Chapter 18
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
E lizabeth attempted to speak once they were all in the carriage and weaving their way through the busy London streets. “Papa, please, allow me to—”
Mr Bennet held up his hand. “No, I beg you. I shall have silence for the remainder of our journey, if you please.”
“If I could only make clear—”
Mr Bennet gave her a sharp glare that stopped her speech short. It was unfamiliar to her, but she could not wonder at its meaning. She was leaving London in disgrace and had lost her father’s respect. Jane reached out and took her hand, and she squeezed it back, grateful for her support and care.
The day was warm and the roads dusty. They were required to make a stop to rest and water the horses, whereby Elizabeth was offered both a reprieve from the carriage and the opportunity to tell Jane what had occurred. Her sister was appalled by Charlotte’s conduct. It was difficult to speak of with strangers milling about, though both ladies were practised in maintaining appearances.
It was not until they had passed Meryton and approached their home that their father finally spoke, telling Elizabeth that she would be banned from leaving the estate and its surrounding gardens and would not be home to callers—indefinitely.
So, her father planned to hide her away. Her embarrassment was acute. Not only had Lady Catherine accused her of great impropriety, but she had all but confessed to her father that the report was accurate when she did not deny the accusation outright. And her one solace—the comforting and familiar woods beyond the garden—was also removed from her grasp. Her defeat was great. How would she overcome her sorrows being confined to her bedchamber? The impending isolation nearly stole her breath away.
I have exchanged one gaol for another. Disheartened and mortified, Elizabeth kept to her chamber for the first days after returning home to Hertfordshire. Mrs Hill was accommodating, allowing her to take trays in her room. She made a few attempts to speak to her father in his book room, but he only persuaded her to find something to read and return to her room. His disdain of her was painful, and she felt if she had an occasion to apologise, he might forgive her; but alas, she was afforded no such opportunity.
Mary and Kitty were curious about their sudden arrival home. They both visited her chamber with regularity to tell her about their prestigious visitor, Lady Catherine, and about their shock that their father had gone to London to retrieve her and Jane without informing anyone .
“Father said Lady Catherine carried no news of Lydia,” Kitty had mentioned, though Elizabeth was none too surprised to hear that no letters had yet arrived home from their youngest sister.
Mary was more concerned about Elizabeth’s obvious neglect by their father. “Perhaps if you chose religious texts with more regularity rather than so many novels you would still be in his good graces. I, for one, am pleased to have been allowed entrance to his domain with more frequency.”
Jane was making efforts in the drawing room and at the table to hush their sisters’ speculations regarding why Elizabeth kept to her chamber. Curiously, they stopped knocking on her door with questions after the first two days.
Their mother was not as easily swayed to disinterest. Though she was happy to see Jane returned to her, her disappointment that Jane had not secured Mr Bingley in town was heard by all. That Elizabeth was to be confined to the estate was news that Mrs Bennet could not comprehend, and it set her aflutter endlessly.
“I am unsurprised to see where your actions have landed you, Lizzy,” her mother had said. “Your father tells me nothing, but I daresay, I can guess the substance of it. Oh, I knew the wild ways he always permitted you would come to no good! And now the neighbours will talk, and we will report you ill, which shall be easily enough done as you look rather wan. It must have been a grand ordeal for my brother to order you home. He is always so accommodating of you. Mr Bennet, of course, as I have said, tells me nothing. One day we had news that you and Jane would remain in town for some time and the next my husband is fetching you home. Did I tell you he would not even allow me to serve tea to Lady Catherine de Bourgh? Such an illustrious guest, the daughter of an earl! Our neighbours are still talking of it… ”
Elizabeth had simply listened mutely. Her mother only desired to be heard, and she had no intention of acknowledging her suppositions nor telling her the truth. Should her mother hear that she had been traipsing through the woods of Kent with a gentleman worth ten thousand pounds a year, Mrs Bennet would order the carriage readied in the direction of Mr Darcy within the hour. To see a daughter married would be Mrs Bennet’s greatest joy, no matter the reason for the marriage, hasty or not. No doubt she would be happy to see Elizabeth removed from Longbourn altogether.
Jane must have been working on their mother as well, for her visits and varied accusations had ceased. And at length, the entire neighbourhood was taken up with a new diversion.
