Chapter 9
Elizabeth Bennet
Elizabeth woke before dawn.
For several moments, she lay still beneath the coverlet, disoriented by the darkness and silence around her. Then the events of the previous evening returned, and whatever lingering hope sleep might have offered disappeared.
Mr Collins and the license. Her mother’s determination.
She opened her eyes fully and stared upward into the dimness of the room. Beside her, Jane still slept peacefully, unaware that by evening Elizabeth intended to be many miles from Longbourn.
The thought brought a sharp ache with it, but it did not make her doubt.
She turned carefully, watching her sister for a moment in the faint grey light.
Even in sleep, Jane’s face retained its habitual gentleness.
Elizabeth knew with painful certainty that if she woke her now and explained everything, Jane would suffer deeply from being forced to choose between loyalty to her mother and loyalty to her sister.
No good could come of placing such a burden on her.
Elizabeth slipped from the bed.
The room was cold. She dressed quickly, pausing now and then to listen for movement elsewhere in the house. Nothing stirred beyond the occasional settling creak of old floorboards and the distant sound of wind against the windows.
She had already decided what must be done.
The public stage passed through Meryton on its way to London.
If she could reach it unseen, she would be at Gracechurch Street by evening.
Her Aunt and Uncle Gardiner would receive her kindly, and once she was safely in London, even Mrs Bennet could not force her into marriage. At least, Elizabeth hoped not.
Everything beyond that point remained uncertain, but staying at Longbourn seemed impossible now. Every hour she stayed placed her nearer to a marriage she could neither consent to honestly nor escape once it was completed.
She crossed to the small wardrobe and removed a travelling bag, wincing slightly at the sound of the clasp. Jane stirred behind her, but did not wake.
She began packing quickly. Only the necessities. A few clothes. Gloves. Money from her writing desk. Her brush. A small novel nearly went into the bag, before Elizabeth set it aside again in irritation at herself. She was not leaving for a holiday.
All at once, the absurdity of the situation struck her.
Yesterday she had been talking and laughing with Charlotte Lucas, discussing the Netherfield ball as though she had nothing more to fear than Mr Collin’s annoying attempts at gallantry.
Now she was preparing to flee her own home before breakfast like a criminal escaping prosecution.
She stopped briefly, one hand resting against the edge of the table as the full weight of it settled over her.
Not fleeing her home. Saving herself. The distinction mattered.
Elizabeth drew a steadying breath and reached for paper.
The note to Jane took longer than she expected, not because the words were difficult to find, but because none of them seemed sufficient. At last she wrote only what necessity required.
Dearest Jane,
Forgive me for alarming you, but I cannot remain at Longbourn at present.
I go to a place where I can be safe, and where I will remain until Papa returns.
You and Mary must take care of the estate now.
I have left a note with instructions in Papa’s study.
Do not worry — there is less to do now that winter is almost here.
And do not distress yourself on my account. I am sure this is for the best.
Your affectionate sister,
Elizabeth
She folded the note quickly and placed it under Jane’s hairbrush, where she could not fail to see it.
There was not much time left. The house would soon begin to wake. Elizabeth fastened her bag with trembling hands and listened once more to the quiet noises beyond the door. Somewhere below stairs, a servant moved across the kitchen passage.
Elizabeth waited until Jane’s breathing settled once more before moving toward the door.
Every sound seemed unnaturally loud. The latch. The faint rustle of her skirts. But not the creak beneath one floorboard near the hearth, which she had known since childhood and avoided now by instinct. She slipped into the corridor and closed the door carefully behind her.
The house remained dim and silent in the pale hour before morning properly began. No lamps had yet been lit downstairs, and the weak grey light reaching through the windows left the passage lined in shadow.
Elizabeth moved quickly. She had nearly reached the back staircase when another door opened softly behind her.
“Lizzy?”
Elizabeth stopped.
Mary stepped out of her room into the corridor, a candle in one hand and a book clasped against her chest with the other. Her hair hung loosely braided over one shoulder, and though her expression held surprise, it was not entirely sleepy. Mary had likely been awake for some time already.
For one brief instant, Elizabeth considered denying everything.
Then Mary’s eyes dropped to the travelling bag in her hand. “Where are you going?”
Elizabeth glanced instinctively toward the staircase. “Not so loud,” she whispered.
