Prologue #2
Mrs. Bennet’s expression did not change, but her voice—when it came—was lower, tinged with something unreadable. “I regret that the world is not kinder. I do not regret protecting my son from hope that could never have borne fruit.”
Lady Lucas sighed. “There are worse things than hope.”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Bennet. “Disappointment, for one. Resentment. A life begun with too little and burdened with too much affection to be borne easily.”
They were quiet again. The room was too still, too weighted with memory for comfort.
It was Lady Lucas who broke the silence at last, tapping her fingers lightly against the armrest of her chair.
“Charlotte is content, and quite at peace with the path her life has taken. She has a fine, sturdy boy—Nathanael, a spirited little rebel—and is now expecting another. Mr. Collins writes often enough, though I daresay his time is much occupied, particularly now that he must consider the support of a growing household.”
“As he always has,” Mrs. Bennet replied, her voice recovering a touch of amusement. “With the diligence of a man who believes every thought must be recorded and transmitted, regardless of its relevance.”
“Charlotte says he speaks often of you. He believes himself greatly indebted too.”
“He is not wrong,” said Mrs. Bennet, not without irony. “Though I cannot think my intentions toward Charlotte are ones he would fully comprehend.”
“He speaks now with greater detachment. Lady Catherine is more permissive since her daughter became Mrs. Darcy. The wars over, her ladyship now plans to travel abroad.”
Mrs. Bennet blinked. “Abroad?”
“So Charlotte reports. Something about an Alpine cure and her ladyship’s desire to observe the glaciers personally. I suspect her maid will find the adventure less invigorating than her mistress.”
“That will leave Mr. Collins at leisure to pay more frequent visits to his parishioners—and his relatives.”
“Indeed. He hinted as much. Charlotte believes he may visit Meryton before Michaelmas.”
Mrs. Bennet considered this with no evident alarm. “Then we shall receive him kindly, and with fewer nerves than formerly. He is quite tiresome, I must say, when he takes up the subject of his benefactress.”
Lady Lucas smiled faintly. “And he may renew his sermons of gratitude to you.”
“He is welcome to them,” said Mrs. Bennet. “So long as he does not read them aloud.”
Then a breeze stirred the edge of the curtain as if drawn in by the shift in conversation. The afternoon had cooled slightly, and the scent of lavender from the garden made its way into the room. It should have been refreshing, but the air still carried something of a memory in it.
Lady Lucas rose, brushing invisible crumbs from her gown.
“You were wise to have thought ahead. Our financial prospects were not as brilliant as we once expected—or as they deserved. But I confess—had I no children beyond her, I do not know that I could have borne a future for her lived so far off in Kent.”
“I dared not to intervene until it was required.” Mrs. Bennet stood as well, more slowly. “I loved Charlotte as dearly as any of my own—perhaps more than was prudent. But I could not let her become my son’s consolation when he had no future to offer her in return.”
They turned toward the window together, the scent of lavender drifting in, now that the day had cooled. For a moment, both women stood quiet.
Then Lady Lucas added, more lightly, “Maria grows steadier by the month. I believe her gentleness will serve her well—provided someone of similar disposition and age were to match it.”
Mrs. Bennet’s expression turned thoughtful.
“Our Miles is gentle. And dutiful. A touch too serious, perhaps—but then again, she might make him smile. And Sir William did mention once that he had spoken on Miles’s behalf to Lord Salisbury, regarding the vacant living at Barton-le-Willows.
I daresay that, in the event of a connection, he might be inclined to speak again. ”
“My husband is fond of Miles,” Lady Lucas admitted, “and even fonder of feeling useful in ecclesiastical matters. It would please him to believe he had secured something respectable for a promising young clergyman.”
“It would please me,” Mrs. Bennet said, “to know that one of my sons might find comfort without the burden of courtship among strangers.”
They shared a brief look of motherly understanding—part strategy, part affection.
A moment later, Lady Lucas sighed and glanced toward the orchard. “As for my youngest… Master Lucas is still determined to blow something up before his next birthday.”
Mrs. Bennet smiled. “He is how old now?”
“Seventeen, though you would think him twelve when he begins on the subject of field artillery. The maps, the diagrams—our parlour looks more like a campaign tent than a proper room.”
“And Sir William?”
“Despairs. He has spoken with Mr. Taylor about a clerkship in town. Something to keep him grounded. The war may be over, but that boy is still marching to his own imaginary drum.”
“Boys always do,” said Mrs. Bennet. “Until the world insists otherwise.”
They walked together to the doorway, their steps measured, their expressions composed.
As they paused before parting, Lady Lucas said quietly, “I wanted to reassure you. He may have no fortune, your Elias. But he has character.”
Mrs. Bennet’s gaze did not waver. “Character, I hope, is what will earn him everything else.”
And with that, they separated—each carrying with her the quiet burden of things once almost said, and things deliberately left undone.