Mischief and Matchmaking (Pride and Prejudice Variation)

Chapter 1

A New Mistress at Longbourn

Mrs. Fanny Bennet died unexpectedly. What began as a trifling cold—no more than a chill taken on an errand into Meryton—settled upon her chest and would not be dislodged.

Within a day or two, the servants spoke of a fever; within the week, the apothecary used graver language, and the house itself seemed to listen.

Doors closed, fires were kept high, and the girls were moved about in a manner that could not disguise the growing alarm.

Mr. Bennet, who had never been much given to agitation, was seen to stand longer than usual at the threshold of his wife’s chamber, as though uncertain whether his presence would comfort or disturb.

The illness did not yield. It deepened. There were hours in which Mrs. Bennet rallied sufficiently to speak, to give a direction or two regarding the household, to inquire after her daughters with a composure that encouraged hope.

Those hours passed, and the fever returned with greater force.

In the second week, all pretense was set aside.

The apothecary came twice in a day; a nurse was engaged from the village; and the girls were kept almost completely from their mother’s sight.

Jane, at thirteen, understood more than the others.

She bore the separation with silent obedience, though her eyes often turned toward the stairs.

Mary sought comfort in order and routine, clinging to her lessons as though diligence might steady the world.

Kitty and Lydia, too young to grasp the danger in full, felt the strangeness of it and resented it in the only way they knew—by whispering, fidgeting, and by asking questions that could not be answered.

At the end of a fortnight, the house fell silent.

Mrs. Bennet’s death left behind grief and a disorder of feeling that no one could at first name.

Mr. Bennet, who had married from convenience and habit rather than deep attachment, discovered in her absence a weight he had never expected.

There were duties to discharge, condolences to receive, and arrangements to make; he accomplished them all with a steadiness that might have been mistaken for indifference, if the strain about his mouth had not betrayed him.

The girls felt the loss in different ways.

Jane became more watchful, as though she had been entrusted with something too delicate for words.

Mary grew more earnest. Kitty and Lydia, deprived of much of the indulgence they had once enjoyed and still lacking firm guidance, veered between tears and restlessness.

The house itself seemed to have lost its center.

Time, however, does what it always does. Weeks became months; the sharpest edge of grief weathered, though it did not vanish. Longbourn resumed its outward order, but an essential uncertainty lingered.

It was nearly a year to the day when Mr. Bennet returned from Meryton with an air of decision that promptly drew notice.

He found his daughters in the sitting room.

Jane was attempting to read aloud while Kitty and Lydia disputed the ownership of a ribbon.

Mary sat apart with a book open upon her lap, her attention clearly elsewhere.

“My dear girls,” he began, taking up his usual place, though with less of his customary ease, “I have news that will, I trust, be of consequence to us all.”

The ribbon was instantly forgotten. Lydia turned first, her curiosity unrestrained. Kitty followed, her expression hopeful. Jane closed her book. Mary marked her place with careful fingers.

“I am to be married again.”

For a moment, no one spoke. The words were plain, though their meaning required a moment’s accommodation.

“To be married, Papa?” Kitty repeated, as though confirmation might alter the fact.

“To be married,” he said. “My intended is Mrs. Grace Barnett, a widow who has lately resided in London.”

“A widow,” Lydia said, with all the gravity of her six years. “Then she will be very old.”

“Far from it,” Mr. Bennet replied, the vaguest hint of amusement returning to him. “Mrs. Barnett is still a comparatively young woman. Indeed, I knew her in our youth.”

“In your youth?” Mary echoed.

“My childhood sweetheart,” he said, as though the phrase surprised him even as he spoke it. “Circumstances led us in different directions. She married a gentleman in trade—successfully so, I am given to understand—and has now been a widow for some time.”

Jane became more attentive. “She has lived in London, you say, Papa?”

“She has. She brings with her one daughter, Miss Elizabeth Barnett, who is eleven years of age.”

“Another girl,” Lydia said, with a mixture of interest and disappointment.

“Perhaps only for a short time,” Kitty added, glancing toward Jane with sudden animation. “If she is to have more children—”

Jane’s color rose slightly, but she did not shrink from the thought. “It may be that we shall have a brother,” she said, striving for composure and only partly succeeding. “Which would be a very happy circumstance.”

