Chapter One: A Change of Plans
Elizabeth Bennet stood at the summit of Oakham Mount and considered whether it would be inappropriate to scream into the wind until her lungs ached.
She held her aunt Gardiner’s letter in her gloved hand. The elegant, crossed script delivered the worst possible news a young woman in her position could receive. Mr Gardiner was detained by business. The summer tour to the Lakes was cancelled.
A robin landed on a nearby branch and began to chirp with offensive cheerfulness.
Elizabeth glared at the small creature. She did not feel cheerful. She felt as though the universe had personally singled her out for a spectacular sequence of disappointments.
First, a disastrous proposal from the most infuriating man in England.
Then, a letter from said infuriating man, dismantling her understanding of the world, her sister’s suitor, and the purportedly charming Mr Wickham.
And now, no escape to the Lakes. She was to be trapped in Longbourn for the entirety of the summer.
The robin chirped louder, mocking her.
Elizabeth turned her back on the bird and began the walk down the hill. She needed a moment of peace to compose herfeatures into a mask of acceptable filial piety before facing her family.
Naturally, peace was the one commodity Longbourn strictly prohibited.
Even from the gravel driveway, the noise was remarkable. It sounded as though a flock of very distressed geese had invaded and settled in for breakfast.
Elizabeth pushed open the door.
Hill, the housekeeper, stood in the hallway. She caught Elizabeth’s eye, released a sigh, and shook her head with weariness. The poor woman had seen too much in that household.
Elizabeth stepped into the breakfast parlour, which in her private estimation presented a tableau of domestic chaos so complete it bordered on artistic. It was not the room’s fault. The morning sun shone through the windows, the tea was hot, and the toast was crisp. No, the fault lay with the inhabitants, who approached every minor inconvenience with the dramatic intensity of a Shakespearean climax.
On this particular morning, however, the eggs had scarcely been consumed before Lydia announced, with great feeling, that she was dying of boredom.
“You cannot imagine,” she declared, collapsing into her chair with theatrical despair, “how insufferable it is to live in a neighbourhood where nothing ever happens.”
Kitty, who had only just begun her breakfast, looked alarmed at the suggestion that life might be insufferable before ten o’clock.
“I think something might happen,” she offered hopefully. “There is always something.”
“There is not,” Lydia returned with certainty, as if she had examined the matter thoroughly. “Nothing of consequence, at least. No officers any more, no assemblies worth attending, no excitement whatsoever. There is nothing to do, and I am quite convinced I shall waste away before Michaelmas.”
Mary lowered her book. “Idleness is the enemy of the mind.”
Lydia gave her a look of deep injury. “Then your mind must be very safe, Mary.”
Mr Bennet turned a page of his newspaper. “A sound conclusion, Lydia. Not elegant, perhaps, but sound.”
Mrs Bennet, who had been vigorously buttering her toast, set down the knife. “You will do no such thing,” she exclaimed. “You are in excellent health, and I will not have you talking of wasting away when there are perfectly good eggs before you.”
“They are not exciting eggs,” Lydia moaned.
Hill entered, carrying a tray with the morning post. She handed over most of the missives to Mr Bennet, one to Mary, and one to Lydia. Lydia wasted no time, tearing it open, her eyes darting through the letter. Her eyes grew round, she clutched the letter to her chest as if it were the Crown Jewels, and her face flushed with triumph.
“I am to go to Brighton!” She spun in a circle, her skirts knocking dangerously against a side table. “Mrs Forster has invited me! Oh, the officers! The sea air! The assemblies!”
Kitty blinked, then her eyes widened in despair, presenting a picture of complete tragedy. “What? It is unfair! Mamma, it is unfair! I am older by two years. I ought to go to Brighton. I like officers just as much as Lydia does.”
“But Mrs Forster is my particular friend.” Lydia executed another triumphant spin. “She prefers my company. You would only complain about the salt in the air and cough all the time.”
Mary drew herself up. “You are both too young to understand the dangers of levity.”
