Chapter 10
Longbourn
It was on the day that I took my red woollen morning dress from the closet and laid it out that I realised why I had felt suffocated for so long.
Full mourning meant solid black, no glossy fabrics, no ornamentation.
Mama and I had suffered six months of full mourning, and then a further six months of muted greys, mauve, lilac and lavender.
Mourning dress was not designed to help us grieve.
It was designed to manage us, contain us, and make us pay a physical price for the experience of losing Mr. Bennet.
Had we not already paid enough for our loss?
Both Mama and I refused to wear bombazine—a heavy blend of silk and wool that restricted movement and smelt of wet sheep and sour milk when damp.
Apart from visiting her sister, Aunt Hattie, Mama seldom left Hathaway House—we had moved there in the last three months of mourning—except to don her outdoor petticoat and linen overdress and potter in the long-neglected Hathaway gardens.
As was obligatory, our day-wear was dyed black—muslin, linen, and wool, but never bombazine.
Occasionally, she and I would walk into Meryton, greeting neighbours, merchants, and shopkeepers, always careful to show proper respect for our station.
Yet, even black became my mother, for she was naturally a very attractive woman; and, now that she was widowed, I noticed many of the gentlemen of the town regarded her with admiration.
She was still handsome at just thirty-nine years old—wealthy, attractive.
Once she returned to full society, Mrs. Bennet would be much admired.
For herself? Unlikely. She would be a target for either estate holders wishing to increase their holdings, or those gentlemen facing societal pressure to remarry, or fortune hunters hoping to beguile her with charm and a pleasing countenance.
“Oh, Lizzy, that dress certainly becomes you.” Mama knocked and entered my room. Today was important. Not a celebration, for in our hearts we still mourned Papa, but a day we could, at last, leave our visible grief behind. “Come, sit by the dresser and let me pin your hair.”
“And you, Mama—will you wear the dark jade walking dress? And please, the brimmed hat—it sets off your figure ever so well.”
“Dear me, Lizzy,” Mama said, “you will have all our neighbours thinking I am a merry widow.” She paused. “Yet, I could never replace Mr. Bennet with another—we had such good times, and he gave me you and Jane.”
I laughed. “Forgive me, Mama, but I fear you will need to guard yourself. Although you have two grown daughters, you are still very much a beauty. Perhaps it is I who should worry, for you are certainly as handsome as me, and men might like you the best of the two of us.”
“My dear, you flatter me.” Mama blushed. “I certainly had my share of beauty when Mr. Bennet courted me, but I have given over thinking of it.”
“Fie! I shall not have it! But we best not dawdle. When you have finished pinning my hair, I shall see to yours.”
I set the final pin, stepped back, and admired my mother. “Shall we go down?” I asked.
She nodded, and together we made our way to the hall, where Jane and Bingley waited by the door.
Jane wore a soft yellow gown of sprigged muslin; she looked every inch the serene married woman, but I saw the nerves in the way she twisted her handkerchief.
This would be the first day of our family coming out of mourning.
Mr. Bingley’s coach conveyed us to Meryton, where we had the pleasure of entering Aunt Philips’s drawing room.
We found she had invited not only the Lucases, the Longs and some other neighbours, but also the officers of the militia who were quartered in the town.
Card tables had been placed, and those who wished to play sat down to whist. I declined, as I wished more entertainment than that afforded by the game.
Almost immediately, I found myself drawn into conversation with two of the officers, Mr. Denny and Mr. Chamberlayne.
“My condolences, Miss Bennet,” said Mr. Denny, after we had been introduced by my Uncle Philips. “I understand you have just come out of mourning.”
“Thank you, sir. My father was a good man, and my mother and I miss him very much.”
“To be sure,” he said. “I am fortunate that both my father and mother are still living.”
“Where is your home?” I asked. “I believe the regiment is just passing through Meryton on the way to the coast?”
“Derbyshire—the regiment was raised at Derby, though my father’s holding is nearer Bakewell. Indeed, we travel to our summer camp at Brighton.”
“Bakewell? I have heard of the town—close to Pemberley, the Darcy estate, is it not?”
