Chapter 11
The Lakes
I had felt suffocated by being forced to wear mourning clothes; Papa would have been shocked by the cruelty of it.
Before he was afflicted by his arthritis, my memory of him was of a jovial man inclined to whimsy, his humour sometimes a little too biting—particularly when commenting on the pretensions of our neighbours.
Yet he was always able to laugh at himself, and his humour within the family was gentle and restrained.
Certainly, he would not have condoned Mama and me wearing full mourning, with its strict social isolation, censured for taking part in the normal entertainments of the community.
But now we had returned to society, I felt even more smothered.
Certainly no longer isolated, but now drowning in the attention paid to us by the single men of the neighbourhood.
It could have been borne, but for the reality that Mrs. Bennet’s status as an unmarried woman of independent means, not answerable to any man, placed her in an awkward position with the other ladies of our acquaintance—before her widowhood, her friends and confidantes.
Now, there had arisen an undercurrent of envy, barely hidden by polite conversation and the sipping of tea from delicate porcelain.
There was a measure of jealousy also, that she might attract the eye of a wandering husband—connubial virtue no longer in need of protection, allowing her, perchance, more freedom than either an unmarried woman or a married lady, particularly in such a small community as Meryton.
If I had not been related to her, I would have made an altogether appropriate companion, preserving proper decorum and ensuring absolute discretion.
But for a daughter to play that role? Perchance, if Jane and Mr. Bingley lived in the same house, it might have been perceived differently.
But there was always a rustle of unease—that an apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, that the proclivities of the mother must necessarily be inherited by the daughter, that when gentlemen called, both mother and daughter would use their arts and allurements to draw in the menfolk of the town.
“Hattie, whatever are we to do?” Mama and I sat in Aunt Philips’s parlour taking tea. “While everyone is polite, and seems to welcome our visits… Oh, do they not understand? I miss Mr. Bennet so very much; I have no interest in marrying again.”
“‘Tis most unfair, Fanny. They mean well—indeed, they would be most upset if they realised how their behaviour affects you and Elizabeth. Even Mrs. Goulding said to me that she thought her husband’s eyes lingered too long on you at the Longs’ card party.”
“Surely not!” I said, perhaps a little too emphatically. “Mr. Goulding is hardly the most handsome man of my acquaintance.”
“Lizzy! That is mean.” Mama took my arm. It was certainly not mannerly to say so, even if it were true.
“No, Fanny. You know that Elizabeth has the truth of it. Mr. Goulding, for all he is a good neighbour, is not a particularly handsome man. It was common knowledge that Mrs. Goulding, before she married, had set herself to fix Mr. Bennet—he had attended university with her brother. I believe she has always harboured a little resentment that you, Fanny, secured Bennet, leaving her to make do with Goulding. She never was a charming woman, and poor Mr. Goulding often suffers for it.”
Mama pursed her lips, unsure that her sister should talk of such things in my presence.
“Oh, very well, Hattie. We should introduce Lizzy to the realities of society. There is much which is left unsaid, with little enough to amuse the ladies of Meryton apart from taking tea, embroidery, seeing their daughters married, and gossip.”
We continued our discussion, but nothing was resolved until Mr. Philips came in from his office, which adjoined the house, and we sat to supper. The Philipses always practised economy, and served a simple meal of cold meats, savoury pie, cheese, bread, and butter.
“I must say,” Mr. Philips remarked, “that I have never known such a flutter of bachelors in Meryton as there is this season. It is as if every unattached gentleman within twenty miles has decided that the society of our little town is all that is required to secure his happiness.”
I coloured and glanced at Mama, for we both suspected the cause of the sudden influx of single gentlemen.
“It is a peculiar thing,” Aunt Philips said, “and I cannot help but think it must be the novelty of the situation which draws them so. A widow with a comfortable jointure is, I suppose, a temptation too great for some men to resist.”
“Or a daughter with her mother’s wit and beauty,” Mr. Philips added.
“Oh, please don’t remind me,” I said. “Mr. Denny and Mr. Wickham cannot decide whether to seek my attention or that of Mrs. Bennet. Fortunately, Colonel Forster and Mr. Robinson find me a little too young and flighty.”
“And the gossip!” exclaimed Mama. “I am sure many of the townsfolk have a permanent eye set on Hathaway House’s door. No doubt, even the butcher’s boy entering through the kitchen would be remarked upon. I cannot imagine what they would talk about if we were gone for a while.”
Aunt Philips reached across the table to squeeze her sister’s hand. “You must not let it trouble you, Fanny. People will always talk, and there is no remedy for it but patience—or absence, as you say.”
At this, Mr. Philips laid down his cutlery, his expression abruptly more serious than his previous light-hearted comments.
“If you will permit me a suggestion, my dear ladies,” he began, “perhaps what you both require is a change of scene. Why not take a holiday from Meryton altogether? The Lakes are most beautiful at this time of year. A tour of the principal estates—Chatsworth, Lowther, Levens—would do wonders for the spirits.”
A tour to the Lakes! The very idea was so unexpected, so deliciously enticing, that for a moment I could only laugh.
“Uncle, we would be the envy of all our neighbours,” I said. “But what would people say if Mama and I were to disappear so suddenly?”
“Let them say what they will,” he replied, a twinkle in his eye.
