and a determined expression.
Pudding, old, placid and extremely set in her ways, regarded the alterations to her domain with increasing suspicion.
She had taken to sleeping upon the half-packed trunks as if to prevent their removal by the mere weight of her person.
Now, disturbed from her position and coaxed into the basket with a scrap of cold chicken, she uttered a low, affronted growl.
Mr Collins stopped short.
“Pray, cousin,” he said, drawing back a little, “what is the meaning of that basket?”
Elizabeth looked up. “Pudding is to go with us.”
“Pudding,” he repeated blankly.
“Our cat, sir,” Mary supplied from the staircase, her hands full of books. “She has been in the family these many years.”
Satisfied that the basket would do to transport Pudding, Elizabeth set it for a moment upon a low stool, and lifted the lid to stroke the cat.
Mr Collins’s expression suggested that no such intimacy ought ever to have been permitted.
“A cat in the carriage,” he said slowly.
“I cannot approve it. They are unsanitary animals. They shed everywhere. They scratch the upholstery. I have always considered them highly unsuitable for genteel company.”
As if in answer, Pudding jumped back into her place on top of the luggage and hissed softly in Mr Collins’s direction.
Lydia, who had been ready to cry again at the sight of another trunk being carried out, gave a sudden, irrepressible giggle. Kitty clapped a hand over her mouth.
Elizabeth’s lips twitched in spite of herself. “Pudding has never yet scratched a person who left her in peace,” she said. “She travels quietly, provided she is properly attended. She will be placed upon the floor between the seats. She will be a great comfort to us.”
Mr Collins drew his coat a little closer about him, as though the very idea of feline proximity offended his dignity.
“It is, of course, no concern of mine if you choose to encumber yourselves with such a creature,” he replied.
“I merely observe that many ladies, in reduced circumstances, find it more prudent to part with unnecessary dependants.”
Mary’s gaze flicked from Pudding to Mr Collins’s face. “Some dependants are less unnecessary than others,” she said, so quietly that only Elizabeth heard.
Mr Phillips, who had witnessed the exchange with a look of growing amusement, cleared his throat.
“The chaise is engaged, the cart ordered, and the route agreed,” he said.
“The cat will add little to the expense, and may lessen the ladies’ regret in leaving their home.
I see no harm in her accompanying them.”
There was a finality in his tone which even Mr Collins did not venture to oppose. He muttered something about the strangeness of modern notions and withdrew to his study, there to examine the rent rolls for the third time that day.
Elizabeth watched him go, then set the basket gently upon the stool again.
“At least you are not afraid of Derbyshire,” she murmured, rubbing the soft brown of Pudding’s head with one finger.
Jane, coming up behind her with a neat roll of shawls over her arm, smiled faintly. “She will consider any house her own, provided there is a warm hearth.”
“Then she will be better off than the rest of us,” Elizabeth replied, though her smile did not quite reach her eyes.
The morning of their departure dawned clearer than any they had seen that week, as if the sky had determined to be cheerful in defiance of every heart within doors.
Sunlight lay pale upon the lawns, drawing a fine glitter from the damp grass and picking out every familiar line of hedge and shrub.
Longbourn looked very much itself, and not at all like a place that was being left.
The hired post-chaise, its paint a little worn and its harness well mended rather than new, stood before the door.
Behind it waited a farmer’s cart from Meryton, already half-loaded with trunks and crates.
The Bennet name, written in Hill’s careful hand, appeared again and again on the luggage, as if the house had been reduced to a series of labels.
In the hall, there was confusion of a quieter sort.
Cloaks were fetched and wrapped close, bonnets tied, shawls adjusted.
Mary had her reticule and her ledger. Kitty clutched a small bandbox that contained her best bonnet and all her prettiest ribbons.
Lydia, red-eyed and restless, appeared unable to decide whether to weep or ask once more whether Derbyshire possessed any officers at all.
At the foot of the stairs, Jane waited with Mrs Bennet upon her arm.
Their mother was veiled, her mourning bonnet tied a little askew, her step unsteady.
She had insisted upon rising to leave her home, yet the effort of coming down had drawn the colour from her cheeks.
Her free hand clutched a small bundle that contained Mr Bennet’s cushion and her favourite tea-caddy, as if those tokens alone connected her to the life she was quitting.
