Page 86 of A November to Remember

“Sister!”

Mrs Philips arrived at the top of the stairs at speed, her bonnet ribbons streaming, her cheeks scarlet from the November air and the pace at which she had covered the mile from Meryton on foot, surely unable to wait for the gig. She seized Mrs Bennet’s hands.

“I did not sleep a wink last night, Franny. You sent me four lines by the boy. Four lines. ‘Come tomorrow before the ball, all is well, you will not credit it. Your sister.’ I have been in a state of nervous collapse since I received it on the strength of four lines. Mr Philips has been eating cold mutton.”

“Come into my chamber.”

“Is it Jane? Tell me it is Jane. Is it the viscount? Is it—”

“Chamber, Hetty.”

Mrs Bennet drew her sister down the passage, past Lydia—now attempting to wrest the tongs bodily from Kitty’s grip while the housemaid ducked—and into her own room. Mrs Philips untied her bonnet ribbons and removed it as soon as they entered. Mrs Bennet shut the door, leaned against it, and pressed both hands to her bosom.

“Mr Darcy,” she breathed, “has declared himself.”

Mrs Philips sat down on the bed, her mouth agape.

“I followed our plan, Sister. After Sunday services I sent them all to stroll about the estate. Chaperoned by Kitty and Lydia.” She joined her sister’s cackling, then got serious. “They came back through the orchard, arm in arm, Sister, arm in arm. Lizzy’s cheeks were flushed, she was smiling, and I knew. I knew before he had taken off his gloves. He went straight to the study and shut the door. I stood in the passage with my ear to the panel, which I do not scruple to admit, and I heard him say it. ‘I wish to court your daughter, sir.’ In that voice of his, like a judge passing sentence. Ten thousand a year, Sister, asking my Lizzy’s father for leave to call.”

“And what did Mr Bennet say?”

“Mr Bennet.” Mrs Bennet drew breath. Even now, two days on, the recollection made her shudder. “Mr Bennet said—and I heard every word—‘You do not require my permission to court my daughter, Mr Darcy. You require hers. I suggest you ask her.’ As though the man were enquiring after the price of hay! Ten thousand a year, and my husband sends him off to ask Lizzy!”

“And Lizzy?”

“Mr Darcy informed my husband that Lizzy had said yes.”

Mrs Philips’s mouth opened and remained in that state for some time.

“I knew it,” she said at last, in a hushed, reverent tone. “I knew that girl was not clever for nothing. All those books, all that walking about, all that impertinence to gentlemen. I said to Mr Philips just yesterday, I said, Lizzy’s cleverness will pay for itself one day, mark me, and he said cleverness never paid for anything but candles, and Franny, I shall put the candle bill in front of him tonight and I shall say nothing.”

Mrs Bennet nodded. She had not finished nodding when she remembered that she had not finished.

“Oh—wait. Hetty. Wait.” She held up a hand. “That was not the end of it.”

“Not the end?”

“The colonel.”

Mrs Philips gripped the bedpost.

“They came in from the kitchen garden not a quarter-hour after Lizzy and Mr Darcy. Mary had crumbs on her gloves. Crumbs, Sister, on a Sunday, on her gloves. I have never in my life seen the girl eat out of doors. The colonel walked past me in the hall—he bowed, in passing, as if I were a lamp-post—and walked to the study door. Mr Darcy came out of it, the colonel stepped aside to let him pass, then he entered and shut the door. The moment Mr Darcy rounded the corner I put my ear back to the panel, and the colonel said, ‘Sir, I should like your leave to court Miss Mary.’” Mrs Bennet’s voice cracked. “Mary, Sister.”

“Mary.”

“Our Mary. Fordyce Mary. Mary who plays the dirges. A colonel! A colonel who is a Fitzwilliam, whose brother is a viscount and whose father is an earl, asked leave to court Mary.”

“What did you do?”

“I swooned.”

“Franny—”

“A real one, Sister. Not one of my swoons. I went down in the passage like a felled ewe and Hill had to fetch the burnt feathers. When I came round Mr Bennet was standing in the door looking down at me and saying, ‘He does not need my permission either, Mrs Bennet, he needs Mary’s. She has given it, and you are lying on the good rug.’”

Mrs Philips had begun to weep. She did it silently and efficiently, mopping at her eyes with the end of her cap ribbon, while waving at her sister to continue.

“And then,” Mrs Bennet continued, “the viscount and Jane came in from the shrubbery.”