“You need not tell them more than the simple truth: that Mrs. Bennet, being a widow, is travelling for her health and amusement, in the company of her daughter. There is no scandal in that. Indeed, it is quite the thing in Bath and London. And as for Fanny’s fortune—no one need know a word of it.
You can be as reticent as you please, and in the North, you will be free from all the prying eyes and wagging tongues of Meryton. ”
“Elizabeth, what do you think? Ought we go so far from home?” Mama turned to me. “I recall you were keen to travel north with Edward and Aunt Madeleine, and were very disappointed when they had to cancel.”
I took her hand. “Mama, I think it would do us both good. I would greatly enjoy seeing places we have only read about in books, and—most importantly—escape the constant scrutiny of our neighbours.”
Aunt Philips nodded. “The Lakes—what a lovely idea! We can help you plan your route, and Mr. Philips will write to his cousin in Yorkshire to recommend the best inns along the way.”
The rest of the dinner passed in the most pleasant anticipation of our journey.
Uncle Philips, whose knowledge of the northern counties was more extensive than I had imagined, regaled us with stories of the great houses: the gardens at Levens, the waterfalls at Rydal, the ancient stones at Furness Abbey.
He described the sparkling lakes, the wild moors, the sudden rainstorms that swept across the fells and left the air fresh and sweet.
No scheme could have been more agreeable. “My dear, dear uncle,” I cried, “what delight! What felicity! You give me fresh life and vigour. Adieu to disappointment and officers! What are men to rocks and mountains?”
Mama, now thoroughly enchanted with the idea, began to imagine herself reclining in a carriage, her cares forgotten.
“Perhaps we shall even see a poet or two,” she mused, “for I have heard that many of them live in the North. I should dearly love to meet a poet—so long as he is not in want of a wife!”
We all laughed, the tension of the past weeks momentarily forgotten. Aunt Philips promised to help us pack, and Mr. Philips set about making a list of necessary provisions and suitable inns.
Later that evening, as we returned to Hathaway House, Mama took my hand. “Lizzy, do you think we are doing the right thing? It would be the furthest I have ever travelled away from Meryton.”
“Yes, Mama, it is likely the very best thing we have done since Papa died. As we travel, he will be with us, reading from his travel journals and enjoying the sights just as much as you and I.”
So it was decided that we would leave Meryton behind. Lakes, mountains, and rivers called; not jumbled together in our imaginations, but experienced, as Wordsworth had lived in his poem Home at Grasmere:
I seemed to feel such liberty was mine,
Such power and joy; but only for this end,
To flit from field to rock, from rock to field,
From shore to island, and from isle to shore.
As I lay in bed that night, Mary, Kitty, and Lydia all climbed in beside me.
‘Are we really going to the Lakes, Lizzy?’ I assured them that we truly were, that it was to be a great adventure.
I would write a diary that we would read to each other, so as not to forget any of the sweeping scenes and soaring peaks.
There was a gentle knock on the door. Papa looked in, smiled when he saw all of us together; then, quietly, he left to sit in his favourite chair in the parlour.
His first editions had gone with Mr. Darcy to the estate in Derbyshire—thus, Papa would take his worn and annotated copy of Wordsworth from the parlour shelf, and, with a sip of port, he would while away the night as I slept, anticipating the dawn with an eagerness I had long forgotten.
* * *
We spent a month preparing for our journey, during which time we let it be known that we were to travel for Mrs. Bennet’s health, as Uncle Philips had suggested, and that, due to the necessity of arranging our affairs, we would not be at home to visitors.
It was not truly subterfuge, for indeed much required to be fixed upon.
Jacob was to accompany us both as footman and under-coachman; John Willis was engaged as coachman for the journey.
He was an honest, dependable man and had, on several occasions, driven north on the major turnpikes to Manchester.
It was a long journey to the Lakes—two hundred and forty miles by the most direct route—a minimum of eight days if we kept to a steady pace of thirty miles a day.
Of course, we intended much more than that, planning to visit all the remarkable places which lay on our route: Oxford, Blenheim, Warwick, Kenelworth, Birmingham, and many more.
We intended to forgo the pleasure of visiting Chatsworth, as I wished to take a passenger boat on the Bridgewater Canal from Runcorn to Leigh.
Then to Blackpool, for Mama dearly wished to see the sea—the Irish Sea, alas, not the great Atlantic Ocean—and thence to the Lakes!
It seemed our disinterest in the gentlemen of the neighbourhood was noted, for we heard from Aunt Hattie that Mr. Denny and Mr. Wickham had switched their visits to Miss Mary King, who was rumoured to have inherited ten thousand pounds.
I already knew it, but Mr. Wickham’s attentions to me—as if we could take his attentions to Mrs. Bennet seriously—were solely mercenary, and though Miss King’s fortune was by no means insignificant, it was sufficiently mediocre to prove only his eagerness to grasp at anything.
Mr. Denny’s suit could be more easily understood, as he was the son of a landed gentleman of a modest estate—perhaps some eight hundred pounds a year—an additional five hundred from Miss King’s fortune would significantly increase his wealth.
Mr. Collins had returned to Hunsford, though to what purpose Mr. Philips did not know.
Certainly, he must return to take up his inheritance, which would otherwise revert to the Crown, there being no remaining male heir.
While Longbourn had been my home for twenty years, I had left it behind—as all women must, when ultimately they marry and join their husband in a life away from their family.
* * *