PROLOGUE
August 1807
After being dismissed from Longbourn’s book-room, Elizabeth and Jane walked together along the path towards the hermitage. It was not until they were well away from their house that they chose a favourite bench beside the little building and sat. Elizabeth read the letter from their cousin, a Mr Collins, the heir to their family’s estate, while Jane read what was nothing less than a general offer of marriage to one of the two eldest Bennet daughters from their elderly neighbour, Mr Henry Ashwood, of Stoke; then they traded. After they had both finished reading, there was a long silence.
Finally, Elizabeth spoke.
“I will not do it. I cannot marry either of these men, and neither can you. It is unfair of Papa to demand it. We shall take the post to London, and beg our uncle to take us in.”
Jane looked momentarily relieved. “Yes! Do you think he would?”
Elizabeth, despite her defiant words, could not help but ponder the consequences of such a decision. “I hope so. I suppose Mr Collins would choose a different wife then. In his letter he sounds very anxious to wed, and of course Mary and Lydia are much too young.” Elizabeth, scarcely sixteen, felt far too young herself.
“Someone from the neighbourhood, I suppose. I wonder who he might choose? Who is eligible?”
It was absolutely necessary to consider this question. If something happened to Papa—and lately, it had seemed a matter ofwhen, notif—Longbourn would fall to Mr Collins. It was why Papa had written to him in the first place—trying to build some kind of rapport. They would have to consider whomever he chose to marry as part of their household henceforth. Uncle Gardiner could not support them forever—he had two young children of his own, another on the way, and it was unfair of them to expect it. And could they both abandon Mama to her grief?
“I suppose Charlotte would be happy to be wed at last,” Jane suggested hopefully, answering her own question. Charlotte Lucas, a good friend, was already three-and-twenty with no prospects.
Elizabeth nodded. Sharing Longbourn with Charlotte would not be bad at all. Still, Charlotte was not his only choice. “Mary King probably would like him as well.” Mary talked incessantly about the most mundane subjects imaginable and loved gossip above all else, but possessed an excellent fortune—perhaps making such negatives worth ignoring.
“I suppose Myra Harrington would also put herself forward,” Jane added with obvious reluctance, naming aneighbour’s daughter who was known to look with interest upon anyone even remotely eligible. She was also prettier than either Charlotte or Mary, if a grasping, hateful termagant in character.
Elizabeth nodded. “Of course she would. But truly, Jane, as Papa pointed out, Mr Collins might have his pick. If he is handsome as well, only think of it—he would come to us, not as the poor young curate he is at the moment, but as Longbourn’s heir presumptive. Charlotte, Miss King, and Miss Harrington and perhaps others wouldfightover such a husband. No one will care whether or not he is sensible. Everyone knows Papa is ill. And Papa…oh, how could we leave Papa? Jane. I believe…I believe we have so little time left.”
“Whoever marries Mr Ashwood wouldhaveto leave Papa. He wishes to marry quickly, to ensure the marriage would not be delayed by…”
Jane obviously could not bring herself to finish her sentence, but they both thought it anyway.By Papa’s death. The sisters were already in mourning for Kitty, the first stricken by the rampaging fever that had, one by one, affected them all. The rest had mercifully recovered—all except for Mr Bennet; according to Mr Taylor, the area’s ancient physician, the fever had affected his heart.
No one would expect them to appreciably delay their marriages for Kitty’s sake, however deeply they grieved. A father was a different matter—although in their current circumstance, Elizabeth supposed most would understand a somewhat abbreviated mourning.
She hesitated, but then said, “Stoke is a mere six miles distant. One could visit Longbourn frequently.”
Jane shuddered. “Only imagine being married to old MrAshwood. He is sixty if he is a day. It is beyond disgusting. I could not bear it.”
I think one of us must, Elizabeth thought but did not say aloud. An ache in her soul told her that she had already begun to accept the solemn duty imposed by her desperate father.
The loss of Kitty had nearly felled their mother. That the rest of her daughters had been spared was a kindness, but Mama was still less robust than she had been before the fever, thin and pale. Elizabeth had wept more in the last four months than she had in the entire sixteen years previous, and more weeping was to come. Who would take care of Mama and Mary and Lydia, if Myra Harrington swept in to rule Longbourn? Her uncle could hardly take in all of them without considerable sacrifice on his part, although no doubt he would do whatever he could.
At last, Elizabeth spoke aloud the final argument. “I do not think I can bear to defy Papa. Not now, when he is so weak.”
Jane’s face fell, as she, too, began to accommodate the truth.
Ten days later, Mr Collins arrived at Longbourn. He was a tall, lean young man of one and twenty, and not by any means unattractive. He was also nearly as silly as his letter had implied, and Elizabeth knew she would have trouble respecting him—but he was, by far, the safest choice. Mama quickly began deferring to him. His wife would rule the family home they had always sheltered within.
Mr Ashwood, besides being practically ancient, was a bushy-browed, stooped figure; it had been thirty years, at least, since any young lady dreamt of him as husband material, if they ever had. Neither was she certain he could pickher or Jane out of a crowd—it was how little he had ever paid attention to either. As callous as it seemed to consider, she could not help wondering how long would it be before his wife was a widow?
On the one hand, if she married him, she might someday be free; on the other, the settlement he offered if no progeny came of the union was not a large one. As Mr Ashwood was childless, with only a nephew who stood to inherit Stoke, he would be anxious for her to produce a child. Elizabeth shuddered, unable to contemplatethataspect of marriage.
There was only one way to do this—they must draw straws. Fate must decide who would stay in Longbourn’s bosom, and who must leave for Stoke.
“Lizzy?” Jane said hesitantly, as they both readied themselves for bed in the room they shared, on the night of Mr Collins’s arrival.
She knew that Jane must also be deliberating how they were ever to make this choice; perhaps she had thought of a better idea than drawing straws. Possibly they could use a deck of cards? Whoever drew the lowest had to marry Mr Ashwood? “Yes?” she replied, turning away from the looking glass to face her sister in the lamp’s golden glow.
“You would not mind very much, would you, if I chose to marry Mr Collins?” Jane asked.
It was only surprise that kept Elizabeth from answering immediately. Naturally, she adored her sister. One of them must make the greater sacrifice, and if Jane already felt she could summon some sort of affection for their cousin…should she not be given the chance? For the sake of a most beloved sister, and for their father’s dying wish, Elizabeth could make herself submit. She had not been quite prepared to have no choice at all, but really, it was six of one, half-dozen of the other. Almost. She opened her mouth to acquiesce.