Mary lowered her voice at once, but her expression only sharpened further. “Lizzy…what are you doing?”
Elizabeth paused. The stage would not wait for her uncertainty, and every passing minute increased the danger of encountering Mrs Bennet or Mr Collins downstairs.
“I am going to London.”
Mary stared at her. “To London?”
“To Uncle Gardiner’s house. I shall remain there until Papa returns.”
The silence that followed was brief but absolute. “You are leaving?” Mary said at last.
“I must.”
Mary looked genuinely shaken. “Without Mama’s permission?”
Elizabeth gave a short, humourless laugh. “Mama intends to marry me to Mr Collins before the week is out. I believe we have passed beyond ordinary questions of permission.”
Mary tightened her hold on the book in her hands. “You cannot mean to run away.”
“I mean to avoid being forced into marriage.”
“Lizzy…”
Elizabeth glanced sharply toward the stairs. “Please,” she whispered. “You must speak more quietly.”
Mary lowered her voice, but not her objections. “This is wrong.”
Elizabeth closed her eyes. “I know how it appears.”
“You would leave your family in distress. Mama would be overwhelmed. Jane —”
“Jane will understand eventually.”
Mary shook her head. “No. No, I do not think she will. Whatever she feels privately, Jane would never approve of open disobedience to our mother.”
“That is precisely why I could not tell her beforehand.”
Mary looked at her with growing alarm. “You truly intend to go.”
“Yes.”
“And refuse Mr Collins entirely?”
Elizabeth almost smiled despite herself. “I had believed I made that point rather thoroughly yesterday.”
“This is not a matter for wit.”
“No,” Elizabeth whispered. “It is not.”
Mary took a slow breath, as if steadying herself before entering an argument she considered both necessary and unpleasant. “You speak as though your own feelings are the only consideration,” she said. “But they are not. We are not independent creatures, free to act only according to inclination.”
Elizabeth leaned more heavily against the banister, exhaustion and impatience pressing at the edges of her composure. “I know that very well.”
“Mama is frightened,” Mary continued. “We all are, whether we choose to acknowledge it openly or not. Papa is gone. The future of this family grows more uncertain every day. And now an opportunity has presented itself to secure all our comfort and stability.”
“At the cost of my happiness.”
Mary’s expression tightened slightly. “Happiness is not always the first duty of life.”
Elizabeth looked at her steadily. “No. But honesty is.”
Mary frowned. “You speak as if marriage to Mr Collins would be some terrible moral failing.”
“It would.”
“How?”
Elizabeth answered softly. “Because I would stand in a church and promise affection, respect, obedience, and constancy to a man I neither love nor esteem.”
Mary shifted slightly, clearly prepared to object, but Elizabeth continued before she could. “And every word of it would be false.”
“That is too strong.”
“Is it?” Elizabeth asked. “Tell me honestly, Mary. Do you believe vows cease to matter merely because they are convenient?”
Mary opened her mouth, then stopped. The candlelight flickered faintly between them. “I do not say vows are unimportant,” she replied after a moment. “Only that marriage has often existed very comfortably without romantic attachment.”
“This is not a question of romance.”
Mary looked unconvinced. “You said yourself you do not love him.”
“I said I cannot respect him.”
Mary grew still.
Elizabeth stepped closer, lowering her voice further. “If Mr Collins were merely ridiculous, I could endure him. But he does not hear me, Mary. I refused him plainly yesterday. I refused him again and again, and every refusal became, in his mind, proof that I secretly meant to accept him.”
Mary’s eyes dropped. “You exaggerate.”
“I do not.”
Elizabeth drew in a harsh breath. “He believes himself to be kind. That is the worst part of it. He is perfectly sincere in thinking my judgment ought eventually to surrender itself to his.”
Mary said nothing.
“And if I marry him,” Elizabeth continued, “then everyone will expect precisely the same thing. That I smile, obey, flatter, and cease to be myself because it is more convenient for others.”
“You speak very passionately.”
“Because it terrifies me.” The words escaped before Elizabeth could soften them.
Mary looked up sharply. For several seconds, neither spoke.
Then Mary said, more carefully than before, “Many women endure unhappy marriages.”
“Yes,” Elizabeth replied. “And many become smaller inside them.”
Mary’s fingers tightened slightly around the book she still carried against her chest. “That is a selfish way to think.”