Woman’s Work #2
Jane donated one of her old cloaks, dark and unremarkable, large enough to wrap everything and not attract notice.
The evening before they were to leave, in the privacy of Jane and Elizabeth’s shared room, the transformation was complete.
Elizabeth stood before the hearth, sleeves rolled, cravat loosely tied, breeches snug at the hips after Mary’s careful stitching. Her boots were scuffed, her waistcoat a little loose, and her posture, after some practice, neither too stiff nor too dainty.
Mary paused as she tied the last strap, her fingers stilling on the buckle. “Charlotte said something this afternoon,” she murmured. “She told me that William has always looked for you first, since you were children. Whatever the game, he would wait to see which side you chose before he joined it.”
Elizabeth’s breath caught, the words landing more heavily than Mary could know. “She said that?”
“She did. I think she meant it kindly.” Mary gave a small, practical shrug. “Charlotte fears for you both, though she would never say it aloud.”
Elizabeth bent to adjust the strap, hiding the colour that rose to her cheeks. “Then let us hope she never has cause for greater worry.”
Mary leaned against the dresser, arms folded. “You will pass well enough, from a distance. But you must stop smoothing your sleeves like that.”
“It itches,” Elizabeth muttered, tugging at the seam again. “Wool was not made for comfort.”
Jane looked up and smiled gently. “You look…”
“Ridiculous?” Elizabeth offered.
“Different,” Jane amended, with a warmth that made it bearable.
Mary circled her once. “Your posture is still too neat. And your hands are wrong. Stop folding them like that.”
Elizabeth dropped them to her sides with exaggerated slackness. “Is this better?”
“You look like you are waiting to be hanged,” said Mary. “But closer, yes.”
Elizabeth sighed and took a few steps across the room, trying to imitate the way William walked; shoulders back, longer stride, less swaying of the hips.
“I know the steps,” she muttered. “We taught Lydia and Kitty every figure of Mr Beveridge’s Maggot, but that was as a girl dancing with her sisters, not a man guiding a partner.”
She stopped and looked at them both. “You do not think I will have to dance as a man, do you?”
Jane bit back a smile. “Only if there is a ball at camp.”
Mary raised an eyebrow. “Then Heaven help your partner.”
Elizabeth gave them both a look of mock injury, then bowed clumsily. “May I have this dance, madam?”
Jane laughed and curtsied. “You may, sir, but do try not to tread on my hem.”
They circled once, hands barely touching, laughter rising between them as Elizabeth tried to adopt the stiff formality expected of a gentleman.
“You will do,” Mary said at last. “You are convincing enough if no one looks too closely.”
Elizabeth straightened. “Then let us hope no one does.”
Her smile faltered for a moment, but Jane reached out and gave her hand a quick squeeze.
“Just remember,” she said quietly, “you are not doing this alone.”
Elizabeth nodded. Tomorrow, she would become Thomas Bennet. But tonight, she was still Elizabeth, loved, watched over, and not entirely alone.
On their final morning, Elizabeth’s bundle lay by the door, trimmed and stitched and folded into anonymity. To all the world, she was setting out as Jane’s companion, a dutiful sister offering aid in a time of need.
In truth, she carried with her a new name, a new shape, and a cause.
They rose early that morning. The air was still and grey, the fields wrapped in mist. Somewhere beyond the hedgerows, a lark began to sing, but the house at Longbourn was filled with the rustle of packing, the creak of trunks, and the scent of tea and toast.
In the drawing room, Mrs Bennet wrung her hands with the air of one long accustomed to goodbyes she resented.
“I cannot think what will become of us, with both of you gone. Jane, you especially! You are far too delicate for charitable labour. And Lizzy, what use you will be, I cannot imagine, though I suppose you may lift baskets.”
She pressed a hand to her chest. “And I am left here all alone, with no one to talk to but Kitty and Lydia, dear girls, but no help at all when I am suffering! I shall have no company but my nerves and the draughts in the parlour!”
“Mama,” Jane said gently, adjusting her cloak, “we will not be far. And I promise to write as often as I can.”
Elizabeth remained quiet, her bundle small and tightly wrapped beneath her travelling cloak. Her bonnet shaded her face, though her eyes moved constantly, watching, memorising, ready.
“Two girls, gone from the house at once!” Mrs Bennet continued. “And in wartime! It is not natural. Who will keep Lydia in line? And Kitty will sulk for days. I shall never sleep.”
“I am certain you shall,” said Captain Bennet dryly, from his armchair. He set aside his newspaper and looked, truly looked, at Elizabeth.
“Come here a moment, my dear.”
Elizabeth followed him into the library.
He said nothing at first, only crossed to the old cabinet below the window. From its lowest drawer he drew out a small oilskin parcel. She knew it before he unwrapped it: the flintlock pistol he had once shown her when she was ten and curious.
“I suppose I should not ask,” he said quietly. “And you would not answer. But this has served me before. It may yet serve you.”
She did not speak, only reached for it with careful hands. The weight settled into her palm like an oath.
Captain Bennet cleared his throat. “I trust you will not shoot your commanding officer unless you must.”
Her smile was tight. “Only if he deserves it.”
He looked at her a moment longer, then turned back to the drawer. From behind a stack of old letters, he withdrew a small purse, leather worn, tied with string.
“It is not your dowry,” he said, almost absently.
“Though I suppose it might have been. Christopher left it with me long ago, part of some old settlement from his service. I added to it over the years. Thought I would use it for books, or repairs, or something sensible.” He set it on the table between them. “It should be enough.”
Elizabeth stared at it.
“For the commission?” she asked quietly.
He nodded. “For your life, if I have judged rightly.”
Her voice caught. “I do not know what to say.”
“Say you will be careful,” he murmured. “Say you will come home.”
He paused, fingers resting on the purse. “And whose name am I to give when I lodge it with the paymaster?”
Elizabeth met his eyes. “Thomas Bennet.”
A faint smile touched his mouth, more pride than sorrow. “Then Thomas Bennet shall have his commission.”
Outside, the carriage stood ready. Mary handed over a plain satchel, filled with the papers, the altered clothes, the baptism record for Thomas Bennet.
“You have everything?” she asked.
Elizabeth nodded.
Mrs Bennet fluttered into the hall. “Jane, Lizzy, promise me you will be sensible! You will wear your shawls and eat what they give you and not speak too sharply to anyone important.”
“We will be model daughters,” Elizabeth said with a straight face.
“Oh, I daresay you will. And be sure to write to your Aunt Phillips at least once, she has been dreadfully put out about not seeing you.”
Jane kissed her mother’s cheek. Elizabeth followed suit. Mrs Bennet sighed, overwhelmed by her own drama, and waved them out to the carriage.
“Together,” she said with satisfaction. “At least I know you will have each other.”
Elizabeth did not meet her gaze.
The carriage door closed with a soft thud.