A New Mistress at Longbourn
Mrs. Fanny Bennet died unexpectedly. What began as a trifling cold—no more than a chill taken on an errand into Meryton—settled upon her chest and would not be dislodged. Within a day or two, the servants spoke of a fever; within the week, the apothecary used graver language, and the house itself seemed to listen. Doors closed, fires were kept high, and the girls were moved about in a manner that could not disguise the growing alarm. Mr. Bennet, who had never been much given to agitation, was seen to stand longer than usual at the threshold of his wife’s chamber, as though uncertain whether his presence would comfort or disturb.
The illness did not yield. It deepened. There were hours in which Mrs. Bennet rallied sufficiently to speak, to give a direction or two regarding the household, to inquire after her daughters with a composure that encouraged hope. Those hours passed, and the fever returned with greater force. In the second week, all pretense was set aside. The apothecary came twice ina day; a nurse was engaged from the village; and the girls were kept almost completely from their mother’s sight.
Jane, at thirteen, understood more than the others. She bore the separation with silent obedience, though her eyes often turned toward the stairs. Mary sought comfort in order and routine, clinging to her lessons as though diligence might steady the world. Kitty and Lydia, too young to grasp the danger in full, felt the strangeness of it and resented it in the only way they knew—by whispering, fidgeting, and by asking questions that could not be answered.
At the end of a fortnight, the house fell silent.
Mrs. Bennet’s death left behind grief and a disorder of feeling that no one could at first name. Mr. Bennet, who had married from convenience and habit rather than deep attachment, discovered in her absence a weight he had never expected. There were duties to discharge, condolences to receive, and arrangements to make; he accomplished them all with a steadiness that might have been mistaken for indifference, if the strain about his mouth had not betrayed him.
The girls felt the loss in different ways. Jane became more watchful, as though she had been entrusted with something too delicate for words. Mary grew more earnest. Kitty and Lydia, deprived of much of the indulgence they had once enjoyed and still lacking firm guidance, veered between tears and restlessness. The house itself seemed to have lost its center.
Time, however, does what it always does. Weeks became months; the sharpest edge of grief weathered, though it did not vanish. Longbourn resumed its outward order, but an essential uncertainty lingered.
It was nearly a year to the day when Mr. Bennet returned from Meryton with an air of decision that promptly drew notice. He found his daughters in the sitting room. Jane was attempting to read aloud while Kitty and Lydia disputed the ownership ofa ribbon. Mary sat apart with a book open upon her lap, her attention clearly elsewhere.
“My dear girls,” he began, taking up his usual place, though with less of his customary ease, “I have news that will, I trust, be of consequence to us all.”
The ribbon was instantly forgotten. Lydia turned first, her curiosity unrestrained. Kitty followed, her expression hopeful. Jane closed her book. Mary marked her place with careful fingers.
“I am to be married again.”
For a moment, no one spoke. The words were plain, though their meaning required a moment’s accommodation.
“To be married, Papa?” Kitty repeated, as though confirmation might alter the fact.
“To be married,” he said. “My intended is Mrs. Grace Barnett, a widow who has lately resided in London.”
“A widow,” Lydia said, with all the gravity of her six years. “Then she will be very old.”
“Far from it,” Mr. Bennet replied, the vaguest hint of amusement returning to him. “Mrs. Barnett is still a comparatively young woman. Indeed, I knew her in our youth.”
“In your youth?” Mary echoed.
“My childhood sweetheart,” he said, as though the phrase surprised him even as he spoke it. “Circumstances led us in different directions. She married a gentleman in trade—successfully so, I am given to understand—and has now been a widow for some time.”
Jane became more attentive. “She has lived in London, you say, Papa?”
“She has. She brings with her one daughter, Miss Elizabeth Barnett, who is eleven years of age.”
“Another girl,” Lydia said, with a mixture of interest and disappointment.
“Perhaps only for a short time,” Kitty added, glancing toward Jane with sudden animation. “If she is to have more children—”
Jane’s color rose slightly, but she did not shrink from the thought. “It may be that we shall have a brother,” she said, striving for composure and only partly succeeding. “Which would be a very happy circumstance.”
“To break the entail,” Mary said, as though supplying a necessary clarification.
Lydia seized upon the idea. “Then she must have a boy,” she declared. “And he must be born very soon.”
Mr. Bennet allowed himself a small smile. “Your new mother will, I think, appreciate not being hurried in such a matter. In any case, Mrs. Barnett is expected at Longbourn next week. She will meet you all, and if all proceeds as it ought, we shall marry as soon as the banns are read.”
“So soon?” Kitty exclaimed.
“Soon enough,” he said. “And as there must be some compensation for the haste, I have determined that each of you will have a new gown for the occasion.”
That pronouncement produced the effect he had intended. Lydia clapped her hands. Kitty began to speculate upon colors. Even Mary appeared pleased, though she said nothing. Jane’s smile held more feeling than display.
