Page 33 of The Longbourn Bloodline

THE FORFEIT

Mrs. Bennet was nothing if not the consummate orchestrator, and Friday evening was no exception, besides Thursday, Wednesday, Tuesday, and every other day since two eligible gentlemen had taken up residence in the steward’s cottage. With Christmas around the corner, she had multiplied opportunities for matrimonial ambush. By day, Elizabeth went over ledgers with Darcy while Richard sat in the cramped cottage amusing himself by carving birds and other small ornaments for the rustic decorations.

But as evening fell, Longbourn’s drawing room—threadbare but undaunted—became the stage for Mamma’s most elaborate production yet: the bullet pudding party. Uncle and Aunt Philips would attend, Uncle Philips being conveniently a solicitor, should any contracts require a witness, though Mamma, with rare restraint, left this unsaid. The Lucases had declined, a circumstance for which Mrs. Bennet expressed gratitude with a volume that left no doubt as to her sincerity.

“You cannot mean to add more young ladies, and one of them a young widow at that, to a party with only two gentlemen,” she had repeated while rubbing her hands. “Oh, if only the good colonel had more manly cousins. But with all these young men off fighting that French frog, one must make do with what Providence provides.”

“Mamma, we could invite the militia officers,” Lydia chirped with her feet dangling over an armrest—a position that would have given Mrs. Beaumont palpitations. “They would love a good bullet pudding and might supply enough bullets for everyone.”

“What are mere militia men compared to a real colonel, and one whose father is an Earl?” Mamma sniffed with magnificent disdain. “The officers are all very well for country dances and flirtations, but they have not a penny to bless themselves with. No, no—we must set our sights higher. And of course, there is our own heir of Longbourn, a man with ten thousand a year, half of Derbyshire, and for certain, he is here looking for a bride.” She clasped her hands to her bosom. “I daresay he shall be more successful than poor Mr. Collins, who did not have the good sense to offer for our dear Mary.”

“But Mamma, none of us wished to marry that toad!” Lydia exclaimed, her feet swinging for emphasis, “and Lizzy was right to refuse him as he is now dead, and what good would a dead husband do any of us? One cannot dance with a corpse, and I am told they smell dreadful after a week.”

“Lydia!” Elizabeth could not help herself. “That is monstrous.”

“It is merely practical,” Lydia countered, entirely unrepentant. “Mrs. Beaumont says we must consider the practical aspects of matrimony, and I am considering them.”

“Very loudly, and without discretion,” Elizabeth muttered, but it was Mary who drew herself up with the righteous indignation of the governess’s star pupil. “A proper lady speaks with a soft tone and conceals her opinions behind a well-placed fan. Mrs. Beaumont instructs that our comportment must include kind words to widows and orphans so that we may appear charitable and humble before those whose good opinion we wish to cultivate.”

“Appear charitable!” Mrs. Bennet’s voice rose to a pitch that set the china rattling. “I am in my own house, Mary, and I shall say what I please without hiding behind a fan like some simpering miss at Almack’s! When you have raised five daughters on nothing but nerves and determination, you may lecture me about comportment. Until then—” She drew herself up to her full height, which was not considerable but was deployed with maximum effect. “Mark my words, there will be a proposal tonight, or my name is not Fanny Bennet!”

The drawing room door opened, and Kitty descended the final stairs. Her spine was ramrod straight, her chin elevated at precisely the angle Mrs. Beaumont had demonstrated, and she moved with the careful, gliding steps of a young lady who was practicing her interpretation of comportment with a book on her head and a yardstick rammed down her back.

“Military men appreciate good posture,” she announced to the room at large, settling into a chair with geometric precision. “Mrs. Beaumont says that a straight spine conveys breeding and discipline, and I think Colonel Fitzwilliam is ever so dashing. He told me yesterday that my carriage was much improved.”

“The Colonel is all very well,” Mrs. Bennet allowed, “but the prize, Kitty, is Mr. Darcy. Jane must be positioned in every corner where that man lurks. When he enters, Jane must be by the doorway. When he sits, Jane must be nearby. When he takes refreshment, Jane must pour. I have it all planned out.”

Jane, who had been quietly arranging holly on the mantelpiece, turned with an expression of gentle forbearance. “Mamma, I hardly think Mr. Darcy requires such… management. And in truth, it is Lizzy who spends the most time in his company.” She glanced at Elizabeth with a significance that made Elizabeth mouth the word, ‘traitor.’ “For our Elizabeth works with him daily on the steward’s duties and spends hours with him over ledgers, on tenant walks and surveying the estate for repairs.”

“Ledgers and repairs!” Mrs. Bennet scoffed. “What gentleman wishes to discuss estate management with his future bride? No, no, that will not do. Our Lizzy is a refuser of proposals and should not be allowed within a bargepole’s length of any gentleman bent on marriage. She has already driven off one heir of Longbourn with her stubborn ways. I shall not have her driving off another with talk of crop rotations and tenant roofs!”

“But Mamma,” Lydia interrupted, examining her reflection in the darkened window with satisfaction, “Mr. Darcy does not smile enough for a gentleman determined to marry. When Mr. Bingley was bent on flirtation, he smiled constantly. Mr. Darcy looks as though someone has died and he is attending the funeral whilst simultaneously reviewing unfavorable accounts.”

“That is merely his way,” Mrs. Bennet said, though she looked momentarily uncertain. “Grand gentlemen do not grin as common men do. It is beneath their dignity.”

Mr. Bennet, who had been observing this exhibition from behind his newspaper, lowered the pages just enough to reveal his eyes.

“I wonder,” he said mildly, “whether Mr. Darcy’s dignity might be tested this evening. He seemed most attentive to Lizzy’s conversation at the pianoforte. One might almost say… intent.”

Mrs. Bennet’s head swiveled toward her husband with the sudden alertness of a hound catching a scent. “Intent? What do you mean, intent? Intent upon what? Mr. Bennet, if you know something⁠—”

“I know a great many things, my dear. Most of them tedious.” He vanished behind his newspaper once more. “But I daresay the evening will prove… illuminating.”

“Mamma, I am sure Papa is jesting,” Elizabeth said as Mrs. Bennet’s eyes narrowed with newfound consideration. “He loves a farce almost as much as a tragedy.”

Mrs. Bennet waved her hand dismissively. “Do try and behave yourself, Lizzy, and do as I say. A mother knows, and when I give the direction, you must not react like a stubborn donkey. Now, I hear our guests at the door.”

The Philipses arrived with the appropriate fanfare, their footman carrying in a tray bearing a large pewter dish, their best port, and a sack of flour. Aunt Philips embraced Mrs. Bennet as though they had not seen each other in months rather than days.

Lydia sniffed at the flour. “But this is not a pudding. Where are the raisins and the plums?”

“A bullet pudding or cake,” Aunt Philips explained, “is like a sandcastle of packed flour. Jones will set it up for us.”

“I do not wish to eat flour,” Kitty said. “Or break my teeth on a bullet.”

“Then you, children, do not know how it is played.” She raised an eyebrow at Mrs. Bennet as if this deficiency were also a fault a governess would have addressed.

“Oh, you know how it is, dear sister,” Mrs. Bennet fluttered. “With five young ladies, we can hardly claim kisses. Now, tonight, we have two young gentlemen joining us. And⁠—”