Elizabeth and Mrs. Bennet (Who is Elizabeth Bennet? #6)

Chapter 1

Longbourn

I remember the day when I gave up my childhood and became—not a woman, perhaps, but no longer a child playing childish games.

My sister Jane, who is almost exactly one year older than me—one year and three days, to be precise—and I were in the nursery, seated at the table where she had just finished pouring the tea for me, Mary, Kitty, and Lydia.

The tea was the colour of pale straw, the leaves used too many times to possess any remaining flavour.

A plate of lemon biscuits, likely stale from sitting in the jar on the nursery shelf for too long, sat beside us.

But it was a ritual, a game, as Mama now reminded us, that we should leave behind.

There were tears in her eyes as she gently poured the tea from the cups back into the chipped teapot and placed the biscuits back into their jar.

Jane grasped my hand. How many years had we gathered here with the teacups, the watery tea, the stale lemon biscuits? I could not remember.

“Next month, Jane dear,” said Mama, “you are to come out at the Meryton assembly. That marks the beginning of your life as a lady, as a gentlewoman. And Elizabeth, though you will not come out, Mr. Bennet and I have agreed that it would be unfair for you to remain here in the house while we attend the dance. You are too old to spend your time with the children of the neighbourhood playing games in the supper room. You will sit with me—”

“Cannot Lizzy join in the dancing? Surely she is old enough?” Jane, always of such a generous nature, would forgo the privilege of being the first Bennet daughter to come out, to allow me the pleasure of dancing as well.

“Of course not!” I cried. “Jane, this is your time. I am quite content to sit and watch you—the belle of the ball. Why, there are none in the neighbourhood as beautiful as you. Oh, it will be so exciting to watch you dance!”

Yet, of course, I wished to dance myself—what girl on the very cusp of fifteen years would wish otherwise?

Jane was my dearest sister—I could not remember a time when we had not done everything together.

Now, we were no longer children and must put childish things behind us.

Assemblies were serious affairs. They were the first steps to becoming familiar with men and understanding their ways, the path to finding, perhaps, a husband.

I watched Papa lead Jane onto the dance floor. She really was beautiful.

“Come, Jane,” he said, with a smile that made his face seem ten years younger, “let us show them how it is done.”

She placed her gloved hand on his arm, conscious at once of the warmth of his affection and the slight tremor in his step. As the musicians struck up the opening chords, they stepped forward to lead the line of waiting couples.

Jane’s gown, a simple muslin trimmed with blue satin, fell in soft waves to her ankles. There was a freshness about her that drew the gaze of more than one young gentleman, and even among the matrons there was a murmur of approval.

“Miss Jane has quite come into herself,” whispered Mrs. Fortescue to Lady Lucas, “and with such a figure! She will do very well, I think.”

If Jane felt the eyes upon her, I knew she was too shy to acknowledge them.

Her brow was slightly furrowed, her mind occupied with the steps of the dance and the careful attention required to match those of Papa.

I could see, in the set of his jaw and the way he favoured his left leg, that every movement cost him something.

Yet his pride in Jane was unmistakable, and each time he turned her about, there was delight in his eyes.

“My dear,” he whispered, as they passed close to me, “if I step on your toes, you must forgive me. My left foot believes it is still in the last century.”

Both Jane and I laughed, and the sound, light and clear, seemed to ease some of the stiffness in his movements. Was she aware of the admiration in the room? Certainly, for a blush rose to her cheeks, likely half from embarrassment and half from the novel pleasure of dancing at her first assembly.

The dance itself, Sir Roger de Coverley, was a simple country set, requiring more grace than athleticism, which suited both Jane and Papa.

He moved with restrained care, never losing the rhythm, though his brow was damp and his smile grew tight as the figures repeated.

Jane watched him with concern, but he only squeezed her hand in reassurance and nodded for her to enjoy the music.

As they turned and stepped, I wondered if every girl felt as Jane must do at her first assembly—at once elated and terrified, both the centre of attention and just a small part of a festive company.

I had heard stories of girls fainting from nervousness, or laughing too loudly, or stumbling over their own feet.