The servants at Netherfield Park were reporting that they were preparing the estate for a new family. The neighbourhood was humming with the news of Mr Bingley breaking his lease before the year was complete. It was rarely done, and Elizabeth was certain the news pained Jane.
“Every caller looks at me with pity when they mention it,” Jane told her one night as they lay in bed.
Neither sister was especially excited about the arrival of a new family at Netherfield. The last family to take the lease had only brought them both loss and heartbreak.
Elizabeth had not the heart to tell Jane that it was not pity that they looked on her with. They were all jealous when Mr Bingley singled her out rather than their own daughters. Jane’s loss raised their self-importance, and they were making their rounds now, eager to see the spectacle of the broken-hearted lass he left behind.
“Do not let the gossiping matrons bother you, Jane.”
“I shall do my best. And how are you? I wish Papa would relent on these restrictions.”
“I find myself lost in my reflections most of the day. I considered writing to our aunt this morning, curious whether Mr Darcy had called as he requested, but I thought the better of it. I should not like to hear the answer just now. If he did not call, it merely supports the rumours of his betrothal. If he did , I think my heart shall break further. What would he think of my swift departure from town?”
Jane did not respond, only sighed into the quiet of the night.
“And Charlotte.”
“Yes?”
“I have not the words to explain my anguish for her betrayal.”
“No one would, my dear.”
Elizabeth had treated her first week as if she were in mourning—and perhaps, in some sense, she was. One morning, Elizabeth woke with an itch to move her feet and decided to resume her usual routines. While she was not at home to callers, it did not follow that she could not take the air in the morning while her mother and father and sisters remained in bed. She rose with the sun and quietly slipped on an old day dress and her half boots. She wrapped her long, plaited hair in a simple style that did not require assistance nor many hairpins.
She picked up the letter she had finally finished writing to her aunt. She had apologised for their abrupt departure and gave a vague summary of why they had left in such haste. It would not do if the letter contained incriminating details and was misplaced, so she provided enough information to soothe her aunt’s worries but not enough to add to her aunt’s concerns .
She stepped lightly down the staircase to place the sealed letter in the silver salver by the front door with the outgoing post. She took a moment to pick up the stack of letters that had arrived the day before. Hill had clearly not yet distributed the correspondence to the household. She searched the pile for Lydia’s handwriting—eager for news that her worries for her youngest sister were misplaced. Instead, she was arrested by the sight of a strong, masculine hand—a letter addressed to her father—from an ‘F. Darcy,’ sent from a Mayfair direction in London.
Mr Darcy had written to her father? She wanted to tear into the note immediately, but instead ran her fingers gingerly over the writing, trying to memorise the way he looped the D in Darcy—distinctly him, she imagined.
She set it down, adding it back to the pile and prayed she would garner her father’s attention enough in the coming days so as to be allowed to know the contents. One could hope—though, she doubted it. With another long glance at the letter, she exited the house quietly.
The morning air filled her senses with the scent of new roses. It had been many years since she had contained her walks to their gardens, and so she was seeing them with new eyes. The well-kept gravel paths weaved through a neat and tidy garden filled with the various species of flowers her mother preferred.
After meandering for some time, Elizabeth eventually sat on a bench on the edge of the garden, staring off towards the great oak trees that lined the path she had frequented over the years. She longed to take a lengthy, brisk walk—the kind that heated her face and burned in her legs—the kind that punished her body, while brightening her mind and decreasing her worries.
When she returned to the house, the family was breaking their fast. It was difficult to set aside her own thoughts and focus on the conversation, but she must—especially if she desired not to be the subject of their discussions any longer.
“Papa visited our new neighbours,” Kitty announced to Elizabeth as she joined her sisters and their mother at the table.
She chose some items for her plate. “Yes, I have heard of our new neighbours.”
“That call was returned yesterday morning by a Mr and Mrs Raleigh and their guest—a cousin, Mr Baldwin, who is visiting for the summer before he returns to his own estate in Staffordshire. That is where they all hail from.” Their mother shared this information with a gleam in her eye.
“What did you think of them?” Elizabeth asked, not really caring but glad to hear her mother speak on something besides her own disgrace.
