Chapter 1
It was with a sense of unreality that Elizabeth sat watching the gathering of her neighbours; it had been so long since she had joined any such events—much longer than her requisite year of mourning for her dead husband.
The assembly, a subscription event, was exceptionally well-attended in this little corner of Hertfordshire, especially by the unmarried female portion of the populace.
A Mr Charles Bingley, having recently let the large nearby property of Netherfield Park, was expected to attend tonight—and Mary had said she heard from Mrs Long who had it from Lady Lucas that he would be bringing several eligible male friends along with him.
Not that Elizabeth cared much for eligible bachelors; she was done with that part of her life, and could henceforth disregard the worries and woes of the unattached maidens of the countryside.
It was a great relief, truly. She was far more interested in meeting Mr Bingley’s sisters, hoping that they would provide lively, much needed society to the neighbourhood; she was determined to make her own good impression upon them instead of allowing unkind gossip to do it for her.
Since Mr Ashwood’s death, she was very much in want of friends.
Especially since Jane had nearly ceased to be one.
Do not think of that, she cautioned herself. But it was difficult, when Mrs John Ashwood—Fanny—the current mistress of Stoke, entered and immediately approached Jane, the two of them greeting each other as enthusiastically as though they had not seen each other in weeks.
Determinedly, she fixed upon more pleasant thoughts, determined to count her blessings.
It was nice to wear colours again; she had refused ‘second mourning’, feeling that she had given up more than enough of her life for Mr Henry Ashwood, and would not regret it.
Her finances, thanks to her uncle Gardiner’s help, were steadily improving; she had paid the subscription fee with only a little hesitation.
With any luck, another year perhaps, she could leave the falling-down dower cottage to which she had been relegated and take up residence where she liked.
Italy might be nice, she thought, dreaming of distant shores.
Lydia’s voice sounded loudly over the noise of musicians tuning their instruments. Elizabeth turned in her direction and saw not only her youngest sister, but their mother as well. It was all she could do to restrain a loud sigh.
Anxious to blame Elizabeth’s failure to produce progeny upon her daughter’s stubbornness and not upon any physical flaw which might be applied to her remaining daughters, bitter at the loss of the social capital of Stoke, Mrs Bennet seldom missed a chance to criticise.
Fanny Ashwood always used those grievances to her own advantage.
It would be a miracle if the two ladies of Netherfield, a Miss Caroline Bingley and a Mrs Louisa Hurst, did not gain an earful from Fanny, and have all the negatives confirmed by Elizabeth’s own mother.
In the beginning of her marriage, Elizabeth had visited Longbourn often; after her father’s death, it had become more difficult, but she had persisted.
Yet, with every single call, Mrs Bennet worried aloud that she was spending too much time away from Stoke and not enough time pleasing her husband.
While she had mostly acceded her role as mistress of Longbourn to Jane, Mama had never grown overfond of Jane’s husband.
Elizabeth supposed that she had entertained hopes of obtaining the riches of Stoke for their family; the estate was more on the scale of Netherfield, nearly twice the size of Longbourn, and very prosperous.
Whatever her fancies, they had all required an heir to accomplish.
When she had begun hearing of Mr Ashwood’s various illnesses, Mama had only increased her badgering.
Three days before Mr Ashwood’s death, Elizabeth’s envelope from her mother had contained a single large advertisement cut from a London newspaper, promising a remedy for ‘flexuous flesh’.
Rapid revival from flaccid festering to firming fervour, it had said.
A sudden commotion at the hall’s entrance captured everyone’s attention. The party from Netherfield had arrived.
She watched as her brother-in-law hastily approached them.
Mr Collins was no longer so slender as he had been four years before; the fruits of Longbourn’s fine table had settled roundly upon his large frame, and his hair was thinning at his temples.
Regardless, he was just as eager to meet a stranger as he always had been, vigorously shaking the hand of the man who must be Mr Bingley—a jovial-appearing young fellow with reddish curls and a wide smile.
Mr Bingley had not, as rumours had suggested, dragged along a dozen of his closest friends to grace their little ball.
