Chapter Seven
It was only after she had handed out her gifts, including books for Papa, some beautiful silks for Mama, Jane, and Mary, and fine muslins for Kitty and Lydia, that Elizabeth had a private moment with her father.
It was strange to be in his bookroom again after so many years, but familiar, too.
Very little had changed here, but it all seemed much smaller than she recalled.
She nearly rolled her eyes at the thought.
Of course it did. She had been smaller, too.
“I hope you are enjoying yourself,” her father said, waving her to a pair of armchairs while he walked to a tray with several bottles.
“I am, Papa,” she replied.
“Good, good.” He muttered, picking up a wineglass and holding it aloft. “Would you like some wine?”
“Oh, no thank you, Papa,” Elizabeth said, with an appreciative smile. “I am so full I could not take a single sip.”
“Yes,” her father sighed, pouring himself a drink. “Your mother does set a wonderful table. She was so anxious about your visit she rather overdid it.” He waved his free hand in the air, “Of course, we shall see the remainders again tomorrow.”
Elizabeth did not know how to respond. More than the food, she recalled Mary’s awkwardness when Mama insisted that she sit lower, now that Elizabeth was home.
As for seeing some of the same dishes on the morrow, it seemed a reasonable plan for feeding a family.
“It was very good.” She considered his words. “Mama was anxious?”
“Indeed,” her father said with a nod. “It is not every day her long-lost daughter returns home after ten years away.”
“I was never lost, Papa,” she remonstrated. “You both knew exactly where I might be found.”
“True,” he replied archly, “but your mother has always had a terrible time trying to decide whether she was angry with your Aunt Olivia or grateful to your Uncle Phillip.”
Elizabeth frowned at that confusing piece of information. “That makes little sense, Papa.”
“And yet, this is your mother, dear.” He took a sip of his wine. “Now that you have some understanding of my position, I have a favor to ask of you.”
His tone sent a cold shiver down her spine. “Yes?”
“Your mother would like you to use your Bennet surname while you are here. She would like you to use it forever, but I must ask that you do so at least while you are with us.”
Elizabeth was silent. She closed her eyes. Her Uncle Phillip’s face floated before her, and she briefly calculated how quickly she could get to London. She shook her head. “I cannot do that, Papa.”
Thomas Bennet sighed and set his wineglass down. “Ten years ago, I sat in your uncle’s fine library and he asked me for permission to give you his name.” He shifted in his chair to face his daughter. “Now I am asking you to take back your own.”
“I cannot believe you are asking this of me,” she said angrily. “Uncle Phillip and Aunt Olivia never asked me to drop the Bennet name.”
“But they have supplanted its rightful position,” her father replied calmly.
“You gave them your permission to do so, sir,” Elizabeth said hotly, “at the same time you accepted both a governess and dowries for all your daughters.”
Her father had the grace to look ashamed, and she pressed on. “After so much time, you must see that I am a Russell as much as a Bennet.”
“Believe me, Elizabeth,” her father said, his voice suddenly hard. “We know.” He pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “Forgive me,” he said. “I do not mean to be impatient.”
Elizabeth interlaced her fingers and squeezed them tightly, setting her hands on her lap. She was unable to disguise her ire. “Or ungrateful, I suppose.”
Thomas cleared his throat, his own frustration clear. “Or ungrateful,” he echoed. “This is not something I would have asked of you myself, Elizabeth, but your mother wishes to introduce you to the neighborhood as her daughter. Would you not be willing to do this kindness for her?”
Elizabeth was fuming. It was presumptuous, nay, outright offensive of her parents to ask her to ignore the surname she had been known by since she was a child.
They had taken every gift the Russells offered but begrudged any reciprocity.
They had declined invitations to London.
They had declined to send Jane or Mary to school with her.
They had declined to send any of her sisters on a visit north.
They had even declined to invite the Russells to Longbourn.
Only Elizabeth. Even so, her uncle and aunt had never once disparaged the Bennets.
A barbed refusal was on her tongue, but before she let it overtake her, she remembered Uncle Phillip saying, “Think before you speak, Lizzy.” As she pressed her lips together to prevent the angry words from spilling out of her mouth, she recalled the compassion in her aunt’s gaze only this afternoon.
