Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Something of a Legal Nature
The Gouldings' dining room was warm with candlelight and comfortably full, the table laid with more care than formality.
Mrs. Goulding presided with genial authority, encouraging second helpings and gentle conversation, whilst Mr. Goulding discoursed cheerfully upon the latest improvements to the turnpike road.
Mr. Bennet had settled into quiet observation at the far end of the table, content to let others carry the conversation.
Elizabeth's absence was remarked upon once and dismissed. Kitty, seated beside her younger sister, devoted herself to her plate. Lydia, by contrast, had scarcely eaten.
Mr. Phillips had just finished a remark upon the outlandish price of oats when Lydia spoke.
“Uncle,” she said, with studied casualness, “may I ask you something of a legal nature?”
He turned, surprised enough to pause, though not to smile. “You may ask. Whether you will like the answer is another matter.”
“I do not require that it be pleasing,” Lydia replied. “Only accurate.”
“Very well,” he said. “What troubles you?”
“At what age,” Lydia asked, “does the law consider a young woman capable of consenting to marriage?”
There was a fractional stillness at the table, not yet alarm but alertness, as though a window had been opened in a warm room. Mrs. Goulding’s fork paused midway to her mouth. Kitty looked up sharply.
“My dear Miss Lydia,” Mrs. Goulding said, with a little laugh, “you are grown quite learned. What put such a question into your head?”
“I have heard people speak of girls being old enough for this or that,” Lydia said, keeping her tone light. “I wished to know what the law says, rather than mere gossip.”
Mr. Phillips set down his glass. “That depends upon what you mean by capable.”
“I mean,” Lydia said carefully, “that she is capable of being bound.”
His brows rose. “That is a lawyer's word.”
“So, I thought it best to ask a lawyer.”
Kitty glanced between them, curiosity and unease warring in her face. “Do go on, uncle. I should like to know too,” she said, half in jest and half in earnest.
He regarded Lydia for a moment longer before answering. “At common law, a girl of twelve is spoken of as having capacity. But that is a narrow doctrine, and a dangerous one to isolate.”
“Dangerous to whom?” Lydia asked.
“To the girl, chiefly,” he replied. “Because it tempts others to pretend that capacity is permission to act. In England, it is not.”
Mrs. Goulding shook her head. “Twelve. I cannot conceive it. Why, at twelve I knew nothing of anything but ribbons and bonnets.”
“She still thinks of little else,” Mr. Goulding murmured, which earned him a mild rebuke from his wife and a general smile.
Lydia nodded, as though this confirmed her own thoughts rather than surprised her. “Are you saying that consent matters more than age?.”
“Very much so,” he said. “The law distinguishes between capacity and permission. They are quite distinct. A young woman may have reached an age where the law acknowledges her capable of understanding a marriage contract, but that does not grant her liberty to enter into it at will.”
“But if she understands—”
“Understanding is not authority,” he interrupted gently. “Since the Marriage Act of 1753, a young woman under one-and-twenty may not marry by licence without the consent of her father or guardian. Without that consent, the ceremony has no legal standing whatsoever.”
“What is standing?”
“Effect. It would have no legal effect at all.”
“No effect at all,” Lydia repeated.
“None,” he said firmly. “The law would say it never occurred. The parties would not be married in the eyes of English law, regardless of what ceremony was performed or what documents were signed.”
Mrs. Goulding drew a sharp breath. “How extraordinary. All those romantic tales of stolen matches, and the law coolly declaring them nothing.”
“Well, young people sometimes believe they know best for themselves. They might try to marry with a licence, and claim the girl is of age. Saves the expense of a trip to Scotland!” Mr. Phillips chuckled at his own jest, but Mrs. Goulding merely looked horrified.
“That seems an odd result,” Lydia said. “The thing is nothing in law and yet ruinous in fact. A marriage that is not a marriage at all!”
Mr. Phillips looked at her sharply. “Which is why young women must have the advice of a father who understands the distinction.
A man may claim a marriage is valid. He may produce papers, witnesses, even a clergyman's signature. But if the young woman was under one-and-twenty and her father did not consent, the law provides her a remedy. The marriage is void.”
“Void,” Lydia repeated slowly.
“As though it had never been,” he confirmed. “That is the protection the Act affords. It is meant to prevent haste, coercion, and the ruin of young women by fortune hunters.”