The one he had managed, a tall man in expensive tailoring, looked as if he were sniffing the air for dreadful odours.
He might have been handsome, but he was too busy presenting a cold aloofness to the gathering crowds, making it clear he felt himself much too wonderful for this gathering. Mr Snubs, she nicknamed him.
Elizabeth gave the sight a little shrug, much more interested in the females of the party.
Unfortunately, the one appearing to be closest in age to herself—Miss Bingley, it was to be presumed—immediately adopted the posture of Mr Snubs.
Occasionally she leant over and whispered something to him behind her fan, a snide remark, judging from her expression.
Perhaps, even, they were engaged to be married—her attitude was that familiar.
Doubtless, they deserved each other. The other, older woman, who must be Mrs Hurst, entered on the arm of a pudgy man of indeterminate age.
Sir William and Lady Lucas immediately approached, exchanging greetings.
The moment they turned away, Mrs Hurst glanced at her husband and rolled her eyes.
She was, plainly, impatient and jaded and not at all prepared to enjoy the evening, unlike Mr Bingley, who appeared happily surrounded by those eager to be introduced.
With a sigh, Elizabeth surrendered the hope of making new friends, and sought out her sisters.
Mary was standing near an instrument, clearly waiting for the musicians to break so that she could pounce onto it; she loved nothing better than to perform.
Elizabeth had a better idea in mind, and in pursuit of it, she had already had a very good conversation with Mrs Palmer, the vicar’s wife, who was similarly inclined.
Mary turned towards her sister, a happy smile on her face. “Lizzy, you came!”
“I told you I would.”
“I thought perhaps that woman might prevent you somehow.” Mary was clear-eyed and felt the same about the new mistress of Stoke as did Elizabeth—one could hear the disapproving italics in her references to the other Mrs Ashwood. It was unfortunate that so few would listen to her.
“Not at all. Have you heard that Milton Palmer has returned? He will be here tonight.”
Mary’s expression conveyed both anxiety and hope at news of the arrival of the vicar’s nephew. “Will he? But he will not notice me, I am certain.”
“None of that now! I recall quite clearly hearing of his attentions towards you during his last visit. How marvellous that you have taken my suggestion on your hair—you look so pretty with those curls framing your face, just as I knew you would.”
“Mrs Hill helped me with it. She followed your sketch exactly.”
“What a good idea, to ask her help! You are so sensible. Look, there are the Palmers. Shall we go speak to them? You need not be nervous. You know that you are a great favourite with Mr Palmer, and that Mrs Palmer almost considers you another daughter.”
“Milton’s parents wish him to marry someone better off. That is no secret.”
“But they deeply respect the opinions of the Palmers. Mrs Palmer told me she would like nothing better than for Milton to settle down with someone of whom she approves, and in her next breath, asked if you would be here tonight.”
Mary smiled prettily, a faint blush adding just the right amount of colour to her cheeks, and willingly allowed Elizabeth to lead her towards the vicar’s family.
Papa would not, most likely, have approved, she thought, with the faintest trace of guilt. He was gone, however, and Milton Palmer, a young curate of good, if not genteel family, was here.
She had deposited Mary with the Palmers and a warm, if slightly awkward Milton and had just begun her search for Lydia when a beaming Mr Collins approached her to pay his respects.
“My dear Mrs Ashwood,” he said, taking both her hands. “How wonderful to see you. Are you doing well?”
“I am desperately unhappy, thank you,” she replied cheerfully.
She always answered him with similar words, and he always offered her the same puzzled expression in return, thereafter ignoring whatever she said in favour of paying her a highly amusing compliment.
Even though she was no longer nearly as miserable as she once had been, it entertained her to continue the tease, and she waited in real anticipation for his verbal posy.
“Here, allow me to present you to our new neighbour,” he said instead, practically dragging her to the side of Mr Bingley, who had had the misfortune to be wandering nearby at that precise moment.
Thankfully, Mr Snubs, Mrs Jaded, and Miss Disapproval had remained far enough away that Elizabeth was not required to acknowledge the other members of the Netherfield party—who plainly would not wish to acknowledge her.
