Chapter 3
The household at Longbourn stirred to life toward midday.
Mrs. Bennet was the first to wake, her voice echoing through the corridors as she called for Hill to bring her tea and toast. The night had been a triumph, she repeated to anyone within earshot, and she anticipated an even more glorious day ahead.
In her chamber, Mary Bennet lay awake, her eyes fixed on the ceiling as she listened to the sounds of the house. She had not slept. How could she, knowing what Elizabeth had done? Knowing what she herself must do?
She dressed quickly, moving to her window. The sky was clear and bright, the kind of day that promised nothing but ordinary pleasures. How deceptive appearances could be.
She shook out her sister’s favorite walking gown—a practical green muslin, along with her pelisse and the bonnet Elizabeth wore on her rambles. Hanging them in the back of her wardrobe, she would wait.
She calmed herself and went down, where her mother already held court at the breakfast table, though only Jane and Kitty had joined her thus far.
“There you are, Mary!” Mrs. Bennet exclaimed. “I was just telling your sisters what a success the evening was. Mr. Bingley danced with Jane twice! Twice! And Mr. Collins was most attentive to Lizzy. I declare, we shall have two weddings before the year is out!”
Mary took her seat and accepted tea from Hill. “Where is Lizzy?” she asked, her voice carefully neutral.
“Still abed, I expect,” Jane said with a gentle smile. “We were very late returning. I am surprised any of us are awake.”
“Lizzy will need her rest,” Mrs. Bennet said archly. “Mr. Collins already spoke with your father. She will want to look her best when she receives his addresses.”
Mary concentrated on buttering her toast, saying nothing. Beside her, Jane frowned.
“Mama, I am not certain Lizzy wishes to receive an offer from Mr. Collins,” Jane said carefully. “She has not seemed particularly pleased by his attentions.”
“Nonsense!” Mrs. Bennet waved a hand dismissively. “Lizzy has always been too particular. It is past time she accepted reality. Mr. Collins is a respectable man with a good living, and he will inherit this very estate when your father passes. What more could she want?”
“Love, perhaps?” Kitty suggested.
Mrs. Bennet laughed. “Love! Kitty, you read too many novels. Love is all well and good, but security is far more important. Your father has spoken to Mr. Collins, and the matter is done. Lizzy will accept him, or she will find herself in a very difficult position indeed.”
Mary said nothing, but her hand tightened around her teacup. Poor Lizzy. No wonder she had fled.
The day wore on. Lydia eventually stumbled down the stairs, still yawning. Mr. Bennet emerged from his library long enough to break his fast, though he said little and returned to his sanctuary as soon as he had finished eating.
Mary waited. Ten o’clock passed, then half past. She excused herself from the drawing room, where her mother and sisters were discussing the minutiae of the ball, and slipped upstairs.
In her chamber, she removed her morning gown and donned Elizabeth’s walking clothes. The garment was slightly too long—Elizabeth was taller—but Mary tucked and pinned until it appeared passable. She put on the pelisse and bonnet, then studied herself in the mirror.
With the bonnet shading her face and Elizabeth’s confident bearing, it might work. It must work.
Mary took a deep breath, stiffened her spine, and adopted the purposeful stride that was so characteristic of her second sister. She descended the servants’ stairs, hoping to avoid notice, but as she passed the kitchen, she heard Cook’s voice.
“Oh, Miss Elizabeth! Off for your morning walk, I see. You must be exhausted after the ball.”
Mary did not turn around, merely raised a hand in acknowledgment, and continued walking. She kept up a brisk pace, her posture erect, moving through the garden and toward the path that led to Oakham Mount.
She walked past the window where she knew Mrs. Hill would be posting receipts, past where the gardener was pruning roses. Neither paid her particular attention—just Miss Elizabeth, taking her customary morning exercise.
“Mrs. Bennet! Mrs. Bennet!” Mrs. Hill’s voice called out. “I have just seen Miss Elizabeth going out for a walk!”
