Epilogue Chapter 3
Drawing Room
Longbourn
Early
Two slender silver needles flashed as the plain undyed wool formed into simple baby sock.
One of the tenant farmers' wives was expecting and nearing her time, and Mary Collins liked to help the women and children who were dependent on Longbourn for their livelihoods.
Tiny socks and caps and small blankets were always welcome to increasing women.
The early sun through the window, falling onto her shoulders and lighting her work, had not yet attained the heat that it would later in the day.
Outside, birds sang in the trees, the slightest of morning breezes stirring the dark green leaves so that their silvery undersides fluttered in and out of view.
Gray clouds smudged the western sky, thin wisps that promised to burn off within a few hours and leave the day fine and bright.
A handful of servants crept nearly noiselessly through the house, doing their chores in accomplished silence.
The bustle and noise of the day had not yet begun, and Mary was enjoying the rare moment of quiet peace.
It would not last much longer. As soon as the children woke, they would want their breakfasts and would troop downstairs to devour great quantities of ham and eggs and soft rolls and fresh milk.
Their hunger sated, they would most likely next tumble into the drawing room in search of their mother.
Mary looked around the room thoughtfully.
Mrs. Bennet had been known in her time for her beautifully decorated rooms. They had been designed for entertaining and impressing visitors, not for spending time with family.
Mrs. Bennet had not had much interest in her children until they were old enough to be, in her opinion, interesting.
Mary and her dear William had agreed soon after the birth of their first child that they diverged from Mrs. Bennet in this view.
All the delicate knickknacks in porcelain and china and wood had been packed away as soon as the eldest young Collins could crawl, never to be seen again.
They were housed now in the attic, forgotten and unmissed, their place taken by the joyous voices of the Collinses' large family.
The colors and the furniture had likewise undergone changes.
Where her mother had always favored bright, light colors, like peach and light green and blue and pink, Mary gravitated more towards sensible navy or attractive warm browns, colors that would not easily show staining.
The elegant, delicate tables and chairs of her youth had reached the end of their lives and been banished to the attic, or the scrap heap, or the cabinetmaker's for him to do with them as he wished.
In their place, dark-stained legs stood as firmly rooted as the oak trees from whence they were hewn, supporting equally robust chairs and tables and sofas.
The furniture had to be sturdy to survive the depredations of nine high-spirited youngsters.
The Collinses had been richly blessed with three sons and six daughters, all of them beloved of their parents.
Father and mother both wanted their numerous offspring to be free to roam the house at will, in and out of the common rooms, and had planned accordingly.
Many a morning, half a dozen of the children could be found in the drawing room or sitting room with their mother.
Mary set down her needles for a moment and leaned back in her chair, smoothing one hand down the front of her dress across her abdomen.
Her monthly was late, and while that was not conclusive, a familiar fatigue had begun to set in.
Even so, she was not quite sure. Her eight-and-thirtieth birthday had come and gone, after all, though that did not make it impossible that she was once again in the family way.
For now, she would keep quiet and wait and see.
Another little one would not be unwelcome, nor an undue strain on their family finances.
William had proven a diligent and wise master of his estate, and had increased the yearly income to two thousand five hundred pounds a year, which was easily enough to support the family while also keeping the estate in good order.
Were she pregnant and able to carry to term, William would greet their newest baby with delight.
The faint creak of a door drew Mary's attention. Lady Kitty Ferndell peeked around the door and then pushed it wide to admit herself, followed by Mrs. Lydia Redgrave and Lady Caroline Stanton.
“Good morning, Mary!” Kitty said.
“Good morning,” Mary replied, smiling at her guests. “Did you all sleep well?”
“Oh, yes,” Caroline said.
“I adore the bedchambers in the new wing of the house,” Lydia chimed in. “They are so comfortable, with well-sealed windows and the chimneys draw beautifully.”
“I am glad,” Mary replied. “It was, of course, a great deal of trouble when the wing was being built, but we are happy now for the extra space for family. Have you broken your fast?”
“We have not,” Lydia said.
