Page 6 of Elizabeth and Mrs. Bennet

There was also, I must admit, a certain pleasure in the little dramas that unfolded at each gathering: the whispered hopes of the Misses Goulding; the anxious glances exchanged between Maria Lucas and her mother when overlooked for a dance partner; the way Mary King hung breathlessly on every word from the officers. We discussed everything—sometimes in whispers, usually with laughter—when we returned home, before snuffing our candles.

In the second year, I became aware of a change in myself, as subtle as the lengthening days of spring. I no longer sought to distinguish myself by cleverness alone, nor did Jane rely solely on the charm of her countenance. Perhaps, as Mama once remarked, there was more to life than a pretty face and a sharp retort.

There were disappointments, too. Jane suffered, in her quiet way, when a young officer who had shown her particular attention departed with little ceremony. I, too, felt the sting of disappointment when a clever young man, whose conversation delighted me, proved to have more wit than principle. I hope he still smarts from the slap I gave him when he attempted to kiss me in the shadows of the assembly hall. Yet these trials, while painful, were instructive. They taught us both to value sincerity over display, and to look for substance as well as style.

By the time Jane came into her majority, and I, of course, but a year behind, we were no longer the same girls who had come out at our first assemblies. The world had grown both larger and more complicated, and so had we. Jane’s serenity had deepened into a quiet confidence, and I, though still inclined to laughter, had learned the value of silence and the power of words unsaid.

But the real change at Longbourn came from Papa’s increasing rheumatism. He was now almost completely immobilised, and spent his days sitting in a wicker bath chair, pushed by James, our footman. He could hardly turn the pages of his books, his fingers were so curled. I took to reading to him—his histories, the biographies of great men. My Latin was sufficient to read Virgil, Cicero, and Horace in the original—though often I saw him wince at my ill pronunciation. Certainly, I was not offended when he preferred a translation to my attempts to read Homer, Sophocles, or Euripides in my stumbling Greek.

Surprisingly, we found a common interest in Italian opera, likely because I could now perform the arias with some competence, and he would sit beside me in his chair, his eyes closed, listening to Handel and Mozart.

It was during this time that Mama became increasingly withdrawn. She no longer presided over the household with her former energy. I knew she felt increasingly isolated. She had never learnt languages: French, Italian, Latin, Greek. Her education was that of the daughter of an attorney. Her brother, Edward Gardiner, had been sent away to school. But daughters stayed at home; her sole prospect was to seek a good marriage and make a good home for her children.

One rainy afternoon, as she stitched her embroidery by the fire, I ventured, “Mama, would you sit with me, as I play for Papa?”

She looked at me, her expression unreadable, and for a moment I thought she would refuse. Then, she stood and took my arm. Together, we followed James as he pushed Papa’s bath chair to the music room. Mama sat beside him, taking Papa’s hand in hers. She gently stroked his gnarled fingers, surely remembering the very first time they had held hands during The Haymakers.

I found the music, my fingers gently touching the keys. As I began the introduction, Mama closed her eyes, letting the music talk to her. I sang I Know That My Redeemer Liveth and let the words of Handel’s masterpiece speak for themselves: victory over death, and eternal hope.

Thereafter, Mama would often sit with us as I sang or read to Papa, always holding his hand. Nevertheless, her spirits fluctuated—some days she was brisk and practical, as she had been in our childhood; on others, she seemed lost in thought or memory, her eyes fixed on the rain streaking down the parlour windows.

* * *

Chapter 3

Meryton

Meryton assemblies once more played an uncommon role in my life. Those assemblies where both Jane and I had left behind our childhood and joined society as young adults—four years since I had come out, and five years for Jane. This assembly proved to be no different, for it was where I lost my dear sister.

A new tenant had leased Netherfield Park, whom we had yet to meet. Papa was unable to visit, so we at Longbourn were yet to receive a visit from the gentleman—a gentleman over whom the neighbourhood now assumed proprietary rights. Mrs. Long, a gossip exceeded only by our own Aunt Hattie, had declared that Netherfield was taken by a young man of large fortune from the north of England. Naturally, he was seen as a prospective husband for any of the young ladies of the neighbourhood. It was certain that Sir William Lucas had already called, for Lady Lucas was determined that her two eldest daughters, Charlotte and Maria, should be the first to meet any eligible single man new to the district. Yet Sir William was generous, and would certainly introduce the Netherfield party to Mama, Jane, and me when they attended the October assembly.

Neither Jane nor I thought of taking a husband. Jane, who had reached her majority, was quite content living at Longbourn. Since our fortunes, and that of Mama, were sufficient for our future needs should we lose Longbourn to the entail, there was no urgency to seek the security of marrying a man of means. Mama did not push us, and we were all too aware that bearing children could bring both joy and sorrow to a woman’s life.

Thus, when the Netherfield party entered the assembly room, we stood to the side and watched with some amusement the hush that descended over the place, followed by the rustle of muslin and the waving of fans as the principal families surged forward waiting to be introduced.

We had learnt that Netherfield was leased by a Mr. Bingley, who appeared good looking and gentlemanlike; he had a pleasant countenance and easy, unaffected manners. He was accompanied by two women—his sisters—well dressed, both with an air of decided elegance. The husband of one, Mr. Hurst, quickly made his way to the card table. There remained a further gentleman, tall and distinguished, silver threading his hair. His countenance, not young but still remarkably fine, was sufficiently pleasing that the ladies of the room declared he was handsomer than Mr. Bingley and looked upon him with great admiration.

They soon made themselves acquainted with all the principal people in the room. While Longbourn was the largest estate in the district, our introduction was delayed until Sir William came up to introduce us.

“Mrs. Bennet, may I have the pleasure of introducing Mr. George Darcy of Pemberley, Derbyshire?”

Mr. Darcy bowed. “Mrs. Bennet, will you do me the honour of the next dance?”

Mama, taken aback—for it was many years since she had danced at the assembly—replied with a sigh of real regret. “Mr. Darcy, you are too kind. But I must decline. My husband, Mr. Bennet, suffers terribly with arthritis and remains at Longbourn tonight. I cannot, in good conscience, take to the floor when he is in such pain at home.”

Mr. Darcy expressed his concern. “Indeed, arthritis is exceedingly painful. I hope he will soon be restored to good health.”

“You are very kind, sir. He is much tried by circumstance, but he bears it with great fortitude. I only wish he were here to see how well his daughters are admired tonight.”

“I have rarely met with such amiable young ladies,” Mr. Darcy replied. “Perhaps, at the risk of causing offence for having been refused a dance by the mother, I turn to the equally charming daughter. Miss Elizabeth, will you favour me with the next?”

I smiled, accepted, and soon found myself engaged in the lively figures of Honest Men and Bonny Lasses. Mr. Darcy, though not given to idle chatter, had a dry humour and a pleasing discourse. He spoke of his travels, the beauty of Derbyshire, and, with some pride, of his children.

“My son Fitzwilliam joins me in London in a few days,” he said, “and my daughter Georgiana, who is but fifteen, will be with us as well. She is all that is good and gentle; I am only sorry she could not be here tonight.”

“If she were to visit, she shall be very welcome. I have often heard that the ladies of Derbyshire are particularly accomplished.”

He chuckled. “You must not believe half what you hear. The ladies of Hertfordshire, I find, are not to be surpassed.”