“Very true.” Mr Bennet leaned back in his chair. “The new tenant, as your mother no doubt knows, is Mr Charles Bingley. He is from the north—Scarborough or Yorkshire—I forget which. According to Morris, he possesses a large fortune, some four or five thousand a year. He was to come at Michaelmas, but with his London affairs settled, he has arrived earlier than expected.”
“Oh, what a good thing for our girls!” Mrs Bennet clapped her hands. “Perhaps he will fall in love with one of them.”
Mr Bennet’s smile was wry. “I am not eager to part with any of our daughters, Mrs Bennet, though if Mr Bingley should take a fancy to one of them, he is welcome to attempt to win her heart. After a thorough investigation, I dare say I could be persuaded to grant my blessing.”
“Oh, tosh, Mr Bennet! How you tease!” Mrs Bennet fairly quivered with excitement. “I know our children have no need to marry a man with a fortune, but it is an exciting prospect, nonetheless. Oh, I shall go distracted!”
Elizabeth regarded her mother fondly. Some things would never change, however many years of felicity might pass. “Why do you not find Jane, Mama?” Elizabeth suggested. “She will need a new gown for the upcoming assembly. Surely Sir William will prevail upon our new neighbour to attend.”
Pleased with the idea, Mrs Bennet bestowed a quick kiss on her husband’s cheek and hurried out of the library.
Elizabeth turned to her father. “Did you conspire with Mr Morris to withhold this momentous news?” she asked shrewdly.
Her father folded his arms, giving a slight lift to his shoulders. “I knew you were concerned. The estate has stood empty for some time, and that has made you uneasy in the past. When Mr Bingley approached Morris last week, I thought nothing would come of it, so I refrained from troubling you. Then, only yesterday, he appeared just before Morris departed for home, eager to sign papers!”
“One might assume he is an impulsive man,” she mused, half to herself. She and her father had grown wary of every new gentleman who came into the neighbourhood. United in that resolve, they meant, after what had passed, never to admit another calculating trickster into their midst.
“Did Mr Morris investigate Mr Bingley?” She would not have withheld the tenancy until that was done, but she wished to know if she must be on guard for her sisters’ sake.
“No. I dispatched a letter this morning to our friends at Bow Street.” Mr Bennet’s jaw tightened. “When I learned he was a young man—certainly young enough to tempt the local ladies—I thought it prudent to learn all we might. But we both know how much can be concealed.”
Indeed, she did know it.She had searched her husband’s belongings for any clue to his past—any hint of who he had been before the journals began. She had found nothing. It was as if Fiennes had sprung into existence, set on the earth to torment all those who crossed his path.
Carefully closing the ledger, Elizabeth rose. “It is nearly time for tea. Elinor will be waiting for me.”
Mr Bennet offered a half-smile of dismissal before returning to his accounts.
Elizabeth ascended the stairs to the nursery, eager for her daughter’s embrace. Elinor Suzanne Fiennes had been born on the twenty-eighth of September in 1807, and would soon turn four years old. Her name signifiedhopeful brightness, the perfect emblem for all her mama had endured before and since her birth.
Elinor’s arrival had been mercifully easy. She was a small, delicate infant with a tuft of soft brown hair. Mrs Bennet had declared her the very image of Elizabeth as a babe—there was scarcely a trace of her father in her features. As she grew, her temper proved more like Jane’s: sweet and serene, her cherubic countenance and gentle ways captivating all who came near.
“Mama!” Elinor looked up from her book, her rosy mouth curving into a smile. “I missed you!”
“Good afternoon, dearest.” Elizabeth kissed her daughter’s cheek and smoothed a hand over the crown of her head. “Have you been good for Miss Lane?”
Miss Gertrude Lane had been employed only a few months earlier, when the previous nurse had retired. Her arrival had seemed a piece of good fortune. The impoverished daughter of a country gentleman, she had served as a nurse, governess, and companion to young ladies in various households across England. Elizabeth hoped she would remain with them for many years and rewarded her with a generous wage.
“Miss Lane made me eat all my porridge.” Elinor made a face. “It had lumps in it.”
Elizabeth hid a smile. Her daughter was particular, even at so tender an age. The little miss disliked uncomfortable gowns, strange foods, and loud noises with equal fervour, and would sooner forgo a meal than endure an unpleasant texture.
“Did it taste good?” Elizabeth asked, giving her daughter’s nose a gentle tap. “Or did the lumps change the flavour?”
Elinor frowned. “Like porridge…but it was hard to notice the taste when the lumps tried to choke me.”
“Well, I have called for tea.” Elizabeth stroked Elinor’s hair, hoping to soothe her child’s pique. “We shall have biscuits and tarts—does that sound nice?” Her daughter’s face brightened, and she climbed into her mother’s lap.
When the tray arrived, Elizabeth invited Miss Lane to join them. She accepted, and the three enjoyed a pleasant repast. Miss Lane was around thirty, her fair hair showing hints of grey at her temples. Elizabeth pitied her situation: she was comely and well-bred, but lacking a dowry, had never married.Perhaps she might catch the eye of some worthy man nearby,Elizabeth mused.
After tea, she and Elinor took their customary turn in the gardens. Her daughter shared her love of the outdoors and would have spent every hour amongst the flowers and shrubs in the little wilderness. Elizabeth encouraged it, and they walked together each day the weather allowed. After their walk, Elinor would take her nap, and Elizabeth returned to her household duties before visiting the nursery once more after the evening meal.
Since leaving London, her life had settled into a steady, peaceful order. Mr Burns had not troubled her after that fateful day. A year after Elinor’s birth, the Bow Street Runners reported that he had been found near the Thames, presumed drowned. Elizabeth felt no regret, for his death meant she was safe. Even so, she chose to remain in Hertfordshire. She did not wish to return to town; indeed, she had no reason that ought to tempt her there.
Suzanne had retired to Westland, her son’s estate, soon after Elizabeth left London and had not returned since. They corresponded faithfully, and Suzanne declared herself happier in the country, with no intention of quitting it. She often invited Elizabeth to visit, but she always found some reason to stay at Longbourn.
Temptation to return to town, however, was not wholly absent. One inducement came to her thoughts more frequently than she cared to admit. Mr Darcy maintained a house there—if she returned, their paths might cross once more. Yet that thought was swiftly followed by reproof. Mr Darcy deserved a lady untouched by scandal. He had likely already married long since. Four years had passed since their last meeting, and he was a handsome, eligible gentleman.He surely has a wife and children by now.
No, such fanciful imaginings had no place in her life. Her duties were many: managing her fortune and securing her daughter’s future. Half of her late husband’s assets were placed in trust for Elinor, the income dividedbetween mother and child. The girl’s wealth increased with every passing year.
