Chapter 13
Generational Economics
“Ah, Lizzy, Mary, William—you are exactly the three I was looking for.”
The three smiled indulgently at their youngest sister.
“What can we do for you?” Mary asked.
“I have something I want to show you,” Lydia said, then added, with surprising shyness, “but first I have a question, if you do not mind.”
Elizabeth said gently, “Of course. How may we help?”
“Tell me about dowries. What do they have to do with? I mean… I—”
Words failed her, which concerned both sisters. Lydia never stopped in the middle of a sentence. As a rule, she repeated anything that came into her head a dozen times or more.
Mary said gently, “Sit and tell us what concerns you.”
“Do you remember when I was about 12 or 13? I used to sneak around eavesdropping on everyone.”
“I can remember last week—” Mary began, but stopped when Lydia’s face fell.
Contrite, Mary took her sister’s hand. “I apologise, Lydia. That was not something Aunt Gardiner would say, was it?”
Lydia giggled. “La, ‘tis harder than it sounds to be Aunt Gardiner. I have a difficult time, but I will persevere. In a decade, Papa might even call me the second or third silliest girl in England.”
Elizabeth laughed openly, and William joined in, making her surprisingly happy. The man was growing on her.
Mary said, “So, I diverted you, Lydia. What did your eavesdropping reveal?”
Lydia glanced about to be sure nobody eavesdropped on her—an unforgivable sin.
“I heard two things of note that year. The first was from Papa and Uncle Phillips in their cups. Papa said, ‘I probably should be laying aside an annual sum to bribe worthless young men to marry my silly daughters… what say you, Benjamin?’”
The other three looked down. What answer could there be?
Lydia whispered, “Something made a noise and I had to scurry away. I never heard the answer.”
Lizzy said gently, “That was very unkind of him, Lydia, but as Jane said two nights ago, we do not know what Uncle Phillips suggested. We do know what Papa did: nothing. He has still not responded to Jane’s set-down with a single word or deed, so I suspect he never will. Should I explain?”
“Pray do, Lizzy.”
“I have not thought deeply about it, so I could be wrong, but I believe dowries and entails are related.”
Everyone else in the room shook their heads in confusion, so Elizabeth continued.
“You see, well… hmm… let me ask you a question. What do we owe our children?”
None had thought deeply about that—or at all—but Mary said, “Food on the table, a comfortable home, a good upbringing, a moral education, a profession, and a good start in life.”
“All that and more. What do you owe your grandchildren, or theirs?”
William said, “I imagine it depends on the prominence of your family. At that point, you are not thinking about your grandchildren per se, but I imagine you are thinking about your family.”
“Exactly. You think about your family legacy—if you can. A blacksmith probably does not think very far beyond having someone to pass his forge on to, and someone to care for him when he grows old—but he does think of those things if he has any sense. Who do you suppose will take care of him when he is old, while his wife may well be dead?”
“His children, I should think,” Mary said.
“You would hope so. That is thinking of family dynasties on a small scale. Now, imagine you are someone very high and mighty and important and stuffy and so forth—”
Lydia giggled, proving the world had not run completely amok. “Like Mr Darcy?”
“A perfect example. A man like that inherits an estate his family held for centuries. They did not do that accidentally, or by being lackadaisical. He will definitely think about his legacy. It was no doubt fed to him since birth. He absolutely thinks, probably more than you might imagine, about the family holdings he leaves behind. Would you want to be the Darcy who broke centuries of upward progress? What sort of alliances must he make now for it to prosper in centuries to come?”
Everyone shook their heads, though mostly because none had the slightest idea where Lizzy was going. They presumed they would recognise the end because she would stop talking. Lizzy was like that sometimes—actually, most of the time.
“Now, imagine an eldest son who is a profligate gambler and wastrel.”
“Like Mr Wickham?” Lydia asked.
“Mr Wickham?”
“La, Lizzy. I was going to tease you about him, but then I got to wondering whether Aunt Gardiner would do so, and the moment passed. We heard in the village that he tried to compromise shopgirls and ran up debts. I am sorry. I know he was a favourite.”
