“Sophia was not…entirely like us,” Mrs Bennet said slowly. “We were timid creatures, raised to obey and marry without question. But Sophia’s parents travelled often to London, and she was much altered by what she saw there. Her manner with gentlemen was—how shall I say?—too forward.”
Mrs Bennet looked towards her sister to gauge her reaction, but found Mrs Gardiner as attentive as her daughters.
“It may sound quaint now, but that was how it was in my youth. And not long after, our mother forbade us from seeing Sophia at all. Sister Phillips and I discussed it much at the time. We were seldom entertained with such occurrences. I recall overhearing Mama say that Sophia had grown stout—and later, as a married woman, I came to understand what that truly meant. It was said that she had fallen into trouble—that she was with child.”
The company was astonished, but as always with Mrs Bennet’s stories, they had some reservations. Even in the present, many details sherememberedfrom an account were not always entirely accurate. It was the way of gossip—every person adding a little detail to look better informed.
“Perhaps that was not my mother’s true intent,” she said hastily. “Yet the lady in the barouche, whom we later discovered to be Miss Henry, a guest at Netherfield, recalled to us Sophia with startling vividness. Though we caught but the briefest glimpse, we both exclaimed, ‘Sophia!’”
“And?” said Lydia with impatience, for she knew her mother’s habits well. There was a particular turn in her voicewhich betrayed the presence of more, though she would not yield it without some prompting.
“It struck us as a singular coincidence to see such a lady so like Sophia, in our town. We supposed it might be her daughter, come to visit the place of her mother’s birth.”
“Oh,” Lydia breathed, desirous of further revelation.
“Yes—but such impressions are like shadows; they vanish before one may seize them.”
“Tell us then, what became of Miss Barrington?” asked Mary, to general surprise. Her interest in such matters was rare indeed. She flushed as all eyes turned to her. Mrs Bennet brightened. Might Mary, at last, begin to take an interest in society and marriage?
“We know little,” she admitted. “The Barringtons left in haste and never returned. That abruptness gave credence to our suspicions. If true, the child must be a little older than Jane. I married soon after their departure, and I remember being sad for not having her at my wedding.”
“And who was the father—if the tale is true?” asked Lydia, colouring.
“That is enough!” Mrs Bennet said, though her tone lacked conviction. They all knew how dearly she loved a mystery.
“Come, sister,” Mrs Gardiner said. “These are young ladies who must learn more of life. And after all, it is a tale long past.”
“You may be right. But let them understand this—one misstep may ruin a lady forever. A child born out of wedlock is no light matter. If my friend had this misfortune, her family had little choice but to quit the neighbourhood.”
She looked at her daughters, wondering whether any of them truly comprehended what such a situation entailed. Strangely enough, it might be the youngest who knew most.
“Please, Mama, tell us all,” Elizabeth pleaded. Her tone was earnest. She desired not gossip but truth—she wished to know whether the elegant Emmeline, whom she had so admired, might be the daughter of one who had once defied convention. If the beautiful Emmeline, who had stolen the colonel’s heart, was a child conceived out of wedlock. It was not a petty interest or a mean one. On the contrary, seldom had she admired a young lady of her age more than Emmeline. Elizabeth was not interested in fashion or jewels; still, if she had the opportunity, she would have dressed like Emmeline, a combination of elegance and a winning personality.
Yet her mother relented. “If you are so interested, we shall call upon your Aunt Phillips in the morning. She may recall far more than I.”
Chapter 8
The following morning—scarcely had breakfast concluded—the Miss Bennets made ready to walk to Meryton.
“It is yet too early,” observed Mrs Bennet, seeking to temper their eagerness.
“You know that they break their fast at eight, so that Uncle Phillips may begin his work at nine!” replied Mary, who, for once, was properly attired and prepared to depart.
This was a matter of some astonishment to all present. Ordinarily, she would be discovered with her nose buried in a volume, indifferent to the excursions and calls made by her sisters. Yet on this morning, she appeared neat, composed, and unencumbered by any book.
“Are you ailing, my child?” Mrs Bennet jested, peering at her with amusement, but Mary made no reply and quietly stepped outside to await them.
Mrs Bennet resumed her rebukes toward her other daughters while climbing with Mrs Gardiner into the carriage. “When I request your company, you spend an age in your preparations, but when you want something—”
Yet, in truth, the girls’ curiosity only heightened her own. Meryton seldom offered any true novelty during the summer months, and such an occurrence promised diversion for their parlour conversations.
The young ladies, having walked to their aunt’s house, discovered the Gardiner sisters—so they affectionately named the three ladies—engaged in fervent conversation. After hurried greetings, they were seated in Mrs Phillips’s spacious drawing-room, expressions of eager anticipation upon their countenances.
“You have begun without us!” Lydia reproached her mother and aunts.
“No, my dear, not at all,” replied Mrs Gardiner, smiling at her nieces. “Mrs Phillips was sharing the tidings that Mr Bingley intends to reopen Netherfield Park.”
All eyes turned to Jane, who blushed at such astonishing news.
