Mrs. Bennet’s Triumph
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
MRS. BENNET’S TRIUMPH
The delightful prospect of two daughters engaged to men of consequence had Mrs. Bennet bustling to do what all triumphant mothers must: announce her victory to the neighborhood with a formal dinner.
Never before had a double engagement dinner swept as fast as a wintry gale as the one over Longbourn in the bleak of January, inviting or rather, demanding, the attendance of every neighbor in its path.
In less than a se’nnight, Mrs. Bennet had commandeered every available surface for fabric samples from Uncle Gardiner’s London warehouse, filled the morning room with fashion plates from La Belle Assemblée, and terrorized Cook into producing a menu that would, she declared, “put Lady Lucas’s Easter dinner to shame, though of course I would never say so aloud. ”
Elizabeth, ever resourceful, evaded the more flamboyant preparations by riding out with Darcy, losing herself in the library with Georgiana, and rummaging through the attic for stillroom receipts and other arcane remedies.
Jane, meanwhile, was besieged by congratulatory letters and the endless parade of well-wishers and gossips who had haunted their doorstep since childhood.
Aunt Philips, naturally, entrenched herself beside Mamma, badgering Mrs. Gardiner—who had arrived post-Twelfth Night, already forewarned of matrimonial developments—to pronounce on every fabric, accessory, and decorative flourish currently sanctioned by London taste.
The evening arrived, miraculously, with Mrs. Bennet’s nerves still intact and unmolested by tradesmen, butchers, or candlemakers.
The dining table, lengthened with leaves Mr. Bennet insisted had not seen daylight since the coronation, stretched beneath a regiment of candles procured by Hill from Meryton.
The good silver—the very best, reserved for moments when Mrs. Bennet wished to remind Lady Lucas of certain unspoken advantages—glimmered from every available surface.
Mrs. Bennet had swathed every surface in bolts of Gardiner warehouse finery: white muslin scattered with blue flowers, a pale gold silk whose weight and shimmer even Elizabeth could not mistake for anything but costly, and a length of ivory satin, discreetly labeled in Aunt Gardiner’s hand: For Jane. She will know what to do with it.
The fire roared too hot and high—Mrs. Bennet’s decree, for no guest should depart Longbourn in the bleak midwinter with so much as a sniffle.
Beeswax candles banished the tallow, for no Bennet bride, let alone two, should be tainted by unpleasant odors.
Lydia, artfully draped on the settee, looked every inch a girl expecting her own proposal before the evening’s end.
After all, as Mrs. Bennet frequently reminded the world, Lydia was the tallest and gayest of her daughters, second only to Jane in beauty, but with her mother’s high spirits and Lizzy’s good sense.
Mary opened her mouth to protest, but Jane, ever diplomatic, gently steered her from the line of maternal fire. Kitty, meanwhile, sat placidly with her sketchbook, capturing caricatures of Mrs. Bennet and the assembled sisters clustered about the fashion plates.
The Lucases arrived en masse. Sir William delivered his customary speech about the Court of St. James and the honor of matrimony, Lady Lucas examining every surface for dust while pretending not to, Maria giggling with Kitty in the corner, and the younger children dispersing into the corridors with the Gardiner children.
The Philipses brought wine and gossip in equal measure.
The Netherfield party contributed Bingley’s irrepressible good cheer, Georgiana’s genuine delight, and the Hursts’ determined tolerance.
Mrs. Bennet surveyed the assembly of her greatest triumph. She directed servants with imperious gestures, rearranged seating with ruthless efficiency, and delivered a running commentary on every arrival that would have been audible in Meryton.
“Mr. Darcy, you must sit here—no, here—the light is better, and we cannot have you looking grim in the shadows, though of course you are never grim now that Lizzy has agreed to have you. Jane, dearest, ensure Mr. Bingley has the good cushion. Sir William, how delightful, and Lady Lucas, that gown is very becoming; is it new? Hill, the sherry, the good sherry. Oh, Mr. Hurst, you have already found the decanter, how very efficient of you.”
Charlotte appeared at Elizabeth’s elbow, her expression carrying that particular Charlotte quality: warmth tempered by knowingness.
“Your mother has achieved a new personal record,” she observed.
“I counted seven simultaneous instructions, three veiled insults, and one entirely sincere compliment, all in a single breath.”
“The compliment was to your mother’s gown. I suspect it was strategic.”
“Everything your mother does is strategic. She lacks the ability to execute quietly.” Charlotte’s gaze moved over the room—the fabric-draped surfaces, the blazing fire, and Mrs. Bennet swooping between guests.
“I am happy, Elizabeth, that you are now embroiled in a living love story rather than delving into dead ones. Have you unearthed anything more about Alice Bennet?”
“Georgiana and I found a humorous book about the Bennet history,” Elizabeth said. “Written when she was fifteen, full of the gossip of the day and the follies of her many aunts and few uncles. Seems the Bennet family always had a surfeit of girls.”
“Yes, which makes Darcy’s sacrifice to bar the entail and include females quite significant.” Charlotte’s gaze was knowing. “I did not even think of the entail when I married Mr. Collins. I only looked for the security of his position at Hunsford.”