Aunt Olivia had high hopes for this visit.
She remained silent and allowed her emotions to cool.
“I will write to my aunt.” Elizabeth said.
“And before you ask, I shall not mention my aunt or uncle unless it is a direct inquiry.”
“Good girl,” her father said awkwardly, reaching over to pat her arm. “I thank you.”
“It is not me you should thank, sir,” Elizabeth said unhappily. “I countenance this only because I believe it is what my aunt and uncle would expect of me.”
Thomas sat back in his chair with a pained expression. “I thank you anyway, Lizzy,” he said gently.
When he said nothing else, she supposed she was excused. “Pardon me, Papa. I shall go upstairs and see to this.”
“Goodnight, my dear,” he said as she closed the door behind her.
Elizabeth leaned against her door as it closed.
Her old bedroom had become Mary’s, and she was now staying in one of the newly redecorated guest rooms. It was a fine room but not near her sisters.
She would rather have shared, were that the issue, but clearly Mama meant for her to have the best room.
Perhaps she did not realize that in so doing, she was excluding Elizabeth from the family party.
She was only a guest here. She sighed. She should be charitable.
Mama had probably not considered the selection beyond assigning her the prettiest room.
She moved to the new writing desk and prepared a pen.
It was not a feminine desk, which suited her; she would rather have a larger writing surface, as she generally spent a few hours each day working on her correspondence.
Mama has seen to your comfort, she chastised herself.
Be grateful. She sighed, opened the new bottle of ink carefully, and drew out a piece of paper.
She had brought more in her trunk. Paper and ink were dear, and she used a great deal of each.
Now, how to begin, she wondered. She dipped the pen in the ink. “Dear Aunt Olivia,” she wrote.
Dearest Lizzy,
I have arrived safely at St. James’s Square, and am missing you already. Her Grace is grateful to have some adult company whilst John and Francis are wandering London or talking politics at their club. I hope you are enjoying this time with your sisters.
My dear, you must not take your parents’ request so much to heart. I should have thought of it myself. We wish for your privacy while you are in the country, and what better way to achieve it?
In any case, Lizzy, one day you will marry, and this business of names will become unimportant. You will be Miss Russell when you return to town at the end of the year, and such will be your name unless you choose to give it up.
Purchasing a horse for Jane is a marvelous idea. She ought to have one. Try to get your father to see reason, if that is possible. If he refuses, you can always invite her to town and keep one for her here.
John and I will visit the greenhouses next week. Send word if you have instructions for Mr. Yeager and I shall see he receives them. Of course, that may ensure a barrage of correspondence from him, but you have never seemed to mind.
Give each of the Bennets my felicitations.
All my love,
Aunt Olivia
After the unpleasantness of her first evening in Hertfordshire, the summer passed in a mostly agreeable blur for Elizabeth; she had a weekly letter from her aunt, and over time, she managed to shake off the foreboding she had felt at their farewell.
Each morning after a walk or a ride she settled for a few hours to draw what she had seen on her strolls.
After a long break she had decided to work with watercolors again, and the Hertfordshire landscape seemed a perfect subject.
She would then break her fast with the family before settling to work on business matters.
A great deal of time was spent with her sisters and their neighbors, engaging in the lively communities of Longbourn and Meryton; she strolled the lanes and shaded paths with Mary and Jane when she required time away from her mother’s laments and effusions.
It was no wonder that Jane and Mary walked out whenever the weather was fine.
Still, Elizabeth felt privileged to be included with her sisters, and anticipated their outings with pleasure.
In the evenings they pursued any number of entertainments.
Her sisters sewed—Jane’s embroidery was beautiful.
They all sang. Lydia enjoyed dramatic readings.
Kitty was interested in learning the card games her Aunt Phillips enjoyed.
Elizabeth practiced the pianoforte with Mary and Jane played their grandmother’s harp and tried to teach her sisters.
Once a week, Elizabeth gave Kitty and Lydia a formal drawing lesson.
She wrote long, newsy letters to Aunt Olivia and Georgiana as well as shorter letters to her friends from school.