Mary heard her mother’s response, tart with displeasure. “A walk? At this hour? After being out all night? The girl has no sense! When she returns, send her to me at once. She needs to prepare to receive Mr. Collins.”
Mary allowed herself a small smile. The first part of the plan had worked. She only needed to wait for the inevitable discovery.
When she was well away from the house, hidden by a bend in the path, Mary removed the bonnet and pelisse, rolling them into a bundle. She left the path and circled back through the woods, approaching Longbourn from a different direction.
She entered through a side door and hurried up the stairs to her chamber, where she quickly changed back into her own gown. She hung Elizabeth’s walking clothes once more, then positioned herself at the window, waiting.
An hour passed. Then two. Mrs. Bennet sent Mary to Elizabeth’s chamber.
“She is not in her room, Mama,” Mary reported, her voice calm.
“What?” Mrs. Bennet’s voice rose to a screech. “Not in her room? But Mrs. Hill saw her walking this morning!”
“Indeed, I did, ma’am,” the housekeeper said. “Not two hours ago. She was headed toward Oakham Mount, as is her custom.”
“Then where is she?” Mrs. Bennet turned to Jane. “Go and find your sister at once. Tell her Mr. Collins will want to speak to her.”
Jane rose reluctantly and went to fetch her spencer and bonnet. Mary watched from the window as her eldest sister set off down the path toward Oakham Mount.
More time passed. By the time Jane returned to Longbourn, Mr. Bennet had been summoned from his library. Mr. Collins, who slept the latest, was increasingly agitated.
Mr. Bennet was genuinely concerned now. “Jane, you found no trace of her?"
“None, Papa,” Jane said. Her fingers were fisted in her skirt. “I am deeply concerned.”
Mr. Bennet’s jaw hardened. “That girl!”
He led the way up the stairs, the entire household, including Mr. Collins, following in his wake. He threw open the door to Elizabeth’s chamber and strode inside, his eyes scanning the room with the careful attention of a man searching for clues.
It did not take much to notice what was missing.
“Her trunk is gone,” he said angrily.
Mary stepped into the room. “The gown she wore last night. The hairbrush Aunt Gardiner gave her. A few of her books.”
He moved to the bed and picked up the folded paper on the pillow.
The silence in the room was absolute as he unfolded it and read the brief message. His face stilled—which Mary knew from experience was far more dangerous than his anger.
“I will not marry him,” Mr. Bennet read aloud. Then he turned to Mr. Collins. “It would appear, sir, that my daughter has made her feelings on the matter quite clear.”
Mr. Collins’s mouth opened and closed several times, like a fish gasping for air. “But—but this is inconceivable! We had an understanding! You assured me—”
“Mr. Collins,” Mr. Bennet said, his voice cool, “I see that I should have paid closer attention to Elizabeth’s wishes rather than allowing myself to be persuaded otherwise.”
He turned to Mrs. Hill, who stood in the doorway wringing her hands. “You saw Elizabeth this morning. What time was that?”
“Around noon, sir. She was dressed for walking, as usual.”
“And her manner? Did she seem uncertain? Upset?”
Mrs. Hill hesitated. “She did not stop to speak with me. But her bearing seemed as she ever is.”
Mr. Bennet’s eyes narrowed. Jane was sobbing.
“Jane, did Elizabeth tell you of her plans?”
“No, Papa.”
“Mary. Did your sister confide in you?” Mary felt his gaze pierce like a blade.
She would not lie outright—that would negate Elizabeth’s sacrifice. But neither would she reveal what she knew.
“Lizzy told Jane and me that she had no wish to marry Mr. Collins,” Mary said carefully. “She felt that she and Mr. Collins would not suit. She believed someone else might make him a better wife.”
“Someone?” Mrs. Bennet screeched. “And did she happen to mention who this someone might be?”
