1
May 1812
It was the last of Colonel Forster’s regiment’s stay in Meryton before departing for an encampment in Brighton, and all the young ladies in the neighbourhood were drooping apace. The dejection was almost universal. The elder Miss Bennets alone were still able to eat, drink, and sleep, and pursue the usual course of their employments.
To aid the younger girls in saying farewell to their friends, and in keeping up their spirits amid the dismay, their aunt Philips planned a party; Elizabeth did not anticipate it with any degree of pleasure, but as it provided her a means to leave the house, she would go. First, however, her father requested that she join him in his book-room to review the contents of a letter he had received.
She went to him, surprised to find her mother there. Had it something to do with Mr Darcy’s proposal in Kent?Surely not!
“Sit, Lizzy,” said Mr Bennet. “I think you will need to, once you hear what I have to tell you.”
Elizabeth took the seat next to her mother, unable to discern anything from her expression. “Good news, I hope?”
“I think one must call it extraordinary.” Her father handed her a thick packet of pages, which were, she saw, from an attorney in Middlesex. “You remember your aunt, Agatha Bennet?”
“Of course I remember her.”
Mrs Agatha Bennet was the widow of James Bennet, Mr Bennet’s elder brother who had died long before any of his nieces could know him. Agatha had remained a childless widow for above two decades, content to live off her own fortune and the very occasional society of her more dutiful nieces—in other words, Elizabeth. Jane had visited once or twice, although not since she was thirteen, and Elizabeth herself had not been called upon to go to her for some years. Agatha was a difficult woman, not thought of kindly by the family, but she was Elizabeth’s godmother and as such, Elizabeth had always felt a greater obligation to go when the lady stood in need. In truth, she had rather enjoyed the company of the cantankerous older woman.
“She died,” Mrs Bennet announced bluntly. “At Christmas! And no one told us! How are we to mourn a person properly if they do not have the decency to inform us when they die?”
“It was exceedingly rude of her to keep her death to herself, Mrs Bennet. You may console yourself in being able to avoid dyeing the bombazine,” said her husband impatiently.
“I am grieved, exceedingly so, to hear that she isgone,” Elizabeth said with feeling. “She cannot have been older than sixty?”
“She was sixty-four,” said Mr Bennet. “It is believed she suffered an apoplexy in her bed. I daresay there are worse ways to die. But your feelings are not misplaced; it appears she was very fond of you as well and has distinguished you accordingly. Do read your letter.”
There was silence in the room while Elizabeth read. Her jaw dropped when the meaning of the words began to sink in. “Does this mean… Should I understand that?—”
“That you are now an heiress?” Mr Bennet leant back in his chair, smiling broadly. “It seems you are.”
“You must sell the place immediately,” Mrs Bennet said decisively with a little chopping motion of her hand. “Then the proceeds of the property may be split among your sisters, and you shall all be able to have some little dowry.”
“In fact,” said Mr Bennet, “Agatha has willed that such a scheme is exactly what Lizzy mustnotdo.”
Aunt Bennet had possessed property from her family in Brighton—a house by the sea. And now it would belong to Elizabeth, along with the funds required to return it to a habitable state. A sizeable sum had been laid aside, leading her to conclude that the disrepair of the place must be accordingly sizeable.
“How badly dilapidated is it?” she asked her father.
Her mother scowled. “Too badly dilapidated for you to concern yourself,” said Mrs Bennet firmly. “The very notion of it! A young lady cannot undertake such things! It would take an age to see to it all.”
An age?Elizabeth was suddenly very interested in the prospect. Time spent away from Longbourn, or any place where she might encounter gentlemen whowished to expound upon the subject of her inferiority, would be a welcome respite.
The thought gave her pause, for it was uncommonly bitter. Was she still so angry with Mr Darcy? Was it not more truthful to think thathemust be disgusted by her—and would forever remain so?
Even more reason to relish ‘an age’ in which no one could reasonably expect her to seek a husband of any kind, for she would be too busy with her house.
Her own house! She bit her lip against the rush of delight in that.
“Your mother has the right of it,” said her father gently. “It is far too difficult for a young woman to see to such things, to have to speak to the sort of men who make their living pounding and plastering and papering. They would take advantage of you, thinking you too young and silly to know the difference between good work and bad.”
“There are surely funds enough here for me to employ a man to oversee the project,” Elizabeth protested.
“How would that solve anything? You would still need to deal withhim,” Mr Bennet replied.
“I think I would be equal to it. I would not be intimidated by any workman whomsoever, and if I were there, every day, I would learn to?—”
Mr Bennet shook his head firmly. “My dear, think of it reasonably. Where would you live? Who would stay with you? It is impossible in every regard.”
