Chapter Nine #3
Even when we are most in need of comfort and special care, we tend not to wish to think of ourselves as being “coddled”—no matter how much coddling might be secretly desired!
So Juliet Tilney could not wholly reconcile herself to abandoning Netherfield for Longbourn until she recollected that not all the most important elements of investigation confined themselves to the scene of the murder.
The observations of those beyond Netherfield may prove as insightful as the observations of those within it, Juliet mused as Becky quietly buttoned the back of her dinner dress.
I may learn much, if Mr. Darcy’s grandparents can be persuaded to speak freely.
(From this, it can be discerned how very little Juliet yet knew of the Bennets.)
At least she looked well, for her mother had purchased nice dresses for her in London earlier that year, which—given Juliet’s near exile from polite society—had been worn but once or twice, if at all.
This particular gown was made of the same white satin that might have been seen in ballrooms twenty years prior, yet its ornamentation was lushly up-to-date, with ruffles and bows, without erring toward the gaudiness displayed by Mrs. Lofton or Mrs. Hurst. As she gazed at herself in the mirror, Becky said, “You look very pretty indeed, miss. Prettier than either of those Allerdyce girls could ever be.”
“Oh, you must not say such things.” Juliet felt herself blushing. “Besides, beauty is as beauty does.”
“Well, Miss Allerdyce might be as pretty, then, but Miss Priscilla hasn’t a chance.”
Juliet laughed despite herself. “Be careful, Becky. Ladies’ maids must be discreet.”
This gentle, commonplace advice seemed to strike Becky as far more noteworthy than Juliet would have thought. “Indeed, miss. One has to know when to keep one’s mouth shut, and when to open it again. A time for all things, as the Bible says. Heard that from Mr. Brooks himself.”
“When?”
Becky cocked her head. “From the pulpit, miss.”
“Oh. Of course.” Juliet felt foolish, but remembered another question that Becky might be able to answer more forthrightly. “Do you know of anyone connected to the Bingley family who has the Christian name of Nancy?”
“Let me think. Mrs. Mount in town, who has the fabric shop—I believe her name’s Nancy, and of course Mrs. Bingley does a great deal of shopping there. And Stewart’s got a new granddaughter named Nancy, a wee dear thing. The Bingleys gave her parents a whole pound as a christening present.”
“Most generous,” said Juliet honestly enough, as few masters would even know if their servants had grandchildren, much less pay such a sum upon their births.
“There was a horse called Nancy,” Becky went on, “but I do not suppose you are much interested in the stables.”
“Human Nancys are of much greater importance, I believe.” Juliet’s thoughts had turned to Mrs. Mount. Could she be the “Nancy” of which Mrs. Lofton had overheard?
She might have asked Becky more about Nancy Mount had Juliet not then heard the carriage being brought round, and when she went to the window, she saw Mr. Darcy already at the front step, waiting for her. How could her heart not be touched by such a gesture?
But she could not forget their history, any more than she could forget the writing desk that sat nearby, nor the chamber within that held the letter from Mr. Follett.
—
Longbourn proved to be a smaller but handsome house. From past insinuations of Lady Catherine de Bourgh, Juliet had been led to think that Mrs. Darcy’s origins must be humble indeed, but this was unquestionably the residence of a gentleman.
The Bennets themselves were an elderly couple, not robust but apparently in reasonable health, aside from the fact that Mr. Bennet walked with a stick.
Their furnishings and attire appeared somewhat out of date, yet this was hardly unusual among persons their age, and nothing in their style of living suggested any lack of comfort.
In attendance also were the Brookses. Their simple attire showed to better effect here than it did amid the elegance of Netherfield. Mr. Brooks’s cool demeanor did not seem much changed, but Mrs. Brooks seemed pale and inattentive.
Would not you be distracted, Juliet thought, if you suspected your husband of indiscretion? Though possibly Mrs. Brooks thought no such thing.
“You have laid a very nice table for us, Mother Bennet,” said Mr. Brooks, as they sat to table. “Entirely charming.”
“Of course it is all as nothing compared to Netherfield,” said Mrs. Bennet.
“You must have seen, but Miss Tilney will not yet know, they have three full services of silver! And did you know, four settings of china? Each one enough to entertain the entire town at one of their balls. Though they have not held a proper dance since Sarah married, but mark my words, as soon as little Martha Elizabeth has her coming out, Netherfield will again be the center of all that is elegant and refined.”
“I would say it is that center even now,” said Mrs. Brooks. She seemed to wish herself there.
Mr. Bennet smiled slightly. “This is ambition indeed for a grand coming out, given that Martha has always been fonder of climbing trees than practicing at the pianoforte, and I am given to understand her petticoats are perpetually in a state of ruin.”
“Oh! Mr. Bennet! You will not speak of petticoats at dinner!” Mrs. Bennet’s voice could be sharp when she chose—or cloying, as it became when she returned to one of her more favored subjects. “Our good Jane has proved herself more than equal to being a fine lady. I always knew it would be so.”
“In point of fact,” Mr. Bennet said between his sips of wine, “she despaired of any of our daughters marrying at all, at least twice a week and often twice a day, until after the first one wed—and that, by far, the worst match of the lot.”
Mrs. Bennet made a face. “You are always so unkind regarding poor Mr. Wickham, even now that he is in his grave with our dear Lydia and Susannah.”
Memory flashed within Juliet’s mind—Donwell Abbey late at night, lightning illuminating the long gallery, and Wickham lying dead upon the floor—but she closed her eyes for a moment, then set it aside.
Yet her reaction had been perceived by Mr. Darcy. “You forget, Grandmama, that it was Miss Tilney who found Mr. Wickham after his death. It cannot be a pleasant recollection for her.”
“But you have seen no end of murder since, have you not?” Mrs. Bennet said, undaunted. “Bodies strewn hither and yon. I cannot think how anyone should contrive to be near so many murders.”
“The obvious solution, of course,” said Mr. Bennet, who seemed only to speak when he had a witticism to make, “would be to murder ’em yourself, but we do not go so far as to accuse you, Miss Tilney.”
Juliet could not help but smile. Finally she had been absolved of one crime!
Mrs. Brooks had apparently been considering another of her mother’s remarks for some time. “At least Jane is a fine lady,” she repeated. “Elizabeth, too, of course.”
“And Mary!” Mrs. Bennet exclaimed. “She, become the wife of a dean! Who would ever have thought it?” Her exclusion of her only other living daughter was painfully clear to all at the table except Mrs. Bennet herself. Mrs. Brooks lowered her face and attended only to her food.
Many husbands or fathers would have come to Kitty Brooks’s defense at that moment, but Mr. Bennet wished to tell humorous tales of his daughter Mary’s bluestocking ways as a girl, and Mr. Brooks simply helped himself to more potatoes.
Mr. Darcy, who seemed to be struggling with his grandmother’s loudness, was endeavoring to keep his own peace. No help was to be had for Mrs. Brooks.
She is angry, Juliet thought as she watched Mrs. Brooks sullenly dine. Angrier than I believe anyone else suspects. At least some of the reasons why are obvious—but we may need to learn the others.