“Take care upon the step, Mama,” Jane murmured. “Lean your weight on me.”
“I am quite well,” Mrs Bennet replied, though her voice shook. “Only do not hurry me. I wish to look at everything. I may never see it again.”
They passed slowly through the hall together. Mrs Bennet paused once to touch the bannister where she had seen her daughters run as children, once more to cast a wavering glance toward the parlour where she had so often triumphed in receiving company.
Kitty began to cry again as the door was opened and the sunlight spilled in. Lydia followed, tears starting afresh at the first breath of cool morning air.
“Everything smells of leaving,” she said miserably, pressing a handkerchief to her nose as if that would keep the scent away.
Hill waited upon the threshold, her apron neat, her eyes bright with unshed tears. Behind her, the remaining servants hovered in the shadows of the passage, unwilling to crowd forward, yet unable to withdraw entirely.
“God bless you, ma’am,” Hill said, her voice thick, as Mrs Bennet reached the door. “It has been my honour.”
Mrs Bennet’s composure gave way. She caught Hill’s hand in both of hers.
“She has been with me since before Jane was born,” she whispered, and her voice broke upon the words. “No one will ever know how I like things done.”
Hill swallowed hard. “You will do very well, ma’am. Miss Bennet and Miss Elizabeth will see to everything.”
Jane pressed her mother’s arm. “We shall try.”
With Hill’s steadying hand and Jane’s support, Mrs Bennet was helped into the chaise and settled upon the rear seat.
Jane followed, taking the place beside her.
Mary climbed in opposite them, spine straight, hands folded, as if she were preparing herself for an examination rather than a journey of a hundred miles.
Kitty and Lydia, still sniffling, scrambled in next, pressing close together on the forward seat, drawn by fear and habit into their customary alliance. Elizabeth remained upon the gravel, Pudding’s basket in her hand. Mr Collins approached her with an air of pastoral solemnity.
“I trust,” he said, “that you will travel safely and that you will remember, wherever Providence may place you, the benefits you have enjoyed here. In due time, I hope to hear that suitable arrangements have been made for all of you. Until then, I shall strive to maintain Longbourn in a manner that would have satisfied my honoured cousin.”
Elizabeth met his gaze steadily. There was nothing to be gained by anger. It was no longer her concern how Longbourn would be kept.
“I wish you joy in your stewardship, sir,” she replied. “May you find it a happy home.”
He looked faintly taken aback by the formality of her tone, bowed, and stepped back.
Hill came forward one last time, her hand hovering over the basket.
“Pudding will not like the jolting, Miss Lizzy,” she said softly. “You must scold her if she tries to escape.”
“I shall remind her that even cats must bear change,” Elizabeth answered. Her throat threatened to close, but she kept her smile. “We shall take care of her. And we shall think of you whenever she steals the best chair.”
At that, Hill gave a watery laugh, half sob, half amusement, and retreated quickly indoors before her composure failed.
Elizabeth handed Pudding’s basket to the man who had arranged the luggage.
“Place her beneath the forward seat, if you please. She will be quieter if she cannot see how much she dislikes it.”
Pudding expressed her opinion in a low, indignant growl as the basket was stowed.
Elizabeth set her foot upon the carriage step, then hesitated and turned.
Longbourn stood before her, calm and still in the clear March light. The windows of the upper rooms shone faintly. The flower beds along the front still bore the bare promise of summer. The gravel sweep of the drive lay smooth beneath the wheels, the trees beyond the lawn stirred in a light breeze.
“Goodbye,” she whispered. Whether she spoke to the house, to the place her childhood had filled, or to the memory of her father that seemed to linger in every stone, she could not have said.
She gathered her skirts and climbed into the chaise, taking the last remaining place beside Mary.
The door closed with a firm, final sound.
Inside, the air felt close, heavy with breath and unshed tears.
Mrs Bennet’s gloved hand groped for Jane’s.
Kitty sniffled. Lydia stared fiercely out of the small side window, as if daring the world to look back at her.
Pudding gave another offended hiss from the basket on the floor.
The driver climbed to his seat. There was a brief exchange of voices outside, the creak of leather, and the jingle of harness. Elizabeth lowered her veil.
The reins snapped.