“We all do,” Elizabeth said gently. She looked at her father—really looked—and saw that the lines on his face had deepened, his once-quick humour slower to spark. He seemed older now, more burdened. They fell into a contemplative silence, each lost in memory.
Finally, he spoke again, this time with a steadier tone. “There is no guarantee that Jane will marry soon. She is only eighteen, and far too modest to seek attention, even if it seeks her. Therefore…” He met Elizabeth’s gaze firmly. “I shall allow you to delay your come out until the age of eighteen as well, if that is your wish.”
Relief bloomed in her chest like a slow exhale. “Thank you, Papa.”
He gave a rare, affectionate smile. “You may feel uncertain now, Lizzy, but the time will come when your light will be impossible to ignore.”
Later that week, Mr Bennet escorted Jane to an assembly in Meryton. It was the first society event they had attended since Mrs Bennet’s passing, and whilst the house no longer bore mourning crepe, the absence of its former mistress lingered in shadowed corners and quiet routines. Elizabeth and her younger sisters remained at home, the thought of balls and conversation too foreign now to entice them.
Thomas had long been tucked into his cradle for the night, and the two youngest girls were upstairs being readied for bed. Elizabeth and Mary sat companionably in the parlour, playing a quiet game of spillikins. The tick of the longcase clock and the occasional creak of the house settling were the only sounds.
Their father and Jane were expected home late. Thus, when the front door opened sooner than anticipated and the two returned before the hour struck ten, it startled the sisters. Mary dropped her pick, and Elizabeth looked up in surprise.
Jane’s cheeks were flushed and her eyes wide, and she stammered as she rang for tea. Her unease was clear, and it was not the giddy excitement of a young woman returning from a lively event. Mr Bennet, in the meantime, looked thoroughly unwell—his colour pale, his hands unsteady as he poured himself a glass of port without a word.
“Papa?” Mary asked cautiously, her brow creased. “You look unwell. What happened?”
Elizabeth studied him, too, her heart sinking. Mr Bennet rarely showed signs of nervous agitation. When he drank port before saying anything at all, it was usually a sign that something unpleasant had occurred.
"I might as well speak now," he said at last, the rim of the glass still in his hand. “Better you hear it from me than in whispers from Meryton.” He took a swallow of his drink and then set it down. “It appears that the ladies of the town have decided I am…marriageable.”
“Marriageable?” Mary echoed, confused.
“For marriage,” he clarified dryly, his expression a mix of indignation and disbelief. “I was forced to deflect more than a few…enthusiastic advances this evening. Mrs Long’s eldest daughter was particularly persistent. Widow Shaw tried to corner me near the refreshment table. Miss Cartwright brought me a cup of punch and asked me how I liked my tea in the mornings.” He groaned. “And Miss Martha Morris—barely twenty years old! Young enough to be my daughter!”
“Youarean attractive prospect, Papa,” Mary said matter-of-factly. “Surely you can see that.”
“I care not. I have no intention of taking another wife,” he said flatly, brushing away the notion with a wave of his hand. “One lifetime spent attempting to decipher the whims of a woman is more than sufficient for any man.”
Elizabeth did not disguise her relief. She adored her father, but the idea of a stepmother—particularly one of Meryton’s more calculating residents—filled her with unease. “What will you do, then?”
“I shall do what I do best,” Mr Bennet replied. “Lock myself in my study and hope society grows bored.”
“But what of Jane?” Mary asked, her voice shaded with insight. “You cannot keep her from society entirely, and she will draw attention whether you accompany her or not.”
“No, she must not suffer for my unwillingness,” he agreed with a sigh. “Therefore, I shall hire a companion to chaperone her. Someone proper and unthreatening. I shall write to your Aunt Gardiner in the morning—Madeline is certain to know some suitable names.”
They were all silent for a moment, weighing the practicality of his words.
“It is a sound decision,” Jane said at last, though her tone was pensive. “You must plan on the lady being with us for years. You have five daughters yet unmarried.”
“Yes, yes. But I must be cautious,” Mr Bennet said, standing and stretching his back with a wince. “She must be old enough to avoid expectation. I am only nine-and-thirty. If I hire a lady too near my age, people will talk.”
“Can someone of advanced age be counted upon to supervise us properly?” Mary asked, ever analytical.
“What of Aunt Philips?” Elizabeth interjected, the idea striking her in a flash. “She adores company and events. And you would not need to hire anyone new.”
Mr Bennet paused, blinking in astonishment. “Why did I not think of that? Yes, of course. She is already familiar with the family and married—blessedly uninterested in me. Very good, Elizabeth. I shall send her a note on the morrow.”
With that, he kissed each of his daughters on the forehead and made his way up the stairs.
When they were alone, Elizabeth turned immediately to Jane. “What happened tonight? You looked mortified.”
Jane groaned, covering her face with her hands. “It was dreadful. As soon as we arrived, we were introduced to Miss Martha Morris, Mr Morris’s younger sister, who had newly come to reside in his household. She was…forward. And when Papa did not immediately ask her to dance, Mrs Winterbourne whispered it was ‘no wonder he looked reluctant, poor man.’ I could hardly breathe for the discomfort of it all.”
“The other ladies were no better,” Jane continued, dropping her hands to her lap. “At one point, Papa cornered Sir William and demanded to know why every single lady in the area was present. Sir William said—quite frankly—that there had been speculation for months about who Papa would marry now that his mourning had ended.”
“How awful!” Mary said, her voice rising. “It is as though she is replaceable. Our father didnotsee Mama that way.”