“To break the entail,” Mary said, as though supplying a necessary clarification.

Lydia seized upon the idea. “Then she must have a boy,” she declared. “And he must be born very soon.”

Mr. Bennet allowed himself a small smile. “Your new mother will, I think, appreciate not being hurried in such a matter. In any case, Mrs. Barnett is expected at Longbourn next week. She will meet you all, and if all proceeds as it ought, we shall marry as soon as the banns are read.”

“So soon?” Kitty exclaimed.

“Soon enough,” he said. “And as there must be some compensation for the haste, I have determined that each of you will have a new gown for the occasion.”

That pronouncement produced the effect he had intended. Lydia clapped her hands. Kitty began to speculate upon colors. Even Mary appeared pleased, though she said nothing. Jane’s smile held more feeling than display.

“Will she be kind?” Lydia asked suddenly, the question breaking through her excitement.

Mr. Bennet paused. “I believe she will be sensible,” he said. “And I hope she will be kind.”

“Stepmothers are often wicked,” Kitty said, lowering her voice as though repeating a well-known truth.

“They are often misunderstood,” Mary replied.

Jane glanced from one to the other. “We cannot know until she comes,” she said gently. “It would be unjust to decide beforehand.”

Mr. Bennet inclined his head, as though acknowledging an ally. “Very justly said.”

The week that followed passed in a mixture of anticipation and uncertainty.

The gowns were ordered, discussed, and altered.

The house was put in better order than it had known in many months.

Mrs. Hill, who had long borne the responsibility of keeping Longbourn together, found herself relieved and apprehensive at the prospect of surrendering her authority.

On the appointed day, Mrs. Barnett arrived.

The carriage was seen from the front windows, and all five girls gathered there despite Mrs. Hill’s attempts to impose some decorum upon their curiosity. When the door opened and Mrs. Barnett descended, a hush fell among them that no instruction could have achieved.

She was young.

Grace belonged to her as naturally as her name.

Her figure was elegant without ostentation; her movements composed without stiffness.

Brown hair, arranged with care rather than excessive display, framed a countenance that might have been called handsome or pretty, according to the observer, but was more accurately described as pleasing.

Her eyes, a clear and steady green, took in the house and its inhabitants with an expression combining intelligence and warmth.

At her side stood her daughter.

Elizabeth Barnett resembled her mother so strongly that the connection required no explanation. The same brown hair, the same clear eyes, though in the child there was a brightness and liveliness still untouched by experience. She peered about her with open interest.

Introductions were made. Jane stepped forward first, her courtesy natural and unforced. Mary followed, more formal but equally sincere. Kitty and Lydia curtsied, Lydia with more enthusiasm than precision.

Mrs. Barnett addressed each in turn with attentive kindness.

She did not overwhelm them with affection, nor did she appear to be performing for effect.

Her manner was simple and genuine, and the impression she made was instantly favorable.

When she spoke to Jane, it was with appreciation for her composure; to Mary, with respect for her seriousness; to Kitty and Lydia, with a gentleness that acknowledged both their youth and their lively spirits.

Elizabeth, meanwhile, attached herself almost instantly to Jane. Something in Jane’s manner invited confidence, and Elizabeth responded instinctively. They spoke quietly together, discovering within a few moments a sympathy that might have taken others weeks to establish.

Kitty and Lydia watched with interest. Any expectation of coldness or severity quickly disappeared. Curiosity overcame their initial caution, and before long they were engaged in conversation as well, their many questions answered with patient good humor.

By the time Mrs. Barnett was shown through the house, much of the initial uncertainty had been dispelled.

She moved through the rooms with a discerning eye, neither finding fault nor offering empty praise. When she came at last to the mistress’s chambers, she paused—not in reluctance, but in consideration.

“There will be some changes required here,” she said, turning to Mrs. Hill. “Nothing drastic, I hope, but sufficient to make the space my own.”

Mrs. Hill inclined her head, her expression a careful balance between deference and interest.

“Of course, ma’am.”

The changes, when they came, were indeed not drastic. A rearrangement of furniture, a different arrangement of curtains, a few additions that reflected Mrs. Bennet’s taste—these were enough to mark the transition without erasing what had been before.