Chapter 2 #2
Anne nodded but did not look convinced. Her eyes darted toward the door, then back to Elizabeth. The sharp scent of coal smoke caught under the eaves, where the chimney drew less briskly than in the rooms below.
Elizabeth glanced at the fire. “It held through the night.”
“Yes. I tended it once.”
“Good.” Elizabeth poured the tea and gestured toward the chair. “You must take a little breakfast.”
Anne sat, but her movements were stiff, wary. She took the cup in both hands but did not drink immediately.
Elizabeth kept her voice low and steady. “Jane will come this evening after Mamma retires. Lydia at midday when the household is occupied with dinner preparations. Kitty will bring you water in the afternoon.”
“So many,” Anne whispered. “What if someone follows? What if they are seen?”
“We are being careful. Each of us has reasons to be about the house at various times. No one will think it strange.”
Anne's hands trembled slightly on the cup. “But if your mother discovers—if your father—”
“They will not,” Elizabeth said firmly, though her own stomach lurched at the thought. “You need only remain here. If you hear anyone on the stairs—anyone whose step you do not recognise—you bolt the door and make no sound whatsoever.”
“What if they try to enter?”
“The bolt is strong. Say nothing. Do nothing. They will assume the door is stuck and leave it be.” Elizabeth paused, then added more gently, “But it will not come to that. No one comes to this part of the house. It has been years since anyone had cause to.”
Anne nodded, though her face remained pale. She sipped the tea, her eyes never leaving the door. Firelight never quite reached the corners so that toys and outgrown furniture lurked in a reddish half-gloom whilst Georgiana’s bed and chair sat in a small island of warmth.
“You are closer to Jane's size than to mine,” Elizabeth continued. “We are each gathering some garments for you to wear. If there are books you would like, my father has a good library. Or perhaps stitching? We can find thread and supplies.”
Anne shook her head quickly. “You are all so kind. Please, I do not wish to be any more trouble than I have already caused.”
“You have caused no trouble,” Elizabeth said, though she knew it was not entirely true. If they were discovered, the consequences could be severe for the entire family. But that was not this girl's fault.
“Surely you will need something to occupy yourself?” Elizabeth pressed.
“I found some children's stories here, but I was not able to stay awake to read them,” Anne said, her voice timid, nearly a whisper. “They will suffice. I find I am quite sleepy. Please do not trouble yourself any further.”
Elizabeth studied her for a moment—the tension in her shoulders, the way her gaze kept returning to the door. “Very well. But if you think of anything, you have only to ask when one of us comes.”
“Thank you.”
Elizabeth stood, keeping her movements slow and unthreatening. She picked up the chamber pot and covered it with a towel. “I shall return this evening if I can. If not, Jane will come. I am the first to rise, so I will see you in the morning.”
Anne rose as well, clutching the back of the chair as though it might steady her. “Miss Bennet—Elizabeth—if he should come here—”
“He will not find you,” Elizabeth said with a confidence she was far from possessing. “I give you my word.”
Anne's eyes searched hers, desperate to believe. “He is particularly clever. And terribly determined.”
“So are we,” Elizabeth replied. She moved to the door, then paused. “Bolt this behind me. Do not open it for anyone unless you hear your name spoken first.”
“I will.”
Elizabeth slipped out of the nursery and pulled the door closed behind her.
She waited in the schoolroom until she heard the bolt slide home, then descended the stairs.
She carried the covered chamber pot to her own room, moving silently past her father's study.
Her heart did not slow until she had safely disposed of it and reached the breakfast room.
By then, the household was beginning to wake.
Papa’s Library
Mr. Bennet did not raise his voice. He did not pace. He merely closed the book he had been holding and set it aside with care.
“So,” he said, “you wished to know whether the law would permit you to marry without your parents' consent.”
Lydia folded her arms. “I only asked a question.”
“Questions are rarely idle,” he replied. “They are rehearsals.”
Her mouth fell open. “Papa—”
“You are fifteen,” he continued. “You possess no fortune, no judgement worthy of the name, and a most alarming confidence in what you do not yet understand.”
Lydia coloured. “That is severe.”
“It is,” Mr. Bennet agreed. “And therefore useful.”
She would have spoken again, but he raised a hand—not sharply, merely decisively—and she fell silent.