“The dining room buffet is ready for you,” Mary replied, gesturing toward the door that led into the dining room. Most mornings, the older Collinses ate in the breakfast nook, but with a house full of guests, it made sense to use the larger dining room.
“We will,” Lydia said, dropping gracefully into a chair near her older sister, “but we wanted to talk to you first. Do you mind if Caroline and I have the servants set up an archery range south of the wilderness? We both are out of practice because of the babies, and I, for one, cannot wait to get back into it.”
“Of course you can,” Mary said immediately. “I would not want it closer to the house, but there is that clearing near the hermitage…”
“Yes, exactly,” Lydia said and turned to Kitty. “Now, Sister, will you not shoot with us today? You used to enjoy it so much!”
“I did, but it has been such a long time since I practiced that I am dreadfully rusty,” Kitty said. “I will try, but I may well give up and do some sketching. I have been drawing landscapes and trees and the like, but the human form, especially in exercise, is particularly interesting.”
Lydia nodded and said, “I can only imagine how difficult it is, given that I am not at all artistic. You will like my new archery dress too; it is a sublime orange and very attractive, if I do say so myself.”
Mary chuckled. Lydia, while refined and pleasant in company, was not inclined to hide her light under a bushel.
Kitty nodded. “It is wonderful to be wearing colors again.”
“Yes, it is,” Lydia said fervently. “I miss Mamma, truly, but it is so tedious to have to wear black for months, and then grays for months, and then lilacs and whites for months. Those are my least favorite colors, and I am so looking forward to wearing bright greens and blues and oranges and yellows!”
***
Drawing Room
Netherfield Hall
Two Hours Later
Elizabeth relaxed back in her chair, letting the beloved voices of her dear sisters and friends wash over her.
The sunlight coming in the window was pleasant, and the view outside no less so.
The Netherfield shrubbery, carefully and lovingly attended by half a dozen gardeners, flourished and was gloriously clothed now in its regal summer foliage.
Right now the green bushes and shrubs were interspersed with the bright colors of many dresses and coats as the extended family of cousins flitted through the gardens.
It was old instinct by now to pick out her own children from the crowd.
Arabella was the one most easily spotted, very fresh and pretty in a light sky blue and walking arm in arm with pink-clad Ruth Bingley.
Dark head and fair were bent close together, a charming picture against the fountain behind them.
The Darcys’ twin boys were easily spotted by virtue of looking for movement.
The two of them were almost never still, dashing about at top speed to the despair of their nurses.
Where Thaddeus and Nathan led, little Sammy was sure to be chasing after as fast as his little four-year-old legs could carry him.
His idolized older brothers only rarely remembered to slow down enough for him to catch up, but he refused to be discouraged.
The game at the moment, Elizabeth concluded after a few minutes of watching, was a very fast-paced hide and seek.
An army of starched nursemaids supervised, soothing scraped knees and ensuring no curious little one fell into the fountain.
There were no very small cousins present, and Elizabeth reflected that they must all be upstairs with little Esther in the nursery.
Lady Anne Matlock sighed suddenly, drawing Elizabeth’s attention.
“It is so wonderful to be here, Jane,” Anne said. “I cannot tell you how grateful I am for your hospitality.”
Jane Bingley was now over forty years of age, and the dewy blush of youth had given way to tiny wrinkles and a few gray hairs. She was, however, the same kindly, gracious, handsome lady who had won Charles Bingley’s heart so many years previously.
“We are very pleased to have you here, Anne,” she said. “I was horrified when I heard about the fire at Rosings.”
“At least there were no deaths,” Anne said, “and Richard and I are incredibly relieved about that. Nicholas Parfitt, who is a distant cousin on the Fitzwilliam side of the family, has been living at Rosings with his family for the last ten years, and was sensible enough to order the evacuation when he saw how the fire had taken hold. I fear that some of the servants would have died otherwise, as they felt obligated to save pictures and furniture and the like. We lost a great deal, but the people were saved, which was a tremendous relief.”
Jane shook her head. “It is such a dreadful thing.”
“Do you know how the fire started?” Elizabeth asked.