Elizabeth laughed hollowly. “He was a favourite, but I am not very affected by learning his nature, so not much of one.”
Mary said, “Let us not dwell. Lydia said we do not have much time.”
Shaken, Elizabeth started trying to reconcile what she now knew with what she had once thought about the handsome redcoat, and could not actually picture the gentleman at all. It was as if her entire acquaintance was chopped out by a surgeon with nary a scratch.
She shook her head to restore herself and returned to the topic at hand.
“You may not know it, but our grandfather was like that. Our great-grandfather made the entail because he feared his son would squander centuries of Bennet consequence in a gaming hell. He enacted it so the estate would keep its size and importance. That is what all significant families want: their family’s wealth and influence to accumulate over generations.
If a single son can ruin centuries of work, a family never advances, for every family will have a wastrel heir sooner or later.
Father is obliged by the entail to pass the estate on to you whole and complete, William.
We are just lifetime tenants, little better than our tenants. ”
Lydia stared in wonder at the revelation, while Mary fidgeted.
Elizabeth continued, “I must confess, William, I was very concerned when you first appeared.”
Surprising everyone, Mr Collins chuckled. “I do not make the best impression when I am nervous, do I, cousins?”
Elizabeth’s brows rose towards her hairline, while Mary glanced around the room and leaned over to plant a rather sloppy kiss on her intended’s cheek—which seemed about as much shock as her sisters could endure.
“I was so nervous until you and my Mary saved me that I could hardly think straight, and I know I never said anything that made the slightest bit of sense. I wonder I did not offend everyone in the county.”
Elizabeth laughed, and once again resolved to disregard all first impressions. She continued the lesson.
“English law is very peculiar, and made for the convenience of men. There is little use fretting about it. If an estate is held in fee simple, he may will it to a daughter or all of them; but then it would pass to her husband—another family. Sometimes they might will it to the eldest male grandson. Sometimes they will make the heir take their name, but all this means that the family status declines.”
Lydia stared in wonder. “That actually makes sense.”
Elizabeth nodded. “Do not think me so awfully clever. I only worked that out recently.”
“Still… what of dowries?”
“Your daughters are still your family, even though they leave their father’s home to join their husband’s.
Families maintain wealth and power through alliances, and that is where dowries began.
Let us return to our favourite rich ne’er-do-well.
Mr Darcy’s aunt is Lady Catherine de Bourgh, and his mother is the daughter of an earl.
Those are important alliances, and both probably help him maintain his family’s wealth and status, agreed?
Any mere gentleman must count it a coup to wed the daughter of an earl, unless of course the earldom has financial problems.”
All nodded.
“You could argue that the earl bribed the Darcys and de Bourghs to take his daughters off his hands, but that is not true. The earl has two families of privilege in his orbit where he can ask support, favours, that sort of thing. Conversely, both families benefit from the relationship with the earl. Everyone wins, but the price of entry is the dowry. The earl would not allow his daughters to marry just anybody.”
Mary said, “I can see that. The earl has daughters, and many others want alliances, so the dowry is how it all works. I suppose it is less like selling cattle, but still—”
“Embarrassing? Degrading? Perhaps it is, and perhaps not. I try to live in the world we have, not the one we imagine where life is fair. Now let us leave those lofty heights and return to here and now. Let us say that young pup courting Jane married her. He would gain a gentleman’s daughter, and she would gain security.
The alliance between the families would strengthen, and the consequence of both families would improve.
It might happen without a dowry, but what sensible man would take a dowerless woman when he can have one just as good with one?
No dowry means the Bennets squander a chance to advance the extended family. ”
Lydia said, “So, our parents’ indolence means that the Bennet family, instead of increasing in consequence, will decrease.”
“That is correct. We compete in a market for eligible men, and we have much less to bargain with, so will likely have to accept a lesser man—at least lesser in status.”
