Chapter 25
The afternoon held the quiet cheer of a house determined upon order.
From the parlour drifted the steady strains of the pianoforte—Mary practising a sonata, her touch steady enough to make correction unnecessary.
Above stairs, the muffled rhythm of voices marked the schoolroom, where Kitty and Lydia were bent—one hoped—over their lessons.
In the family parlour, peace reigned. Mrs Bennet and Jane sat near the window, their work scattered about their feet in gentle disorder: hanks of worsted, reels of cotton, folded linsey, and fustian set aside for cutting, needles glinting in the afternoon light as they discussed the tenants by name and the size of each family’s youngest child.
Their talk was practical, fond, and carried that mild authority born of stewardship.
Elizabeth sat opposite Bennet, a small stack of letters between them, her eyes bright with curiosity.
“The post, Papa.” She held out the letters.
He adjusted his spectacles. “A rare event: both London and Kent seem determined to be heard.”
She handed him the top letter. “Aunt Gardiner’s seal.”
“Then let us begin with sense before folly.”
He opened it carefully, the familiar hand awakening old regard.
Mrs Gardiner wrote of the bustle of Gracechurch Street, of her husband’s business and their children’s high spirits, of the changing fashions that made London both ridiculous and alive.
Bennet read aloud: The city grows louder by the hour and Edward declares it a mercy that noise is not yet taxed, or we should all be beggars.
Without looking up, Mrs Bennet said with a smile in her tone, “That sounds like my brother.”
“It sounds like a man with too many children underfoot,” Bennet said. “But he bears it with profit.”
Jane looked up. “Does Aunt Gardiner mention the holidays?”
“She hopes to come again at Christmas, if the youngest may be trusted to travel without mischief.” He folded the letter with care. “She adds her love to you all—and a warning to avoid any gentleman who wears too much lace.”
Elizabeth laughed softly. “She will find Hertfordshire disappoints her on that point.”
Bennet reached for the second letter and handed it across. “You may read this one aloud, Lizzy. It promises entertainment.”
She broke the seal. “From Hunsford—Mr Collins.”
“Just so. Proceed at your peril.”
Elizabeth read the opening with mock gravity.
Lady Catherine de Bourgh, in the bounty of that condescension which distinguishes all her acts, has recommended that I renew my acquaintance with my amiable cousins of Longbourn, and extend, as she most judiciously expressed it, an olive branch, in proof that all former coolness may be forgotten.
Her composure failed; laughter broke free, clear and irrepressible. “Oh, Papa—an olive branch! Will he arrive bearing it in person, do you think, or send it by post?”
Mrs Bennet looked up sharply, though amusement flickered in her eyes. “You will not encourage him, Mr Bennet.”
“Certainly not. I find warmth preferable to frost, but I am not inclined to burn the house to achieve it.”
Mrs Bennet’s eyes narrowed with satisfaction. “Then you will answer him?”
“I must, else silence will convey acceptance, in his foolish mind.”
“Let him look elsewhere for his olive branch,” she said, resuming her knitting with decisive grace.
Bennet nodded. “Agreed. Let the good parson console himself with Lady Catherine’s piety. There’s more of it than any one man should be asked to endure.”
Elizabeth’s laughter escaped in a quiet ripple; Jane shook her head, smiling.
Across the hall, Mary’s music rose—clear, strong, almost joyful. Bennet listened a moment, the sound filling the space between them all.
“How pleasant the house sounds when everyone is employed,” Mrs Bennet said.
“It is the best defence against mischief,” he said, while Mary’s music held steady behind the door.
* * *
The lamps were trimmed low; the day had folded itself into quiet.
Bennet sat by the hearth in their shared sitting room—a modest retreat between their bedrooms—where the fire’s last coals glowed a steady red.
Mrs Bennet had joined him, her feet tucked under her as she reclined, a glass of wine in her graceful hand.
For a while, neither spoke. Outside, the house settled—the last creak of boards, the faint sigh of doors closed for the night.
At length she said, “You mean to answer Mr Collins tomorrow?”
“I do. It is not kind to let a fool wonder too long.”
She smiled faintly. “The entail has already been kind enough to him.”
“You bear it more easily than most would.”
“Because you have made it easy, my love.” She drew from her glass; the light caught her mouth. Bennet looked down before his admiration became too plain. “There is the dower house—and enough set by that I may not live on charity.”
“It was never my intention that you should. A husband ought to provide against his own mortality. Collins may take the fields, but he shall not take the roof above your head.”
