“It seems he has written to his housekeeper, bidding her prepare the place for his arrival.”
Jane sighed and took her place beside Aunt Phillips, who was known in Meryton to possess the most precise intelligence on every occurrence of note.
“And do you know the day of his return?” she asked.
“Not precisely. But it must be this week, for provisions are already being laid in—an abundance of them!”
Elizabeth, who could not entirely master her thoughts, coloured at the suggestion that so lavish a preparation could scarcely be intended for one person alone.
“Perhaps Mr Bingley brings company,” she said, while Jane’s look betrayed her gratitude.
Suddenly, any mention of Mr Bingley had become essential to Jane in this new circumstance. She did not care whether it was only guesswork; it was sufficient that his namewas spoken, and that the improbable news of his return was confirmed. At last.
“That is hard to determine,” Mrs Phillips said, “but who arrives unaccompanied in the very midst of summer?”
Elizabeth regarded her aunt with peculiar interest. That she should always possess knowledge of what transpired in Meryton—and, indeed, within a radius of twenty miles—seemed remarkable. Elizabeth had long speculated whether her mother and aunt employed a network of discreet observers or whether tidings simply travelled from hearth to hearth with such celerity that secrecy was rendered impossible. The servants, to be sure, bore some responsibility; they often knew more of their masters’ affairs than their masters themselves, and their tongues were seldom idle.
“Enough, enough! Let us speak of the true purpose of our visit,” Mrs Bennet said with great resolve—to Jane’s dismay, for she had hoped the conversation would linger upon Netherfield.
“You remember, dear sister, Sophia Barrington.” It was not a question but a statement, for Mrs Phillips was never known to forget the smallest detail of the many intricate tales that drifted through Meryton. Indeed, she nodded at once and continued to work at her endless embroidery, though her attention did not stray from their discourse.
“Do you recall, last autumn—perhaps late November—that we enjoyed several fine days? We passed one such morning in your parlour, conversing—”
Observing, Elizabeth thought, not without a touch of mischief.
“One day, there appeared a barouche with a young couple, and the lady bore a striking resemblance to—”
“Sophia Barrington,” Mrs Phillips said, setting aside her work. This rare action signalled that the subject had at last touched upon something worthy of her entire attention.
“Yes, we spoke of it then, but dismissed the notion—”
“Naturally. The lady was youthful, and Sophia is of our own age. We soon let the matter drop, overwhelmed, perhaps, by reminiscence.”
A grave oversight, Elizabeth continued to think with silent amusement.You neglected the very heart of the affair. But for all her irony, she too was entirely engrossed by the tale, as was, surprisingly, Mary.
“We speculated that she might be Sophia’s daughter. Was she, do you think?” Mrs Phillips now looked about the gathering as though a mere glance might yield confirmation. Long had she employed her leisure in the study of those little signals and half-spoken truths by which much might be discerned. It was no malicious pursuit, nor was it driven by hidden motive; it was a game of the intellect, much like her embroidery, and she indulged it with similar constancy. She entrusted her inferences only to a chosen few—her sister, for one, despite her lack of discretion, and on occasion to Elizabeth and Jane, who alone had proved worthy of her complete confidence. She was not wholly guileless; when need arose, she employed her knowledge for her family’s benefit, just as when she discerned that Lady Lucas and Charlotte were interested in Mr Collins.
She had once invited Elizabeth to walk with her through Meryton, and, under the pretence of idle chat, asked whether she or any of her sisters entertained designs upon the clergyman. Elizabeth’s expression had revealed all: neither she nor any Bennet daughter aspired to such a connection.
“Speak!” cried Mrs Phillips, somewhat impatient. “Was she Sophia’s daughter?”
“We know not. That is the very reason we sought your counsel.” Elizabeth, with a few succinct words, recounted how the young lady had come to their notice while they were at Pemberley.
“What was her name, again?” asked Mrs Phillips.
“Emmeline Henry,” replied Elizabeth.
“Emmeline Henry… I don’t know it. Emmeline carries a French cadence, but Henry is English—”
“Why French?” cried Mrs Bennet, her curiosity now fully awakened.
“Because there was once a French gentleman involved...”
She paused, allowing her listeners a moment to compose themselves in anticipation of what plainly was a tale she knew well.
“And how is it that you know so much, while I remain so ill-informed?” asked Mrs Bennet scornfully.
Jane and Elizabeth exchanged glances but avoided meeting their mother’s eye; the answer was self-evident. No tale remained safe in her keeping.