Everyone absorbed that for a moment, and Elizabeth continued.
“There is one more thing. Every parent owes something to future generations to compensate for the privileges they received from their ancestors. It is only fair. Mama brought ￡5000 into this marriage, most accumulated over generations, and the articles say it all goes to her surviving children. That allows some or all of it to pass down to future generations. Life is hard, too, and people die. Mama needs that money if Papa dies early and leaves her at the mercy of a new heir. Dowries, jointures, marriage settlements—all such things are meant to protect the women and children in a family, so they might use what they need and pass the rest down to their descendants. Mama squandered the interest from her jointure, but she cannot touch the principal. We have portions of ￡1,000 on her death, but without that contract, it could all be long gone before then.”
“Elizabeth—that was a long and—well—actually, surprisingly not tedious lecture,” Lydia said. “I understand now.”
Elizabeth laughed. “You are learning, Lydia. I know more than I did, but the more I learn, the more I understand how little I know. Socrates said something like that, and I doubt he was the first.”
Lydia jumped up and danced around the room. “La, Lizzy, I am for once ahead of you. I have known all along that I knew practically nothing.”
Everyone laughed, but Lydia returned, grabbed Elizabeth’s hand, and cried, “Come with me—all of you.”
They followed her into the corridor. Lydia peered both ways, dragged them into Bennet’s library, closed the door quietly, opened the bottom drawer, pulled out a heavy box, reached under it, opened a hidden panel, and removed a large key.
Without a word, she ran to a cleverly hidden cabinet on the back wall—one Elizabeth had never suspected—moved aside a small sampler to reveal a keyhole, and unlocked it.
Hidden shelves lay within. She carried a large, heavy box to the desk.
With a grunt, she laid it down carefully and lifted the lid, on smoothly oiled hinges.
Inside lay a large, heavy, beautifully bound book. It was plainly old, well cared for—and much to Elizabeth’s consternation—hidden from anyone and everyone.
As she examined its front cover, William passed her a handkerchief. “It is clearly old and important, Cousin.”
She smiled in appreciation, and, on a whim, squeezed her cousin’s forearm in compassion.
She was rewarded with a glimpse into what Mary had seen in him that Lizzy was incapable of.
He was a good man, and much handsomer than he had first appeared, now that he had found love, and presumably instruction on dress and grooming.
Elizabeth bent over the Latin volume and whispered, “What is it, Lydia? You are a far more successful spy than I ever was.”
Lydia’s face fell. “That is because you were always welcome, Lizzy. I was just one of the silliest girls in England, so I had to make do with sneaking around.”
Elizabeth wrapped her in an embrace. “I am so sorry I did not see it.”
“It was my fault as well. I could have behaved so much better, and I might have been invited in.”
The embrace lasted but a moment before Lydia jumped back, all exuberance again. “Are you dying of curiosity?”
She pointed at the book. “I heard Papa boast of this book to some friends, but he never mentioned it to us. It is a Gutenberg Bible[xiv]. He was a German engineer who invented the printing press—or something like that. It is over 350 years old, and it cost well over ￡100. I heard Papa boast that he had to all but murder someone at auction to own it.”
Everyone gasped. ￡1 or ￡5 was a great deal for a book, but ￡100 was beyond comprehension—absolutely beyond their meagre understanding. It was more than enough to take the entire Bennet family to the seaside for a year.
“I used to hide in the cupboard when he returned from town,” Lydia said, “and he would always have someone visit to hear his boasts.”
Elizabeth returned to the cupboard. Stacks and stacks of books filled it: what looked for all the world like an original Shakespeare folio, an early edition of Don Quixote, and more besides. A veritable fortune.
She turned back to the others. “There are our dowries. Several thousand pounds’ worth, if this is any sample. I hope you will enjoy them, William.”
“What would you have me do, Lizzy? Sell the whole lot so you girls can entice young men who are not really interested in you into the unhappy state of matrimony?”
The group gasped and turned around to see their father standing just inside the door, angry and hostile.