Certainly, Jane, with her elegance and quiet resolve, would do none of them.

The dance concluded with applause, and Jane became the object of many approving glances. Papa, breathless but exceedingly pleased, guided her back to where Mama awaited.

“Well done, both of you,” she murmured, dabbing at her husband’s brow. “Jane, you looked charming, and you danced beautifully.”

Jane smiled, but her attention was on Papa, who had sunk into a chair with a sigh of relief. The pain in his knee was evident now, but so too was the pride in his eyes as he regarded his eldest daughter.

“You did very well, Jane,” he said, his voice low. “I could not have wished for a lovelier partner.”

She squeezed his hand. Around them, the assembly continued its noisy chatter; shortly thereafter, Jane was claimed for another dance by young John Lucas.

I stood silently to the side. This was Jane’s evening, and Mama had let it be known that I was not yet out, that I would not be dancing.

Something tugged at my heart—soon, it would be my turn to be led out by Papa.

I watched Jane glide through the steps on the arm of John. With each turn, her blue sash fluttered, and her soft laughter reached me above the chatter. I felt a strange mixture of pride and loneliness. Jane, who had always been by my side, was suddenly part of another world.

Mama, seated a little distance away, observed everything with a quiet satisfaction.

I could see the way her eyes followed Jane, her shoulders relaxing each time a neighbour nodded approvingly.

She looked at me too, from time to time, as if to reassure herself that I was content to remain in my chair, sitting apart from the bright commotion of the floor.

I tried to meet her gaze with a smile, but my heart, I am certain, was with Jane.

I knew this dance, the Boulanger, which Jane and I had assiduously practised in the drawing room.

We would form a circle, putting Mary, Kitty, and Lydia in their proper places.

It must have appeared most strange, to see Jane and me cavorting in such a fashion.

Aunt Philips bustled over to me, her cheeks pink from the warmth and the excitement. “You must be so proud of your sister, Lizzy. She carries herself beautifully. It will not be long before you, too, are out, my dear, and then you will have your own circle of admirers.”

I nodded. I wanted to ask her if she remembered her own first assembly—if she had felt this odd ache, this bittersweet sense of watching someone you love step forward while you remained behind.

Had Mama and she come out at the same assembly?

Or were they, like Jane and I, separated for the first time by a country dance—The Suwarrow Bonnet or The Maid of Bristol?

The evening stretched on, the music growing a little more ragged as the musicians tired, the candles burning lower.

Jane danced again and again, occasionally sitting out a set, her cheeks flushed, her eyes shining.

When she finally returned to my side, breathless and smiling, I took her hand in mine.

“I was watching you,” I whispered. “You looked so lovely.”

She squeezed my fingers, her face glowing. “It is all so strange, Lizzy. I feel as if I am dreaming. But I wish you were with me.”

“I am,” I said, my voice steady, “just not on the dance floor.”

* * *

Twelve months later, my coming out was less auspicious than Jane’s.

I couldn’t help but notice that there were tears in Mama’s eyes when I began the first turn with Sir William Lucas.

Papa’s rheumatism had worsened over the past year, and he now required a stick to walk even a few paces.

But he had insisted on attending the assembly, proudly standing up with me, holding my hand as we walked towards the head of the line.

Sir William clasped Papa’s hand and then took mine in his.

When Papa sank gratefully into his seat beside Mama, the music began.

I recalled Jane’s first assembly, when the steps for Sir Roger de Coverley were called for the opening dance.

Tonight, I spun with Sir William in The Haymakers, another of the opening dances that I had practised with Jane.

When the dance ended, Sir William led me back to Mama and Papa.

I mumbled my thanks, curtseying to him. It felt so strange—I had known Sir William all my life, yet with the closeness of our two families, I had never before formally curtseyed to him.

He laughed, kissed my hand, and made his way back to Lady Lucas and his daughter Charlotte.

Mama dabbed at her eyes with her handkerchief. “You did beautifully,” she whispered, squeezing my hand tightly. Papa reached for my other hand, his grip firmer than I expected. “You make us proud.”