Chapter Five
Elizabeth woke to the sound of snoring from the bed shared by her two youngest sisters.
She eased from under the covers she shared with Mary and sat up, careful not to tug the blankets off her sister.
It felt strange to wake up in a bed shared with Mary rather than Jane, in a room so small that she had to scoot to the foot of the bed to sit up, to avoid waking her sister.
Elizabeth couldn’t imagine how cramped it would be with Jane there.
But Jane wasn’t there, which eliminated much of the sense of the women in the family.
That had become abundantly clear the day before when only Mary had agreed with Elizabeth’s assertion that they needed to alter undergarments and nightclothes more urgently than gowns.
All of Elizabeth’s sisters, and her mother, had saved at least three gowns.
Lydia, Kitty, and Mrs. Bennet had managed to grab some hats and gloves as well. Lydia had even saved her ribbons.
Elizabeth and her father, intent on getting everyone else out, had saved nothing.
No clothing, at least. Her father had collected his most recent ledgers and his cashbox.
The Lucases had donated a set of clothing for him, but Elizabeth knew he would need more.
She doubted any of the other neighbors would have much in the way of men’s garments to share, they being more expensive and more closely tailored than women’s.
Elizabeth squeezed her eyes closed over sudden tears, willing them away, and stood from her seat on the end of the bed. Their house had burned down. Their possessions were gone, and their staff scattered. No amount of crying or wishing would change that, or the onset of winter’s cold.
What could change that, perhaps, was Mr. Collins’ will.
Elizabeth studied the bare wall in front of her, lips pursed.
Insofar as she knew, her cousin had little.
A living, yes, but he couldn’t have willed that to her.
Someday, Mr. Collins would have inherited Longbourn, but he hadn’t yet.
Not that he could have willed the estate to Elizabeth regardless, there being an entail decreeing Longbourn must go to a male in the Bennet line, never a female.
Not an attorney, Elizabeth had no idea what happened if there were no men left in the Bennet line.
But anything Mr. Collins did have, he may have left to her, which could only help their situation.
Her father had said Mr. Collins had asked for a will to be drawn up favoring her.
Should she ask Mr. Bennet about it? Or ask her Uncle Phillips?
Would it be wrong to take whatever small sum Mr. Collins had left her, knowing he’d drawn up the will believing they would marry?
Or would it be fair, as he’d burned down their home and could never compensate them for it?
Elizabeth sighed, uncertain what, if anything, she should do about her cousin’s will.
She set about her morning ablutions as quietly as she could, although she knew from experience that her younger sisters were heavy sleepers, unlike her and Jane.
She donned the gown she’d hemmed yesterday and gave silent thanks that the only alteration needed was the hem.
Her only other, the one she’d worn to the ball, would take considerable washing and mending to be at all presentable again.
She slipped from the room and into a narrow, silent hall. With no windows on the ends, unlike their upper hall in Longbourn, the hall in Goldfinch Cottage proved quite dark. Creeping along by feel, she realized the hall would be dark even in the daytime if the doors were closed.
She went down and found her father in the small parlor, which fortuitously faced east like the bedrooms, head bent over one of the ledgers he’d rescued from the fire.
Rather than disturb him, Elizabeth went to the kitchen.
With only two maids and a footman, someone would need to learn to prepare meals.
Doubting her mother or younger sisters would take the initiative, but sure they’d fill the house with complaints if they went unfed, Elizabeth knew she must take on the task.
Light shone around the kitchen door and movement sounded within, and Elizabeth dared to hope that one of the two maids who’d stayed on knew how to cook.
Mr. Bennet, though willing to retain three servants at their current salary, hadn’t been able to convince any of the senior staff to remain.
Their skills were far too marketable for them to choose such cramped, ignominious circumstances.
Elizabeth entered the kitchen to the sight of her mother, hair in a neat bun, apron tied about a surprisingly trim waist in view of her assets both above and below, cracking eggs into a large bowl.
Still holding the door, Elizabeth realized she’d stopped moving at the sight.
She came the rest of the way in and crossed to the kitchen table, the only piece of furniture in the kitchen aside from the stove.
Mrs. Bennet looked up, smiled, and returned to cracking eggs. She held two at a time, in one hand, efficiently smacking them against the bowl and emptying the shells without hesitation or mess. Elizabeth hadn’t even seen their cook possess such skill.