Her face was tired and drawn, and Elizabeth well knew the way Lady Lucas badgered her for being widowed at such a young age, as if Charlotte had made an error in judgment.
“You are family, Charlotte,” Elizabeth said. “You married Papa’s cousin. You are a Bennet by marriage, and Jane promised you a home. Perhaps, now that Jane and I are moving out, we can see if you might take the bedchamber we leave behind.”
“I do not suppose Lydia or Kitty would agree,” Charlotte said. “It is true that I am a widow, no longer young, and my world has narrowed more than it was when I was merely a spinster.”
A chill crept along Elizabeth’s spine at the thought of how swiftly fortunes could shift—Charlotte’s today, anyone’s tomorrow.
“How are you passing your time?” Elizabeth asked, watching Lady Lucas parade Maria’s accomplishments against those of Lydia and Kitty, who were presently engaged in a contest of posture and deportment, each balancing a book atop her head with varying degrees of dignity.
“I am in mourning, and Mamma leaves me idle. She goes calling and does not bring me along. I find I would rather be useful than idle.”
“Have you thought about what you will do?”
“Mr. Collins left me a small legacy, and I have spoken to your father about perhaps renting the steward’s cottage.”
“Oh, but it needs more repairs. Darcy had the roof rethatched, but the brickwork and plaster—”
Charlotte waved her hand. “I shall not worry as long as it is dry and I can borrow the cat. More importantly, your father has accepted my help. With you leaving for Pemberley, and Jane going to Netherfield, your parents are worried.”
“That we will take the silver or misplace the china?” Elizabeth’s remark was designed to elicit a laugh, but Charlotte remained entirely serious.
“Your mother finds numbers confusing, and your father cannot be bothered with household accounts. I do not believe Mary wishes to work with numbers while Lydia and Kitty, well, they care more about yardsticks and how to curtsy properly.”
Indeed, Lydia’s voice cut through the murmur of voices. “Kitty, hold the yardstick higher! Mary, you must walk faster, or you shall never develop proper posture!”
“If you cannot pass beneath the yardstick with a book on your head,” Lydia was explaining to a skeptical Kitty, “you shall never be able to curtsy properly at a ball. Mr. Darcy, does Pemberley have balls? Lizzy must insist on balls. We shall all come and dance with officers—”
“So, Charlotte, are you telling me you will be moving to Longbourn?”
“Yes, and I will still be close enough to my parents, but no longer a perennial reminder to my mother. I suppose I might someday grow old here, and be the legendary Mrs. Collins, who haunts the hedgerows, tends to the tenant children, and tells stories to the ducks.”
“Charlotte. You never know what is around the corner.” Elizabeth could not help but feel comforted. “Not long ago, I was deemed barely tolerable, and look where I am now.”
“You are truly fortunate.” Charlotte turned to greet Mr. Darcy, who had arrived at their corner. “Mr. Darcy. I must congratulate you. You have secured the only woman in Hertfordshire who might actually survive Pemberley’s grandeur without becoming insufferable.”
“I am aware of my good fortune, Mrs. Collins.”
“Charlotte, please. If Elizabeth is to become Mrs. Darcy, we shall all need to be on more familiar terms.” Her smile was dry but genuine.
“I understand there was a proposal at a fallen tree. Very romantic. Very symbolic. I trust you did not actually stand on the tree while asking, as that would have been excessive.”
“I refrained from theatrical gestures.”
“Wise. Elizabeth dislikes them. Now, Mr. Darcy, before Mrs. Bennet commandeers the wedding timeline, when will you post banns, issue invites, and inform your relations?”
“Mrs. Bennet has decided that both couples should be wed at St. George’s in London; however, I do not see why we cannot simply elope, now that I have Mr. Bennet’s consent.”
Elizabeth’s jaw dropped, but she could not help the smile, as it would definitely avoid both Mrs. Bennet’s busy bustle and the censure of Darcy’s aunts. Charlotte pressed her lips together in the manner of a woman suppressing a very great deal of amusement.
“You would deprive Mrs. Bennet of her wedding?” Charlotte said. “That is not an elopement, Mr. Darcy. That is a hostile usurpation of maternal privilege.”
“I have survived Lady Catherine. I fancy my chances.”
“Lady Catherine does not have nerves, Mr. Darcy. She has pronouncements. Mrs. Bennet has nerves, and they are contagious, and they multiply under provocation.” Charlotte glanced at Elizabeth with the air of a woman delivering a friendly warning.
“If you elope, she will take to her bed for a month and blame you both for the ruination of her health, her complexion, and her standing in the neighborhood. In that order.”
“Charlotte speaks from intimate knowledge of my mother’s afflictions,” Elizabeth said. “You do not wish to be subjected to her nerves.”
“No, indeed, and I can assure you that Pemberley is sufficiently fortified and distant to withstand a forced march by such nerves.” Darcy gave Elizabeth a wink. “But I suppose having Lady Catherine as a bulwark for us at St. George’s will suffice.”
“And that, Mr. Darcy, is perhaps the wisest thing you have said all evening.”
“Dinner,” Hill announced from the doorway, and Elizabeth had never been more grateful for Hill’s impeccable timing.