“I have been invited to tea with Mrs Raleigh on the morrow,” Jane offered. “She is eager to introduce me to her two young daughters, aged two and four.”
“It is a shame that Mr Raleigh has already chosen a wife when he could have had his choice of ladies from the area, though it is hopeful they brought Mr Baldwin who is in possession of a fine estate, as I understand it. He is nothing to Mr Bingley, of course, but he might do very well.”
“Do you think they will remain?” Elizabeth asked, ignoring the last.
“Why would they not, Lizzy?” her mother responded. “The Raleighs are of an older, more genteel family than the Bingleys. They wish to return Netherfield to its former glory, and I am sure they recognise quality society when they see it. If only Lydia were here, I am sure Mr Baldwin would favour her high spirits. He merely wants for some liveliness, I think. ”
“They are a lovely addition to the neighbourhood and appear to enjoy the society we can offer,” Jane volunteered. “Mrs Raleigh indicated to me that they intend to purchase an estate and enjoy the prospect of Netherfield’s nearness to town. I look forward to furthering the acquaintance and believe you will enjoy our new neighbours as well, Lizzy.”
“If her father ever allows her to meet the neighbours. How I shall continue to explain her absence, I shall never know. But Mr Bennet will not explain to me what has happened,” Mrs Bennet said to Jane, then resumed eating her sausages.
When the ladies of the house left to call on their neighbours, Elizabeth took Jane’s work basket from the drawing room up to their room. She had not the patience, nor the equanimity, to read and lately preferred employing her time at more significant tasks. She had never been considered a talent with needle and thread, but the many hours keeping her hands busy in Kent had improved her sewing skills. It was encouraging to know that her efforts would benefit their tenants come winter.
She would rather be useful than spend all her time thinking on Mr Darcy’s letter or his upcoming marriage or Charlotte’s deceit or her father’s disappointment—and certainly not her worries for Lydia’s visit to Hunsford. The days where she succumbed to her long list of concerns did her no favours, only sinking her more deeply into melancholy.
Lydia Bennet had had her fill of Mr Collins. Her indignation soared as she grabbed a morning gown out of the wardrobe and pulled it over her nightdress. She had become adept at fastening her own gowns ever since she had found that wicked maid, Hayes, going through her trunk. That Mr Collins had been more upset that Lydia had reported this action to him than the bad behaviour of the maid itself was abominable. The nerve of that man!
He reminded her nothing of the simpering fool from the autumn before. When her cousin began to follow her throughout the day, she started a habit of staying as near to Sir William Lucas as possible, but now even Sir William’s constant presence had become irksome.
She wondered why her mother had never responded to her letters. The first should have reached her weeks ago, when she had first recognised how strange the goings on at Hunsford Parsonage were. For a moment the idea that Mr Collins might have prevented it being sent crossed her mind—but surely not?
And now her dreadful cousin had had the audacity to confine her to her bedchamber. Her mother would be livid when she learned of her treatment.
She pulled a small valise out of her trunk and set it upon the window seat. She began pulling gowns out of the wardrobe as quickly as she could manage and shoving them into the bag. Wrinkles, she could endure—leaving her pretty gowns behind, she could not. She looked desperately at her beloved, beautiful bonnets and wondered which would be left. Perhaps she could carry some by the ribbons? She dearly hoped Mr Collins would not destroy her creations once he discovered her missing.
Dusk was long gone, and the cloudless night allowed her to see just beyond the hedge that lined the garden below. Lydia opened the window to hear any approaching horses more easily. She imagined the wait would not be long.
In the distance, she eventually heard the soft nickering and blowing of impatient horses. The excitement of her now inevitable escape coursed through her and nearly brought her to a fit of giggles as she pitched her bag out the window. It was all so romantic!
At the last moment, Lydia looked longingly at a newly remade bonnet, then snatched it up and secured it atop the other already on her head. It mattered not what she looked like.
Lydia stuck her head out of the window and took a deep breath of the cool night air before swinging her legs over the edge and finding her footing on the trellis. Heaving herself out of the window was not an option and scaling the trellis, after all, appeared more difficult in her skirts than she had originally imagined, but she did eventually prevail.
“Goodbye, Mr Collins,” she whispered brightly as she slipped out into the night.