They were silent as the maid brought in tea and coffee on a silver tray: the famed Gardiner biscuits, handed down through generations. Mrs Bennet had never taken much interest in the recipe, but her sister preserved the tradition faithfully. Mrs Phillips looked about the room. Jane, she thought, might one day be a worthy heir to the receipt, for she bore a certain resemblance to herself in youth, romantic, but also inclined to good sense.
“Then perhaps we saw right. It is possible that the young red-haired lady in the barouche was indeed Sophia’s daughter—Miss Emmeline Henry,” said Mrs Bennet.
“It is possible,” allowed Mrs Gardiner, “but not certain. Let us not weave tales from shadows.” She was more realistic and less inclined to gossip than were the Gardiner sisters.
“But what brought Miss Henry to Hertfordshire?” asked Mrs Bennet, whose curiosity had not abated.
“I understand she received an invitation from Mr Bingley,” replied Elizabeth. “They made her acquaintance in Brighton, I believe.”
“And she came... thus? She met some company and leapt at once into their carriage, bound for Hertfordshire?”
“Lady Matlock told us she was accompanied by an aunt. Her mother now resides in the North, while her father—that Mr Henry—died when she was a child.
“Strange!” Mrs Phillips exclaimed, her tone carrying the weight of stupor. “What a pity we do not know the name of the Frenchman. When the Barrington house in Meryton wasfinally sold, there was indeed a French gentleman involved in the transaction. He spoke English well, yet Mr Phillips discerned that unmistakable accent which no Frenchman ever entirely casts off. My husband mentioned him to me, and I was glad, believing that Sophia had at last married her suitor. Mr Phillips met the gentleman in London five or six years ago. But now that I think about it, I recall the meeting as somewhat peculiar. The gentleman greeted my husband, but he did not engage him in conversation, nor observe the common courtesies. Mr Phillips returned home displeased and wondered whether there might be some concealed impediment regarding the sale. As you know, he is most exact in his dealings.”
“Were there difficulties in the end?” asked Mrs Gardiner.
“No. He examined the papers thoroughly and found nothing amiss. That French gentleman possessed all the documents requisite for the sale of the property on behalf of Mr Barrington, and they were, to all appearances, entirely proper and lawful. My husband would never have consented to mediate such a transaction otherwise. Finally, he also had a letter from Mr Barrington, expressing his sincere gratitude for Mr Phillips’s diligence.”
“Strange,” murmured Mary at her turn, and this time she looked at Elizabeth and coloured.
The tale was, in truth, a weird one—but Mary’s sudden interest in it was more curious still. Elizabeth studied her sister with fresh attention. What could have awakened such a feeling in Mary, who knew neither Sophia nor her reputed daughter?
“A fine lady,” Elizabeth said at length, her words addressed chiefly to her aunt. “They must possess a considerable fortune, for Miss Henry was most elegantly dressed and her jewellery was of great value.”
Mrs Bennet regarded her daughter with fixed attention.
“What comes over you girls? Mary shows interest in our gossip, and you speak of people’s incomes? Is this some new disorder of the nerves?”
Elizabeth laughed heartily, and Mary, unaccustomed to such mirth, could not help but smile—a small but notable victory.
“My dear Mama, I observe a great deal concerning those I meet... I simply do not always voice what I perceive.”
It was an explicit reproach, and excepting Lydia and Kitty, the other ladies felt it in her tone and words. Not so Mrs Bennet, who continued to gaze upon her daughters without the least change in expression.
Mrs Gardiner attempted to render her sister-in-law sensible. “Lizzy means only that certain remarks may do harm and leave an unfavourable impression.”
“And yet, a single conversation in a village might preserve a person from great error,” Mrs Bennet replied, thus proving that she had understood. “Take your colonel, for example—”
“He is notmycolonel, Mama!” cried Elizabeth.
“What distresses you, my dear? You are unusually quick to take offence today. Of course, he is not yours—it was only a manner of speaking. And do, I pray you, allow me to finish; it is not polite to interrupt. I meant only this: had we proved that his intended bride was indeed Sophia’s daughter, we might have helped him by sharing that knowledge. For my part, I do not believe the late Mr Henry was her father…if she is Sophia’s child. Most likely, that Frenchman was.”
“Please stop, Mama. I beg you—say no more,” Elizabeth said, her voice rising. “This is all guesswork, and based only on the colour of her hair. Miss Henry is not Sophia’s daughter, and this talk is nothing more than gossip. But even if she were, her mother’s mistake does not belong to her. She is a decent young woman—I am certain of it. And her fortune is no smalladvantage to Colonel Fitzwilliam. As a younger son, he must think not only of affection, but of means. With Emmeline, he may have both.”
“Rather pragmatic,” murmured Mrs Phillips, with a touch of disapproval.
“No, dear Aunt, you misjudge him,” Elizabeth replied with animation. “He is an honourable man, with no deceitful intentions and no vain schemes to ensnare a lady. He proceeds with candour. He can offer a distinguished connection and a noble disposition—qualities that ought to secure any woman’s contentment.”
“A pity that you cannot marry him, then,” her aunt replied plainly, which caused Elizabeth to blush, while Mrs Gardiner’s kind glance sought to comfort her. She esteemed Colonel Fitzwilliam as a dear friend, yet it was not he whom her heart held dear, though that affection, she feared, was in vain.
“Then it would indeed be an excellent match,” Mrs Phillips continued. “If Miss Henry brings a respectable portion, her place in London society will be assured.”
“Yes, it may be a union of mutual advantage. And if Miss Henry possesses a virtuous character, they shall enjoy a happy marriage,” Mrs Phillips said as she rose to indicate the end of the visit. Her husband was expected shortly, and he preferred a light repast with his wife and clerks before returning to his accounts.
“We have had a most diverting morning,” Lydia exclaimed.
This sentiment may have been shared by many, but not by Mrs Bennet. She departed with a measure of dissatisfaction, for the conversation had concluded without confirmation that Miss Henry was indeed Sophia’s daughter—a subject she dearly wished to present to her circle of lady friends, who were perhaps less scrupulous in such matters than her family.
