Page 81 of A Debt Inherited

“We might read.”

“Or learn patience,” said Jane, pouring the tea.

Maria sighed and turned to her sister. “You never seem to miss anything, Charlotte. I do not know how you keep so content.”

Charlotte smiled. “Contentment, my dear, is merely a habit—easier to practise than to admire.”

Mrs Bennet declared this a most favourable view of things and insisted upon another cup for each. Conversation drifted to gardens, poultry, and parish news until the visitors at last rose to depart. Maria embraced everyone twice; Charlotte promised to send word of any further news from Meryton.

The door had scarcely closed when a pleasant quiet settled upon the room. The sound of the pianoforte faded, and Elizabeth turned towards the window, where the lilacs brushed faintly against the glass.

“Well,” she said, “perhaps when the regiment has gone, life in Hertfordshire may remember its former shape. We may call upon friends without the noise of drums for accompaniment.”

Jane smiled. “A return to ordinary days would be most welcome. I have learnt that calm may be as delightful as gaiety.”

Mrs Bennet, still seated beside the tea-tray, regarded her daughters thoughtfully. “You know,” she said, “I think I could fancy a little sea-bathing this summer. How lovely it would be—fresh air, sea breezes, perhaps even a concert or two.”

Mr Bennet lowered his paper, one brow slightly raised. “A charming notion, my dear—so long as the sea is nowhere near Brighton.”

That produced laughter round the room. The pleasant temper left by the Lucases’ visit seemed to grow still lighter; plans for summer rambled as freely as the talk—Bath, Ramsgate, Margate—all delightfully improbable. Lydia clapped her hands at the idea of travel, Kitty began counting bonnets, and Mrs Bennet declared that she had never felt so invigorated in her life.

Mr Bennet folded his paper with deliberate care. “Then we are agreed,” he said. “The sea, by all means—but let us leave the waves to their soldiers.”

Elizabeth met his eye and smiled.

That evening, dinner proved one of the pleasantest Elizabeth could remember. The dishes were simple, yet everything came to perfection; even the pudding, which had once threatened domestic catastrophe, came to table in excellent order. Conversation moved easily, the laughter unforced.

Elizabeth suspected, with some amusement, that her mother’s pleasure owed little to the meal.

When the cloth was drawn and the servants dismissed, Mr Bennet took his accustomed chair beside his wife. Hill appeared at once, quiet and efficient, setting a small glass of port at his elbow before withdrawing.

The lamplight caught the rim of the glass and threw a warm gleam across the table.

Mr Bennet turned the glass between his fingers, sipped, set it down, then reached into his coat and produced a folded letter. The action was unhurried, yet it commanded the room. Elizabeth saw her mother’s hand still upon the decanter; even Kitty paused with the sweetmeats untouched.

“A letter, my dears,” Mr Bennet said, adjusting his spectacles. “From your Uncle Gardiner. I daresay it contains something of interest to all of us.”

He broke the seal and unfolded the sheet with deliberate care. The paper crackled in the quiet, and the small flame of the candle leant forward as if to listen.

“Your uncle writes from Gracechurch Street,” he began, “and sends affectionate compliments to us all—particularly to my daughters, whose good conduct he appears to think beyond question.”

Mrs Bennet inclined her head, pleased. “And so it is,” she said softly.

Mr Bennet’s eyes moved down the page. “He adds that your Aunt Gardiner is much recovered from her cold, and that the children are a source of constant amusement—though they give her no rest. He would be glad of a little help for a fortnight or two, if one of you could be spared.”

At this the room stirred. Jane looked up, startled; Elizabeth caught the faintest smile at her father’s lips. It was not the smile of a man surprised by his brother’s proposal, but of one who had waited for the proper moment to read it aloud.

“He proposes,” Mr Bennet continued, “that you, my dear Jane, should come to Town and lend your assistance—and meet, as he puts it, some of their dear friends newly returned from the Continent.”

Jane coloured with surprise, then delight. “How very kind. I have not met them before, but I shall be delighted to help Aunt Gardiner in any way I can.”

“Then it is settled,” said Mrs Bennet serenely. “We shall have much to prepare before you go, my love.”

Mr Bennet folded the letter and laid it aside. “If there are no objections,” he said, “your mother and our three youngest shall travel to Margate before the second week of June. I will engage a suitable cottage for their comfort. Lizzy, however, must remain with me. There is the matter of tenants to review and the harvest to plan, and I rely on her good sense to keep me from ruin.”

Elizabeth laughed softly, but her eyes remained on him. “A most enviable duty, sir.”

He met her look over the rim of his glass, and she understood, though not quite what she understood. Her father had not merely received these plans; he had made them possible.