Kitty shifted in her chair. “I do not like the sound of fortune hunters,” she said, with a little shiver. “They sound like something out of one of Mary’s sermons.”
“They are decidedly out of real life,” Mr. Phillips replied dryly.
Lydia hesitated, then said, “What of Banns? They are read in public, are they not?”
“Banns must be read in the parish church on three successive Sundays,” he replied. “Any parent or guardian who objects may forbid the union. There is no secrecy there, which is entirely the point. Banns invite objection before the marriage can take place.”
“What if secrecy were the object?” Lydia asked quietly.
Mrs. Goulding pursed her lips. “Gretna Green,” she said. “I declare, if I hear that place named at every tea table, I shall be tempted to forbid it in my house.”
“Named rarely with understanding,” Mr. Phillips said.
“Scotland does not follow our Marriage Act. Their law is considerably looser. A marriage contracted there, even without parental consent, even without banns, may bind a girl for life, whether she comprehends the bargain or not. That is why it is favoured by the desperate and the unscrupulous. A man need only convince a girl to cross the border, find some innkeeper or blacksmith willing to stand up with them, and the thing is done.”
“So easily? But it is not legal here, yet it is recognised,” Lydia said.
“Yes,” he answered, his expression grave.
“That is precisely why it is dangerous. A young woman who crosses that border may return legally bound to a man her family cannot protect her from, cannot dismiss, and cannot unmake. The law gives her no remedy. She would be his wife in every legal sense, with all the constraints and none of the protections our Act intended.”
Kitty toyed with her napkin. “Then it is not romantic at all,” she said slowly. “It is only frightening.”
“At any rate,” Mr. Phillips continued, his tone low, “such knowledge is not idle. A young woman who asks these questions is already too near the idea of something she does not yet see.” He pinned her with an intensely serious look.
Lydia met his gaze steadily. “Then it is better she sees it clearly.”
He held her look for a long moment. “Perhaps. Or perhaps it is better that her father be aware she is looking.”
Her expression did not change, but her posture stiffened. “That is unnecessary. I am merely curious.”
“I sincerely hope so,” he replied. “Nonetheless, I think he ought to be a party to the discussion.”
Nothing further was said on the matter. Lydia returned to her plate and ate in silence, though her thoughts were elsewhere. She laughed when required, answered when addressed, and kept her countenance composed. Kitty, watching her from the corner of her eye, said nothing.
When the ladies withdrew, Lydia rose with them, but not before she saw her uncle step aside and incline his head toward her father.
Mr. Bennet, who had been observing the evening in a detached manner, straightened slightly.
He listened without expression, his posture unchanged, his hands folded behind him as they exchanged a few quiet words.
The interval before the gentlemen rejoined them seemed to Lydia interminable. When at last the door opened, she did not immediately look up. She knew, without needing to confirm it, that her father's attention had already found her.
He crossed the room without haste and stopped at her side.
“My dear,” he said softly, “I should like you to meet me in my library to-morrow morning, directly after breakfast.”
There was nothing in his tone that invited protest.
“Yes, Papa,” Lydia replied.
He nodded once and moved away, leaving her with the uneasy certainty that whatever she had intended by her questions, they had already carried her further than she meant to go.
In the Nursery
Elizabeth rose before the house stirred. She climbed to the third floor where the old schoolroom lay in shadow, the boards cool beneath her slippers. She carried a chunk of bread wrapped in linen, a cup of tea covered to preserve the warmth, and a small pitcher of water.
She crossed the schoolroom to the nursery door at the far end. It stood exactly as it had been left. Elizabeth paused before opening it, listening. The house was silent but for the settling of old wood.
She tapped once, lightly.
“It is Elizabeth,” she said, keeping her voice low.
A pause. Then the bolt shifted with a soft scrape. The door opened a hand's breadth.
Inside, the room was dim but orderly. Anne had pushed the old bed well back from the door, her body angled as though ready to flee. She wore her ruined gown still—the only garment she possessed. Her shoes stood neatly beside the bed, but her hands were clenched.
“You may enter,” she whispered.
Elizabeth slipped inside and closed the door quietly. “Did you sleep?”
“A little.” Anne's voice was barely audible. “I woke at every sound.”
Elizabeth set the tray down gently, mindful of the noise. “The house is old. It settles and creaks. You will grow accustomed to it.”