Page 63 of A November to Remember

A teacup clattered against the saucer.

“Foolish! Fiddlesticks!” Mrs Bennet’s volume reached a pitch that caused the hunting hounds outside to bark. “The man is throwing a ball! A ball is practically a courtship! And even if he is being a slow-witted fool, do not fret, Jane! You are the most beautiful girl in the county, and there are other, far grander estates with much richer soil! Mark my words, Jane, no matter who the groom is, I shall have my wedding!”

She began pacing the rug. “A ball! We must order the good meat! Hill! Hill, we need the good meat! We must air out the best parlour! This parlour, for we have no other! We must buy new lace!”

Mr Bennet lowered his newspaper one inch. “We are not throwing a ball, my dear. Bingley should pay for the good meat, not me. And I assume from this noise that I am to be subjected to a house full of women preparing for an assembly. My brain is very delicate after luncheon.”

“Do not play the fool today, Mr Bennet!” Mrs Bennet spun around, pointing a trembling finger at his head. “You will sit in your study, and you will stay out of the way while I prepare my daughters to conquer the ton!”

Lydia sat up eagerly. “Will Mr Bingley bring the officers? Oh, I hope he does! We should have a ball in a balloon!”

“He is throwing it on the twenty-sixth,” Jane offered faintly, dropping her gaze to her lap. “To celebrate the frost.”

Mrs Bennet grabbed the back of the sofa, looking lightheaded. “A ball.” She took a deep, gulping breath. Her eyes, glazed with triumph, drifted across the room. They slid past Jane, past Elizabeth, and landed on Charlotte.

It was a look Elizabeth had only ever seen when her mother was bartering with the fishmonger, but magnified tenfold. Whatever bizarre, labyrinthine scheme was assembling itself inside Mamma’s head, Charlotte was the victim.

Mrs Bennet released the sofa and moved to the unsuspecting visitor with acute determination.

“Tell me, dear Charlotte.” She stopped mere inches from Elizabeth’s friend. “What is your opinion of the shrubbery in Kent?”

Charlotte blinked and glanced at Elizabeth. Elizabeth shook her head, equally confused.

“I cannot say I have given much thought to Kentish shrubbery, Mrs Bennet, for I have never been,” Charlotte answered cautiously.

“And what of the word condescension?” Mrs Bennet leaned closer, her eyes unblinking. “If a man were to speak of a wealthy widow’s condescension with extreme reverence, as if the woman merely entering a room were a religious experience, would you feel the urge to strike him with a fire poker?”

Mr Bennet folded his newspaper completely. He rested it on his knee, observing his wife with fascination.

“I am generally a tolerant person, ma’am,” Charlotte offered, taking a step backwards. “I suppose a man may revere a widow if he chooses.”

“Excellent. Tolerance is paramount.” Mrs Bennet tapped her chin thoughtfully. “Now, suppose this same man wore a very high collar and spoke incessantly about his patroness. A patroness who enjoys dictating the exact number of chickens one ought to keep. Could you manage the poultry, Charlotte? Could you nod and smile while a widow tells you your petticoats are morally deficient?”

Elizabeth placed a protective hand on her friend’s arm. “Mamma, are you attempting to employ Charlotte as a maid?”

“I am discussing the future, Lizzy! The bleak, impending future!” Mrs Bennet waved her away. “Charlotte is a sensible girl. She is seven-and-twenty. She does not require poetry and moonlight. She requires a solid roof and a man who does not fall into duck ponds. Tell me, Charlotte, how do you feel about chimneys?”

“Chimneys?” Charlotte asked faintly.

“Yes. If a man were to praise a chimney for an hour, would you retain your sanity?”

Mr Bennet stood up, abandoning his armchair. “If the future involves Miss Lucas fighting a wealthy widow over poultry while listening to an hour-long sermon on chimneys, I demand to sell tickets. Good day, ladies. I am retiring to the study before I am asked to evaluate a cat.”

He strolled out of the room, closing the door firmly behind him.

Mrs Bennet huffed, straightening her skirts. “Your father has no vision. None whatsoever. Charlotte, dear, you must come for tea on the eighteenth. Wear something practical. Perhaps a nice, sensible brown.”

Mrs Bennet swept out of the parlour, calling for Hill and the butcher.

Charlotte stared at the empty doorway, then turned to Elizabeth.

“Has your mother been consuming sherry?”

Elizabeth grabbed Charlotte’s hand and dragged her to the window seat, far away from Lydia and Kitty, who were now attempting to tie the ripped ribbon around the cat’s neck.

“I have no idea what she is talking about. None of us do. But let us ignore the shrubbery. I must talk to you of Netherfield.”

Charlotte settled onto the cushioned seat, smoothing her skirts. “Please do. I assume Jane’s recovery is not the only news. What of the proud Mr Darcy? Did he spend the week staring at a wall and judging the wallpaper?”