“You would give our tenants an annual income of nearly one thousand pounds? Why, that is beyond comprehension!”
“The Turners have proven themselves capable stewards these past seven years. Their industry shall only increase Longbourn’s yield, to our mutual advantage,” Papa replied with restrained patience.
“What of our friends?” Elizabeth pressed further, her dark eyes glittering with the same stubborn light that had characterized her since childhood.
“Sadly, they are rather attached to their own homes.” When Elizabeth expelled a breath of frustration, Papa relented. “You may certainly invite whomever you wish once we are properly established, though I suspect Bedfordshire’s rolling hills and ancient oaks will soon occupy your attention.”
Not quite satisfied with her father’s response, Elizabeth reclined in her seat, arms mulishly wrapped around her middle.
“What about Mr. Bingley?” Mamma interjected, her voice starting to rise to a particular pitch that signalled imminent hysteria. “How can Jane secure him from such a distance? With our daughter not before him, reminding him of her beauty, he may find another lady before Twelfth Night.”
“If he is that fickle, she is well rid of him.” At Mamma’s ensuing wail, Papa sought to calm his distraught wife. “We shall remain through to next year, allowing ample opportunity for his return and courtship. In any case, Jane and Lizzy would benefit from time with the Gardiners in town, with its diversions and the opportunity to purchase a new wardrobe. Kitty and Lydia shall proceed to their schools after Christmas, and Mary…” He regarded his middle daughter with gentle consideration. “Let us see how things proceed. I understand how much these changes might unsettle her.”
“You are so thoughtful, Mr. Bennet.” His wife paused. “Should I call you Lord Bennet, or Lord Rumley?”
“Lord Bennet is incorrect. You may call me by my title name, Lord Rumley, or merely ‘sir’ if you so choose. Now, please excuse me, I have pressing correspondence to attend to.”
Elizabeth closed the bedchamberdoor behind her and Jane with a soft click, muffling both Mamma’s high-pitched exclamations and Mary’s persistent, methodical scales on the piano. With Kitty and Lydia sequestered in their own quarters, no doubt bemoaning their future separation from red-coated officers, and their father ensconced in his book-lined library after receiving yet another express letter, this one delivered by a gentleman bearing royal insignia on his scarlet coat, the sisters had found a moment of reprieve.
“So,LadyJane, what think you of this latest extraordinary development?”
“I know not where to begin. To think Papa is an earl…” Jane removed her fichu and folded it carefully before placing it on their dressing table. “I cannot wrap my thoughts around it all, even though we knew this would come to pass after poor Cousin Arthur’s son died without a legitimate heir. The earl was still in his prime, only two and fifty. It is not right that he is gone.”
“Miss Bingley will choke on her assumptions when she finds out. After deploring our mother’s relations in trade, this news will stick in her craw.”
“You judge her too harshly.” Jane admonished, her cornflower-blue eyes reflecting her innate kindness.
“Do I? Need I remind you of the conversation I overheardat Netherfield during your illness? The one where the Bingley sisters decried our relations in trade.” Elizabeth adopted a haughty tone, tilted her chin at a severe angle, then repeated verbatim the mini tirade. “You must remember, Louisa, when Jane Bennet told us herself, she has uncles in trade. One is an attorney in this dreary little hamlet, the other a gardener in town.”
“Nothing she said was untrue, although Uncle Gardiner is hardly a ‘gardener’,” Jane said, eyes downcast, unwilling to condemn the woman she hoped to call sister one day.
“There was no mistaking the condescension in her voice — it dripped like treacle from a spoon. Mr. Bingley, amiable as always, claimed such matters held no importance to him. Meanwhile, Mr. Darcy declared with cold certainty that our want of connections must necessarily diminish our prospects — prospects, as though we were parcels of land, our worth measured in acreage and proximity to a decent road. I can picture him now, propped up against a wall, glaring out a convenient window as he delivered his unwelcome assessment.”
“Once again, Mr. Darcy spoke nothing but the truth,” Jane replied softly.
“Must you always find the good in everyone? Do you not see?” Elizabeth huffed. “Even before our elevation in status, we were daughters of a landed gentleman with ancestral lands dating back six generations. By birth, we stand as equals to Mr. Darcy and above the Bingleys. Yet Miss Bingley, with nothing but her brother’s fortune to recommend her, looks down upon us and our neighbours. Both she and Mr. Darcy suffer from unwarranted pride. Even Mr. Wickham remarked upon Mr. Darcy’s insufferable arrogance.”
“I would caution you against placing too much faith in Mr. Wickham’s account. His connection to the matter suggestspartiality, and I find his readiness to divulge such personal history to new acquaintances rather troubling.”
“He merely confirmed what I had already suspected. Did you not observe how Mr. Darcy treated Miss Goulding at Lucas Lodge? The poor girl merely enquired about his evening as he passed the refreshment table, and he turned away without a word! A deliberate slight if ever I saw one.”
“Perchance, he failed to hear her,” Jane said in a gentle tone. “Miss Goulding speaks barely above a whisper, and the gathering was particularly boisterous with Lydia’s incessant urging for Mary to play a jig so she could dance.”
“Very well, I will admit he may not have heard her, but I maintain he is insufferably proud and disagreeable.”
“Pride he possesses,” Jane acknowledged, “but given his ancient and noble lineage, perhaps some pride is warranted.” She turned in a small half circle, looking about the room. “Now, shall we discuss what to pack for town? And, more importantly, what shall we send ahead to Bedfordshire?”
While sorting through their cherished possessions, faded silk ribbons in a variety of hues, embroidered handkerchiefs, and miniature portraits of family members in gilt frames, the sisters were interrupted when their maid delivered a letter addressed to Jane.
“It is from Miss Bingley,” Jane said with some surprise, turning the envelope over in her hand to break the wax seal. As her eyes travelled down the page, all colour drained from her face, and she sank onto the cheerful counterpane on their shared four-poster bed. With no hesitation, Elizabeth extended her hand, her dark eyes flashing with concern.
“May I?”
The letter passed from Jane’s limp fingers to her sister’s eager ones, the paper crinkling softly between them.
“The audacity!” Elizabeth thrust the missive of misery back to her distraught sister. “Miss Bingley ought to be ashamed to commit such calculated cruelty to paper.”
“It is quite obvious that Mr. Bingley remains in London to court Miss Darcy,” Jane whispered.