“Mr Bingley, may I present to you my beloved wife’s sister, Mrs Elizabeth Ashwood?
” He did not wait for agreement, but plunged on with almost embarrassing earnestness.
“Mrs Ashwood, Mr Bingley. Dear Mrs Ashwood has been widowed for over a year—I am sure you will, tonight, meet her husband’s heir, Mr John Ashwood, as well.
I would be happy to introduce you. Mrs Ashwood, did you have a pleasant ride from Stoke with the Ashwoods this evening? How do they fare?”
She nearly laughed; Mr Collins was so obtuse. “They do not share their carriages with me, sir. I begged a ride with the Harringtons.” There was an awkward pause as Mr Collins struggled with a response.
Mr Bingley jumped manfully into the breach. “So very good to meet you, Mrs Ashwood. Your neighbourhood is such a pleasant one.”
“Thank you,” she replied, curtseying, as her elder sister joined the little group. Now, here is something interesting. Jane had not approached Elizabeth apurpose since their estrangement—she must not have managed an introduction before this moment, and truly desired it.
Jane was beautiful, still, perhaps even more so since her marriage four years past. Mr Collins obviously thought so, as he proudly extended introductions to her.
“Ah, my dearest perfection, here you are at last. Mr Bingley, allow me to present my lovely wife, the splendour of Hertfordshire, the shining star of Longbourn, Mrs Jane Collins. Mrs Collins, meet Mr Bingley of Netherfield.”
Elizabeth saw the surprise in Mr Bingley’s eyes—and it was obvious what he thought. What is the greatest beauty in the room doing with you?
Unfortunately, and as if Mr Bingley had asked the question aloud, Mr Collins provided answers.
“Sir, my wife’s family has held Longbourn, our estate, for generations, and I, being fortunate enough to have been its heir, was privileged to receive her hand in marriage along with her home and family not many months before my cousin, her dear papa, died.
We are only some three miles distant from you, with many rich acres of forest and farm betwixt us.
Oh, how difficult it must have been for Mr Bennet, her proud father, to leave his fair lands!
It is the most beautiful country on earth. ”
Ah, Mr Collins, why must you serve up every detail, especially those which provide unnecessary explanation?
Jane, as usual, ignored her husband’s blathering, just as Elizabeth ignored her desire to defend the silly man.
He truly was good-hearted, and seemed to Elizabeth a sympathetic, if not sagacious husband.
In her opinion, he treated her mother, Mary, and Lydia very kindly—which was not always easy.
Mama resented him, always, but especially when he denied her requests for new gowns or something extravagant for Lydia.
Mr Collins had not grown up with excess, and he watched his pennies.
In money matters he did not pretend to genius, but he listened scrupulously to Longbourn’s steward—as Mr Bennet seldom had.
However, neither was Longbourn’s master miserly; for instance, he had a set schedule of when new clothing was due each, and he stuck to it.
Whenever there were complaints—and there were bound to be, in a household once presided over by the unconsciously liberal Mr Bennet—Mr Collins simply dragged out all the account books and repeated, in minute detail, the steward’s financial advice informing his decision.
He used so many words in these explanations that he no longer had to make them; if it did not stop Mrs Bennet from her huffs and sighs, it at least often convinced her to keep them to herself.
To Jane, he had allocated a generous sum in pin money, and he spoke of her beauty to anyone who would listen. Elizabeth believed that their marriage, for all its unromantic beginnings, was sound enough.
Mr Bingley’s smile was wider as he made his greetings to Jane, and it was obvious he was somewhat dazzled by ‘the splendour of Hertfordshire’. He bowed over her hand, and asked her for the set after he had fulfilled his obligations to his sisters. Regally, she agreed.
“Good evening, Jane,” Elizabeth said, unable to prevent the formality in her tone.
“Good evening, Elizabeth,” Jane replied, equally formal.
With what Elizabeth termed her sister’s ‘false smile’—the one she used when feeling uncomfortable or awkward or even angry, Elizabeth no longer knew which—Jane departed as quickly as she had come. Mr Collins faithfully trotted after her. Mr Bingley watched them go.