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Mrs. Bennet swept away toward the drawing room, calling for her salts. Collins soon followed and was obliged to hear a lengthy explanation of the young lady's unfortunate obstinacy.

Elizabeth escaped upstairs. She stood beside her bed with her hands shaking, unable at first to do anything but stare at the trunk that held her mother's books. She had thought herself prepared for her aunt's anger. She had not been prepared to discover how thoroughly affection could be accounted for like an expense in a ledger.

When Jane entered a little later, Elizabeth was sitting by the window with the locket open in her lap.

"Lizzy," Jane began, "Mama did not mean everything she said."

"Perhaps not," Elizabeth answered. "But she meant enough."

Jane sat beside her. "You have done nothing wrong."

Elizabeth tried to smile. "It is curious. I have spent eight years trying not to be a burden. I never imagined that one day I should be presented with the bill."

Jane put her arms around her. Elizabeth resisted for only an instant before she began to cry.

When the worst of her weeping had passed, Elizabeth found herself looking not at Jane but at the old washstand beside the bed. There was a faint stain in the wood from the first winter after she came to Longbourn, when she had overturned a bottle of ink while trying to copy one of her mother's German poems. Thomas had laughed, fetched a cloth, and promised to keep the incident secret if she would refrain from accusing the furniture of malice. It was such a small memory to lose a home over.

"I shall miss the way Papa used to open his library door when he heard us arguing," Elizabeth said. "He never admitted that he had been listening."

Jane took her hand. "Then we shall have to argue in letters. He would disapprove of our growing dull."

Elizabeth tried to smile and could not. Jane rested her cheek against Elizabeth's hair. They stayed together until the candles had burned low, and then Jane went downstairs to arrange a tray for the next morning. Elizabeth heard her speaking calmly to the servants about tea and fresh linen. Jane had her own grief, yet she continued attending to the small necessities of the house. Elizabeth loved her for it, and hated that love could not make either of them safe from parting.

CHAPTER 7

An Appeal to Matlock

Jane Bennet had seldom acted without first considering whether her conduct might cause unhappiness to another person. It was one reason she was beloved by almost everyone who knew her, and occasionally a source of vexation to Elizabeth, who considered that some people deserved to be made uncomfortable.

Yet Jane's gentleness had never meant an absence of courage.

On the morning after Elizabeth refused Mr. Collins, Jane went into their uncle's library and closed the door. His writing desk still held a few ordinary papers, and his favourite chair stood angled toward the window. The familiar sight made Jane pause. Then she took out a clean sheet and began to write.

My lord,

I hope you will forgive me for addressing you without first asking my cousin's permission. I should not presume upon the friendship you have shown her if I did not believe the matter of some importance.

She wrote slowly, choosing each word with care. She explained Mr. Bennet's death, the unsettled household, Mr. Collins's proposal, and Elizabeth's refusal. She did not condemn her mother. She described her distress and fears as fairly as she could. But she also made clear that Elizabeth was being pressed to accept a marriage she did not want, and that the threat of losing her home made resistance more difficult.

At the end she wrote:

Elizabeth believes she must bear these difficulties without troubling you. I fear that she has nowhere to go where she may be certain of welcome, and I cannot bear to see her persuaded that gratitude requires such a sacrifice. If there is any advice you might offer her, I should be profoundly obliged.

Jane sealed the letter before she could reconsider. She gave it to a servant to post and returned to the sitting room with a composure that cost her considerable effort.

Meanwhile, Elizabeth discovered that Mr. Collins's disappointment had not lessened his confidence in the justice of his suit. He informed her at luncheon that he was willing to overlook her first refusal if she would acknowledge its impropriety. Elizabeth answered that a refusal given honestly was not improper and that she had no intention of withdrawing it.

After the letter was sent, Jane passed a restless night. She had never before written to a great person on a matter her mother wished concealed, and she knew that an earl might reasonably regard her appeal as a presumption. Yet each time she remembered Elizabeth's face in the passage, she was glad she had written.

At breakfast she found Lydia and Kitty arguing over whether Mrs. Bennet would permit a visit to their Aunt Phillips once they removed to Meryton. Mary interrupted to remind them that their father had scarcely been buried. Their quarrel stopped at once. The ensuing silence seemed more grievous to Jane than the noise.

"We must not talk as though we have ceased to be a family," Jane said gently. "Papa is gone, and we shall leave this house, but we shall still have one another."

Kitty began to cry. Lydia pushed her cup away. "I do not want to leave," she said, in so small a voice that Jane looked at her with surprise.

For all Lydia's high spirits, she was only eleven. Jane crossed the room and embraced both younger girls. She could not promise they would remain at Longbourn, nor could she explain when they would have a new home. She could promise that she would go with them, and that Mary and Elizabeth would not be forgotten.

Elizabeth entered as Jane drew back. She had heard enough to understand that the younger girls feared the loss of one another more than the loss of their furniture. For the first time since the proposal, she felt able to speak without either anger or tears.