Page 17 of Elizabeth and Mrs. Bennet

I walked with Jane to the door, holding her hand tightly. “Write to me,” I whispered, and she promised she would. Bingley helped her into the carriage, and with a last wave, they were gone, the sound of the wheels on the gravel fading into the afternoon. Thus my sister was gone away, and part of my heart with her. Mama took my hand; we both had tears in our eyes.

* * *

I took my little cousins into the garden, letting them run and play. I suspect too many honey cakes had enlivened their spirits, and we played tag until we all fell exhausted onto the ground. I saw Mama watching from the window; then she was with us, laughing and sitting on the ground—more refined than I, who was sprawled inelegantly with little Robert, just two years old, sitting atop my back.

It was a rare thing to see Mama so light-hearted, the creases about her eyes softened by laughter, her cap ever so slightly askew. I could not help but smile at the sight, even as I felt Robert’s small hands tugging at a stray curl that had escaped my bonnet.

“Lizzy, Lizzy, you are a horse,” he declared, and I obliged him by offering a gentle trot about the lawn—admittedly a very weary horse—much to his delight and the shrill approval of his elder sister, Alice.

Alice, at eight, surveyed our play as though she had outgrown such amusements, only to be undone by a sudden fit of giggles when Robert nearly tumbled from my back. I caught him in time, and he pressed his damp cheek to mine, whispering in the solemn way children do, “Will you always be here, Lizzy?”

It was a question I could not answer, not truthfully, for the world had changed in the last days. With Jane and Bingley gone, Longbourn felt suddenly empty. Now, with my cousins visiting—a welcome distraction—there was a joyful bustle about the house, the rooms still carrying the scents of celebration: honey cakes, sherry, and the faintest trace of lavender from the ribbons in Jane’s hair.

Mama, perhaps feeling the same, busied herself with Alice and Amelia, showing them how to pluck marigolds and daisies for a posy.

“You must always make the most of a good garden, my dears,” she said, “for you never know when you may be called upon to decorate a dinner table at a moment’s notice!” Her tone was bright, but I saw her glance at the window, where Papa’s silhouette could be glimpsed, hunched over a book, his fingers curled stiffly about the pages.

Papa’s arthritis had declared itself with a vengeance, and though he would not admit to the pain, he often winced when he thought himself unobserved.

“Books are quite the best companions, Lizzy,” he had told me. “They do not require conversation, nor do they offer opinions on one’s choice of ribbons, nor do they break your heart when a daughter leaves home.” I smiled and kissed his forehead, careful not to press too hard.

The sun slipped lower in the sky, and the children began to wilt, their energies at last expended. I gathered them close for a story beneath the sycamore, Alice and Amelia curled against my side, Robert’s head in my lap, and little James—only four—sitting cross-legged, his eyes wide with anticipation. The tale was one of dragons and brave girls with clever tongues—a favourite, for reasons I need hardly explain—and soon their eyelids drooped.

Mama rose, brushing the grass from her skirts. She looked down at me and for a moment, her hand lingered on my shoulder.

“We shall be quite lost without Jane, Lizzy,” she whispered. “But I suppose we must make do.”

Inside, the house was in a gentle disarray, remnants of the wedding still to be cleared away. I heard Lydia’s shrill laughter echoing down the stairs; Mary was already installed at the piano-forte; Kitty sat with Aunt Madelaine, who was dressing a bonnet.

I carried Robert upstairs, his weight a comfort, and settled him in the nursery with the others. Downstairs, I paused at the library door, listening. Papa did not call, though he must have heard the creak of the floorboards, so I slipped away, reluctant to disturb him.

Mama and I met in the parlour, where Uncle Edward and Aunt Madelaine sat, all of us seeking company.

“Well, Fanny,” said Uncle Edward, “it seems only a day ago that Jane was in the nursery.” He glanced up. “Indeed, I believe I must spend more time with my little treasures, for I suppose soon enough I will be giving away Alice or Amelia to some worthy gentleman.”

“Oh, not too soon, I trust,” cried Aunt Madelaine. “Would you have me old before my time?”

I laughed, for my aunt still possessed a fine, youthful beauty. Indeed, she was not yet thirty years. Her figure was restored after the birth of little Robert, and she carried herself not as a matron with four children, but as a young woman just entering her prime.

Mama chuckled. “It will come soon enough, Madelaine, but, to be sure, enjoy them as they are. My Lizzy and I will miss Jane and need to remake our life without her. But such is the world.” She took a sip of her tea. “Do you not recall, Edward, the lamentations when I told our mother that Mr. Bennet had proposed, and I had accepted him?”

“Could one ever forget? Fanny, she cried, you are far too young to wed! Why, you have just come out, you have a new gown, and you can have your pick of young men!”

“But I had found the only man for me,” replied Mama softly. “Perhaps a little young—I was but sixteen—and I felt some regret for not having danced and been admired more at the assemblies. But certainly, I did not wish to lose the opportunity of fixing him. He had just returned from Oxford, and even Mrs. Goulding—Miss Rawlings as she was then—had her eyes set on him.”

Their conversation continued, and I let their gentle words weave around me. Aunt Madelaine was a handsome woman, of that there was no doubt. But as Mama talked, her face animated, a smile brightening her countenance, it was then that I saw that she herself was a very handsome, attractive woman: fair-haired like Jane, and—dare I say it—a lightly formed and pleasing figure, unlike those of the other matrons in the district. She was not yet forty years old, and held herself very well, very well indeed.

* * *

A month had passed since Jane was married, and Mrs. Bennet and I slowly grew accustomed to the new scene that had opened at Longbourn. Breakfast was a quiet affair, and I ensured that I returned promptly from my morning walk so that Mama would not sit alone in the breakfast room. As usual, Papa took his meals on a tray in the library. As often as possible, we would sit with him; yet, he was embarrassed to let us see how he fumbled even the simplest of tasks: securing toast from his plate and bringing it to his mouth. His fingers were now so bent he was forced to hold his teacup with both hands.

He was a proud man, and though he loved our company, and particularly that of Mama, he would rather sit alone, or with James to assist him, than allow us to see the cripple he had become.

Mr. Darcy’s physician had forwarded a list of fish he believed efficacious for the treatment of arthritis, including salmon, sardines, mackerel, and tuna, but of these, only smoked mackerel was locally available in the market; the other varieties needed to be carried up from the coast packed in ice—far too expensive for our table. On those days—fish days, as we called them—Papa would join us in the dining room, and we could pretend that all was well, talking of books, and neighbours, and such trivia as enliven a family meal. I had thought Jane quiet, but without her at our table, our conversation had turned singularly dull.

“Thomas, have I told you of the new gig that the Lucases have acquired?” Mama looked up from her plate. “When Lizzy and I walked to Meryton yesterday, there was Sir William parading with Charlotte. One would have thought Lucas Lodge was miles distant from town for he had two horses in the traces.”

Papa gave a rare smile, content to follow where Mama was leading. “Let Sir William parade, my dear. He has so few pleasures, and a new gig is a harmless one. I dare say it is not half as fine as Lady Lucas wishes.”