She gave a small, approving nod. “Still, it is strange to think that a cousin we scarcely know holds Longbourn’s future in his hand.”
“Not strange—merely English,” Bennet said dryly. “Entails were devised by men who thought their blood too precious to mix freely with sense.”
She shifted, the hem of her gown falling from one foot. He caught the slipping hem and settled it back over her slipper with more care than necessity required.
“He wrote of Lady Catherine’s counsel,” she said. “Do you suppose she advised him to make peace?”
“Lady Catherine advises every man to what increases her own consequence. Mr Collins’ peace would be her triumph.”
Mrs Bennet smiled. “Then we will deny her both.”
He laughed softly. “My dear, you have grown positively formidable.”
“Practical, Mr Bennet. Five unmarried daughters will do that.”
They sat a moment longer, listening to the tick of the clock and the faint rush of wind at the windows.
“Thomas,” she said at last, “promise me you will not trouble yourself about Collins again tonight.”
“I shall not,” he said, extending his hand towards her. “When I trouble myself, it will be about daughters rather than cousins.”
She grasped his hand; he drew her closer, her laughter quiet against his shoulder. “Then your work is secure for years to come.”
He smiled. “Just so.”
The fire settled with a sigh. In that quiet, the matter of Mr Collins—and all the absurdities of inheritance—seemed no larger than the coal’s dull glow.
* * *
The morning broke clean and bright, the kind that promised work rather than leisure. The air smelt of hay and damp stone; a milk cart creaked somewhere on the lane. Bennet crossed the yard with Hill beside him, the dew clinging to their boots.
The stable doors stood open. One of the grooms looked up from the bay mare’s foreleg, then bent again to his work when Hill’s glance passed over him. Beyond the yard, the gate stood shut.
“The girls will wish to walk into Meryton before the week is out,” Bennet said.
“They will wish it sooner, sir.”
“Then they will realise disappointment. None walk without Jane and Elizabeth. No calls are to be made upon the militia. No officer is to be received without my leave.”
Hill’s face gave nothing away. “Yes, sir.”
“And Mrs Ecclestone?”
“Informed.”
“How did she receive it?”
“As one who expected to be asked before breakfast and found us late.”
Bennet’s mouth curved. “Of course she did.”
They stopped near the gate. The lane beyond lay innocent in the morning light: hedges wet with dew, cart-ruts dark from yesterday’s rain, the first stir of village business carried faintly on the air.
“And if some young gentleman discovers that Longbourn has daughters?”
Hill looked towards the lane. “Then he shall discover first that Longbourn has a gate.”
Bennet rested both hands upon the head of his stick. The answer should have comforted him. It did not.
* * *
Elizabeth stepped out onto the stone path, shading her eyes against the morning brightness.
The warmth of the sun already touched her shoulders, and the air carried that mingled scent of hay and lavender that always made Longbourn feel more alive than grand.
Beside her, Jane adjusted the ribbon of her bonnet and smiled.
At the gate, Hill stood speaking with a farm lad, one of Perkins’s boys from the lower fields. The boy held a sack against one hip and nodded with great solemnity while Hill examined the folded note in his hand.
“Papa has been abroad since breakfast,” Jane said. “I saw him crossing the yard with Hill before the tea was cleared.”
“And now Mr Hill questions errand-boys,” Elizabeth answered. “I cannot imagine what danger may be concealed in a sack of kitchen onions.”
They met Mrs Hill near the kitchen door, her keys bright at her belt and her expression one of mild amusement.
“Mrs Hill,” Jane said, “has something happened?”
“Nothing, miss.” Mrs Hill’s gaze moved once towards the gate. “Mr Bennet has only given new orders for the yard.”
“New orders?” Elizabeth repeated.
“No one admitted without name and business. No message brought through the kitchen unless Mr Hill has seen it first.”
Elizabeth looked again towards the gate. Hill had returned the note and sent the boy round towards the kitchen path. The boy went at once, still clutching his sack as if it had acquired consequence.
Jane’s face held a thoughtful calm. “Papa has grown cautious.”
“Papa was born cautious,” Elizabeth said lightly. “He merely lets us forget it when the weather is fine.”
Mrs Hill’s faint smile appeared and vanished. “Your father means the house to be easy, miss, not careless.”
Elizabeth heard the unspoken phrase and glanced towards Meryton’s road, bright and empty beyond the hedge.
“Then we must discover what his wishes are, dearest,” she said to Jane, “before Kitty and Lydia learn them from Mr Hill.”