The Next Heir of Longbourn

Chapter 1

Elizabeth Bennet

Elizabeth Bennet sat near the window with her work in her lap, though her needle paused more often than it moved.

At the tail end of a long, slow morning that had offered little beyond the usual routine, she found herself more inclined to observe than to work — even when there was little to observe beyond the chatting, conversation, and complaints that she had witnessed nearly every day of her life.

How strange it was! To judge by the way her mother and younger sisters acted, they might not even have noticed that their father was missing.

“Oh, dear Jane, how ill-used I am,” Mrs Bennet was declaring even then. She pressed her hand to her chest as though the injustice were a physical burden. “To have Netherfield Park let to a single gentleman, and no way to begin the acquaintance. And I with five unmarried daughters!”

The eldest of those five daughters, who had seated herself beside her mother in hopes of keeping her nerves on an even keel, reached out and patted her hand.

“I am sure it will all come right, Mama,” Jane said soothingly.

“Mrs Long has already made the gentleman’s acquaintance, and she will certainly introduce us. ”

“Certainly not,” Mrs Bennet replied at once. “Mrs Long will do no such thing. She has two nieces of her own to think of, and I dare say she will keep the gentleman entirely to herself until one of them is well settled. It is very ill-natured, and I do not know what the world is coming to.”

Elizabeth lowered her gaze to her sewing to hide a wry smile.

The world was coming to exactly what it had always been.

A young man of fortune arrived in the neighbourhood, and every family with unmarried daughters found reason to believe themselves ill-used if they were not the first to secure his notice.

Jane, however, only said gently, “I do not believe Mrs Long is so selfish. She has always been a good friend to us, do not you think, Mama? Besides, there will be other opportunities. We shall meet him at the next assembly, if not before.”

“The assembly,” Mrs Bennet repeated with an air of deep dissatisfaction.

“And what good will that do if he has already formed an attachment? A young man of good fortune, unmarried, and newly come into the neighbourhood. Every family will be determined to secure him. And we, without your father to call first.”

She spoke the last with particular emphasis, as though the entire difficulty rested upon that single circumstance.

Elizabeth’s needle paused again. That absence, which her mother treated only as an inconvenience, had ceased to feel so trivial to her.

Jane attempted once more to soothe her mother. “Papa may return sooner than we expect. Or perhaps he has written to us, and we shall receive a letter today.”

“Perhaps he has written?” Mrs Bennet repeated with a snort of derision.

“No, my dear girl. He has had every opportunity to write already, and yet we have heard nothing. Nothing at all. It is very strange behaviour, and I cannot imagine what possesses him to act so. He is only staying away to tease us, I am sure of it, and too idle to write besides.”

Elizabeth thought she might easily imagine it, and yet that explanation did not seem quite right — not in light of what her father’s absence meant to their family and to the estate. That was precisely what troubled her.

She rose quietly before she could be drawn into the conversation. There was no use in remaining. Her mother’s distress would not be lessened by reason, and her own patience was not equal to the attempt.

No one stopped her as she slipped from the room.

The air outside was cool and fresh, carrying with it the faint scent of damp earth and fallen leaves.

The grounds of Longbourn stretched before her in soft shades of gold and brown, the hedgerows thinning, the trees already giving way to autumn.

There was a stillness to the morning that invited reflection, and Elizabeth welcomed it.

She walked without any particular direction at first, following the path as it curved away from the house.

The quiet was a relief after the restless agitation inside the house, and she drew a steady breath, allowing herself, for a moment, to be governed by nothing more pressing than the rhythm of her steps.

It had been a month since her father left.

At the time, she had not thought it so remarkable as she did now.

Mr Bennet was not a man who explained himself readily.

Quite the contrary, for he delighted in astonishing his family.

A brief absence, even an inconvenient one, might be borne with patience.

But a month was not a brief absence. And the silence that accompanied it was more difficult still.

The morning her father had left stood out in Elizabeth’s mind with uncomfortable clarity.

He had entered the breakfast room with a travelling bag already in his hand.