“You know the Darcys?” Mr. Denny seemed rather taken aback. “We are not often in the same society, though I have met the man when I accompanied Father to a meeting of the parish vestry.”
“We have some acquaintance,” I said modestly, recalling my correspondence, and that Mr. Darcy had made Mama an extremely generous offer for all of the books in Papa’s library. He wished to keep the collection intact, declaring it was one of the finest in England, and should not be broken up.
“I would not have thought to find such a connection here in Hertfordshire,” said Mr. Denny.
“In truth, my contact with Pemberley, which is likely the largest estate in Derbyshire—at least a rival to Chatsworth—is rather limited. However, the week following, I may be able to introduce you to a man who is much more familiar with the estate. I have recently met in London Mr. Wickham, who was practically brought up at Pemberley, being the son of the head steward. Wickham is to join the regiment. I shall introduce you to him—I am certain you will find him exceedingly gentlemanlike.”
The conversation soon turned to other matters—local news, the poor harvest in the north of England, and what amusements the regiment anticipated enjoying in Brighton.
I was a little embarrassed, for other officers joined our little group, and I found myself the centre of a group of admirers.
I looked for rescue, and saw that the game at Mama’s table had finished.
She came to my aid, and soon was engaged in amiable discourse with the more senior of the officers, including Captain Carter and Colonel Forster, the commanding officer of the regiment.
The colonel’s presence appeared to dampen the junior officers’ enthusiasm, who excused themselves moving to the refreshment table where supper had been laid out.
Mama, with her intelligent conversation and trim figure, had drawn the eyes of nearly every gentleman in the parlour. Captain Carter seemed very much taken by a story she was recounting, and Colonel Forster’s laughter at her witticisms suggested more than mere politeness.
I could not help but observe the aggrieved expressions of the other ladies present.
Charlotte Lucas raised her brows in silent amusement, yet even she pursed her lips when Captain Carter laughed a little too heartily at something Mama had said.
Mrs. Long, who sat with her husband at the card table, was clearly annoyed when his attention drifted to Mama and her circle of admirers.
It seemed to me most peculiar. Only a few months ago, these same gentlemen might have overlooked Mama entirely, seeing only her black widow’s weeds and her genuine grief.
Now, with a brighter gown and a sparkle returned to her eye, she was as charming as when I was a child and believed her the most beautiful woman in all of Hertfordshire.
I wondered, with wry amusement, if the attentions paid to Mrs. Bennet would soon become the talk of the neighbourhood. For tonight, at least, she was everything amiable and sociable—certainly, admired by the men; and, I suspected, somewhat envied by more than one lady present.
* * *
As we made our way home, Mama was unusually quiet, gazing at the fields passing through the carriage windows. I sat next to her, Jane and Mr. Bingley opposite.
“What a pleasure to be able to wear colours again,” Jane remarked, breaking the silence. “Mama, your jade dress was quite lovely, and even Colonel Forster, who is usually quite grave, seemed taken with your conversation. I believe I even heard him laugh.”
Mrs. Bennet’s cheeks coloured faintly. “Oh, nonsense, Jane. I am sure it was just the novelty of speaking with us—we haven’t been in society for twelve months, and conversing with the same four and twenty families must, after a short while, become quite tedious.”
“No, I disagree, you were much admired,” I said.
She demurred with a little wave of her hand. “Lizzy, do not tease. I have no wish to be admired. In spite of this evening, I should prefer to be let alone, to enjoy peace and my garden, and perhaps, occasionally, a little whist with the neighbours.”
“I daresay that you may find it difficult to hide,” said Jane. “You are much too young and handsome for that.”
“Jane, that is too cruel! You know how much I loved your father. Please, I have no wish for company other than his.”
“I do not think, Mama, that dear Papa would have wished you to become a recluse. You and he enjoyed so much pleasure during your marriage. I, for one, would wish that you could find similar contentment once again.” I took her hand, then leant my head against her shoulder.
“No, Lizzy, it is not I who should seek the diversion of a good man.” Mama inadvertently glanced at Mr. Bingley, who smiled, leaning just a little closer to Jane.
I laughed. “I am quite content, Mama. For I have my walks in the morning, and the conversation of my mother in the evening. There is nothing more that I wish for.”