“You imagine marriage as a condition,” he continued, “when in truth it is a transfer: a transfer of property, of authority, and of legal standing.” He paused. “Until a settlement is made, it is a transfer that proceeds almost entirely in one direction.”
Lydia frowned. “I do not see—”
“No,” he said quietly. “That is the difficulty.”
He rose and moved toward the shelves, drawing out a worn volume and opening it upon the desk between them.
He turned to a marked page and read aloud: 'By marriage, the husband and wife are one person in law: that is, the very being or legal existence of the woman is suspended during the marriage.
' He looked up at her. 'Blackstone. “The law is quite explicit.
A married woman has no independent legal existence.
Such property as she possesses falls under her husband's control. Any income she may enjoy is his to administer. Her residence, her movements, and the disposition of her children are likewise subject to his authority.”
“That is not always so,” Lydia said, though without conviction.
“It is so unless guarded against,” Mr. Bennet replied. “Those safeguards are established by settlements, which require foresight, negotiation, and, above all, advantage.”
She stared at the book. “Advantage?”
“A fortune, or relations empowered to insist upon terms, or a husband whose sense of honour binds him where the law would not compel him.” He looked at her steadily. “You would bring none of these advantages to such a bargain.”
Lydia's arms loosened at her sides. She had not meant to listen so closely, but she found she could not look away.
“A young woman who marries in haste,” he went on, “places herself entirely at the mercy of a man she may scarcely know. The law will not rescue her from disappointment, indifference, or even cruelty. It presumes she chose rationally.”
“That seems unjust.”
“It is,” he said. “But it is also the world in which you live.”
There was a long pause.
“At fifteen,” Mr. Bennet added, more gently, “you are entitled to protection, not independence. The law restrains you because it cannot otherwise restrain the consequences.”
Lydia swallowed. She thought—not for the first time, but with greater clarity—of quiet girls with fortunes and guardians, of those whose marriages were weighed and arranged with care. She thought of what such knowledge might be used for, if held discreetly.
“I did not mean to alarm anyone,” she said at last.
“I am sure you did not,” Mr. Bennet replied. “But you must learn that curiosity, when indulged without caution, announces itself.”
She nodded. “I see that now.”
“I hope you do,” he said. “Because understanding the law is one thing. Proclaiming that understanding is another.”
“You are welcome to read this, if you doubt the severity of what I am telling you.” He closed the book and returned it to its place. “You will not pursue this subject further without my knowledge. Nor will you suppose that cleverness is a substitute for prudence.”
“No, Papa.”
He studied her for a moment longer, then inclined his head. “That will be all.”
Lydia rose. As she left the room, she understood that she had been reckless. The information she had sought was not for herself—but she had asked too openly, in too public a setting, and now her father was alarmed.
She would have to be far more careful going forward. Anne depended upon it.
She closed the door behind her gently.
Jane’s Room
Jane's chamber was warm and softly lit, the lamp turned low and the fire reduced to embers.
The familiar comforts of the room—the chair drawn close to the hearth, the half-folded shawl upon the bed, the faint scent of lavender—gave the impression of an ordinary retreat, though no one present was deceived by it.
Jane sat before the dressing table, loosening the pins from her hair.
Mary had set aside her book and occupied the chair by the window, her hands folded with stillness.
Elizabeth leant against the mantel, one shoulder braced upon the wood, her expression attentive.
Kitty perched upon the footstool, playing with the fringe of her shawl with restless fingers.
Lydia, having shut the door, took the remaining chair and exhaled sharply.
“Well,” she said, “Uncle Phillips was thorough.”
Elizabeth allowed herself the smallest smile. “He generally is, when alarmed.”
“He did not enjoy the subject,” Lydia continued. “Which is how I knew it mattered.”
Mary inclined her head. “What conclusions did he draw?”
“That the law concerns itself far more with permission than justice,” Lydia replied. “Capacity is a word used to mislead. A girl under one-and-twenty is protected so long as someone chooses to protect her.”
She leant forward, her expression intent. “He was quite clear that a licence without consent is nothing at all, and yet—a man with paper may still frighten a girl into believing otherwise.”
“Yes,” Elizabeth said quietly. “That is the danger.”
“The law is precise,” Mary said, “but people are not.”
A silence fell. Jane turned from the glass at last, her eyes meeting Elizabeth's in the mirror.