The sight of it had stopped her in the middle of her greeting to her father, for Mr Bennet had never made any secret of his dislike for travelling.

Mr Bennet did not comment on his family’s astonishment, but only nodded a greeting to them all. He set his bag down beside his chair with a deliberate thump, as though the matter had been settled long before it was spoken aloud.

“I must go away for a time,” he had said.

Mrs Bennet had stared at him in astonishment. “Go away? Where?”

“On business.”

“What business?”

“Important business.”

There had been a brief pause, in which it seemed certain that some further explanation must follow.

But none did.

“Papa, surely you can tell us something of where you are going?” Elizabeth asked.

He had met her eyes then, and just for an instant, she thought she saw something. Urgency? Excitement? And then his expression settled back into its usual detachment. Elizabeth had exchanged a glance with Jane, both of them expecting more, and both equally disappointed.

“You cannot mean to leave us in this manner,” Mrs Bennet protested. “Without telling us where you are going, or when you shall return.”

Mr Bennet’s expression had not altered. There was the faintest hint of amusement in it, as though he were privately entertained by the confusion he had created.

“I shall return when I am ready,” he said. “You will manage very well without me.”

“But what is to become of us?” Mrs Bennet cried. “And what am I to say to our neighbours?”

“My dear,” he replied, with mild composure, “you have never yet found yourself at a loss for something to say to your neighbours.”

Elizabeth had almost smiled then, in spite of herself.

Jane had tried a different approach. “At least tell us how we may direct a letter to you.”

“There will be no need for it,” he returned. “I shall write when it is necessary.”

“And when will that be?”

“When I have something to say.”

It had been impossible to press him further. Within a short time, he was gone.

At first, Elizabeth had not been alarmed. There was nothing in his manner to suggest danger, and though his departure was sudden, it did not seem serious. She had expected his return, or at least a letter, within a week.

But the week passed with no sign of either Mr Bennet or so much as a hastily written note, only to be followed by another and another, until a full month had passed.

Elizabeth could no longer persuade herself that Mr Bennet was acting out some private joke.

Her father enjoyed teasing them, but he was not entirely careless of his family’s peace of mind.

He might act without warning, but not without reason.

To remain silent for so long was not merely unusual. It was troubling.

She and Jane had spoken of it often in private, and more than once they had attempted to persuade their mother to make inquiries. Each time, they were met with the same firm refusal.

Mr Bennet, Mrs Bennet insisted, was only amusing himself. He would return when it suited him, and if he neglected to write, it was only from indolence. To send anyone in search of him would be to make a great deal of nothing, and she would not be made ridiculous on his account.

Elizabeth could not share her confidence. She turned back toward the house, any hope of calm already giving way to a renewed sense of unease.

But even that unease must be quickly put aside, for there was too much to be done for her to indulge in it for long. On that thought, she turned back towards the house.

With her father gone, the management of Longbourn had not ceased.

It had only changed hands. She and Jane had taken on what they could.

Mary had contributed as well, for her seriousness of mind proved well-suited to the task of ensuring that everything was organised and nothing forgotten.

That was a considerable undertaking, for there were accounts to examine, tenants to consider, and a hundred small decisions that would not wait upon Mr Bennet’s return.

Elizabeth would begin with the ledgers. There were still entries she did not fully understand, and others that seemed to require more attention than they had previously received.

After that, she must change and go out to the fields to speak with the farm manager.

The question of what was to be done in preparation for the coming winter could not be delayed, and someone must give an answer.

A month. It had been a full month, and not a single word. She had told herself, at first, that he was simply being himself: secretive, whimsical, perhaps even deliberately provoking. But as the days stretched into weeks, that explanation had grown thinner. Something was wrong.

It was astonishing to her that her mother could dwell so entirely on the inconvenience of a missed introduction, and not at all on the absence that caused it.

Whatever Netherfield might bring, whatever new acquaintance or opportunity it promised, it could not matter half so much as the simple fact that her father was gone, and no word had come from him.