“Elizabeth, dear, could you dump those shells into the bucket by the door? They’ll do better for the pigs than the midden,” Mrs. Bennet said and began vigorously beating the eggs.
Unable to formulate words, Elizabeth picked up the bowl and carried it to the west-facing kitchen door, where a bucket of scraps waited. She dumped the shells in. Behind her at the table, her mother began humming.
The back door opened, and Betty, rosy cheeked, came in, along with a gust of cold November air.
“Mum, I got the milk. You were right, them over on the farm didn’t know yet that they’re to bring it here now when they finish the milking, but only on account of they’re not thinking right. They knew about the fire, ‘course.”
“Thank you, Betty.” Mrs. Bennet turned with a smile, bowl of beaten eggs in hand. “You see how I’ve done the eggs? It would go better with a whisk, to be sure, but they’ve only left spoons.” She shrugged, looking about the partially renovated kitchen. “At least there’s the large pot.”
“Yes, Mum.” Betty set a towel-covered bucket on the kitchen table.
“Now, come watch.” Mrs. Bennet moved to the stove and Elizabeth noted a large pot sat atop. “You must stir hot porridge into the eggs a little at a time.”
Elizabeth continued to stare as her mother spooned some porridge from the pot into the bowl of eggs and rapidly stirred, repeating until there was more porridge in the bowl than eggs.
“Now you can pour the egg mixture into the pot, while stirring rapidly until everything is mixed.” Mrs. Bennet handed Betty the spoon, muttering, “Even a fork would be better.”
Finally, Elizabeth mustered, “Why?” What she really wanted to ask but contained was, ‘What is happening?’
Mrs. Bennet looked over from where she stood at the stove, beside the maid. “If you simply dump the eggs into the hot porridge, the eggs will cook as eggs do, rather than mixing evenly. You want them to blend seamlessly with the porridge, not form globs.”
Elizabeth inched closer, watching, more fascinated by her mother’s behavior than by the porridge. “Why use the eggs that way at all?”
“Because the previous tenants left bowls and spoons, but no plates, forks or knives.” Mrs. Bennet turned back to the pot as she spoke.
“Oh.”
“That’s fine, Betty,” Mrs. Bennet said after looking into the pot, “but stir it every couple of minutes. As we’re getting accustomed to the stove, we’re being extra cautious today. We don’t want our first breakfast burnt.”
Elizabeth scrutinized the woman before her.
Her hair was mostly covered by a cap saved from the fire.
It wasn’t a practical cap, but a frivolous one that she normally enhanced with a few curls hanging artfully around her face.
What little hair showed was brown streaked with gray.
The same face, but without rouged cheeks or painted lips.
Definitely her mother. It was not hard to see the remains of the beauty that had attracted her father.
Elizabeth was shocked to realize the beauty was still there, despite the lines of age.
She briefly recalled the tabby cat in the dark stairwell. Had she fallen and hit her head?
“Elizabeth, I’m going to show Betty how to skim the cream from the top of the milk, assuming it’s sat long enough for that. Would you care to learn how, or to go ask your father if he would like tea? Lady Lucas very kindly provided enough for several mornings.”
“I, ah, will go ask Papa about tea,” Elizabeth said, backing away.
“Thank you, dear.” Her mother turned back to scrutinize the porridge.
Elizabeth hurried from the kitchen and through the cottage. She burst into the parlor saying, “Have you seen what is happening in the kitchen?”
Her father looked up, dark rings beneath his eyes.
He removed his spectacles and rubbed a finger along the bridge of his nose.
“Is your mother in hysterics already?” Replacing his glasses, Mr. Bennet sighed.
“I’m afraid it’s my doing. I spoke rather bluntly to her last evening, after she threw a fit about us no longer having separate rooms, beds, dressing rooms and whatnot.
I can only imagine the state the kitchen is in has sent her over the edge again. Not an inch is completed.”
“Have you seen her in the kitchen this morning?”
He shook his head. “I haven’t seen her at all. She woke before me.”
“Come with me.”
Mr. Bennet frowned. He looked down at his ledger, then back at Elizabeth. Perhaps in view of the oddity of her request, he cleaned his pen, capped the little well of ink, all begged off the Lucases, and stood.
“What has she done?” Mr. Bennet asked in a worried voice as he came around the low table.