Heat crept up her neck, but Mary held her ground. “She may have suggested that Mr. Collins and I share similar interests in matters of faith and music.”
The silence that followed was broken by Mrs. Bennet’s wail.
“You? Marry Mr. Collins? But you are—you are—” Mrs. Bennet seemed unable to complete the sentence, which Mary supposed was probably for the best.
Mr. Collins, however, appeared to be considering this new information with surprising thoughtfulness.
“Miss Elizabeth is correct. Miss Mary and I have indeed had several most edifying conversations on theological matters,” he said slowly.
“She displays a proper respect for the teachings of the church, and her musical abilities, while modest, are executed with appropriate solemnity.”
“Mr. Collins,” Mr. Bennet said brusquely. “My second daughter has run away rather than marry you. Perhaps we might postpone discussions of alternate candidates until we have located her?”
“Of course, of course.” Mr. Collins had the grace to be abashed. “Though I must say, Mr. Bennet, this reflects very poorly on Miss Elizabeth’s character. Lady Catherine will be most displeased when she learns of this behavior.”
“I am certain we shall all survive Lady Catherine’s displeasure,” Mr. Bennet said dryly. He turned to the family. “The question remains: Where has Elizabeth gone? She cannot have walked far, not with a trunk. Unless she had help.”
His eyes swept over each person in the room, and Mary forced herself to meet his scrutiny without flinching. She thought of Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy, already arrived in London by now.
“I shall have to search for her on my own, I suppose,” Mr. Bennet continued.
“If Elizabeth has taken the mail coach, someone will have seen her.” He surveyed each of his remaining daughters before his eyes settled upon his wife.
“Until we find her, we will not speak of this to anyone outside of this house. To the ladies who come to discuss the ball, nothing will be said about Lizzy. Only that she is still in her chambers. None of you—Mr. Collins included—are to leave Longbourn.”
Mary knew they would find nothing. Elizabeth traveled in a private carriage with one of the wealthiest men in England. There would be no trace of her passage.
Mr. Bennet descended the stairs to his study, calling for Mr. Hill to hitch the pony to the cart. Mrs. Bennet collapsed on the sofa in the drawing room, her smelling salts close at hand, wailing about her poor nerves and her ungrateful daughter.
Kitty and Lydia thought Elizabeth was extraordinarily bold, while Jane would stop crying only to begin again as soon as Elizabeth’s name was mentioned.
Mary yearned to share the plan with her eldest sister, if only to give her relief, but Jane would tell all to keep their parents from being distressed. No, Mary needed to keep the secret to herself.
The day passed in turmoil. Mr. Bennet searched Meryton before traveling to St Albans. Nothing! No one had seen a young woman matching Elizabeth’s description boarding any coach. No one had seen her walking along the road.
It was as though she had vanished into thin air.
Mr. Collins, after his initial shock had worn off, had indeed begun to look at Mary with new eyes.
Over tea, he had engaged her in conversation about the sermons of Bishop Fordyce, and Mary had responded with genuine interest. Mrs. Bennet, seeing which way the wind blew, had already redirected her ambitions.
Soon, Mary suspected, her father would allow Mr. Collins to make her an offer. And she would accept him gladly, not from the notion of resignation, but because she believed they would suit each other well.
More than that, acceptance would mean leaving Longbourn.
The thought brought relief rather than sorrow.
The chaos of her mother’s nerves, her father’s bitter retreat, Lydia and Kitty’s constant noise, even Jane’s lack of perception when something bad occurred—it had worn on her for years.
She had borne it because she had no alternative.
But watching Elizabeth seize her own future had shown Mary something she had not fully understood until that moment: she did not have to remain where she was merely because it was expected.
Mr. Collins would take her to Kent. To a parsonage where order and reflection were valued. To a life where her interests in theology and music would be appreciated rather than dismissed. To a household that she could manage according to her own principles.
Elizabeth’s refusal had given Mary this chance. Had given them both a chance at happiness, in spite of the cost.