Mrs. Bennet dabbed her eyes and surveyed her daughter with mingled relief and reproach. “Well, I am thankful, I am sure. Your Aunt Philips declared you would be lost to us forever, but I always said you had too much sense for that. Now you must rest, and not think of any more foreign adventures. What would become of us if you were to wander off again?”
“I promise not to leave Hertfordshire without your express permission,” said Elizabeth, smiling.
Kitty and Mary soon appeared, drawn by the commotion, and the family gathered close about Elizabeth, each expressing their own pleasure and curiosity at her return.
Mrs. Bennet was persuaded to put on her dressing gown and come downstairs. When they were all in the drawing-room, the questions, some of which Elizabeth had already answered, were asked again—her answers only to be repeated when Mr. Bennet, aroused from his study, came to enquire as to the noise.
“Lizzy, is it truly you?” he cried, tears forming in his eyes. “I had given up all hope, until I received Lord Matlock’s letter that you were safe in Salamanca. And to think, you were there when Wellington won such a great victory. You must tell me all about it. I did read somewhere that Colonel Fitzwilliam—the very man who spent some weeks at Netherfield after that Bingley chap left—discovered most important intelligence of the French army’s manoeuvres. What a daring fellow he must be!”
“Oh, Mr. Bennet,” said his wife, “Lizzy can know nothing of such things. You must tell us, my dear, are the Spanish ladies very fashionable?”
So the chatter went on; tea was poured, and Hill brought in a plate of freshly-baked lemon biscuits. After a time, Elizabeth became aware that there had been no mention of Lydia.
“Lydia sends her love,” she said, “and wishes to assure you that she is very well taken care of by Mrs. Hurley.”
The silence was deafening.
“We do not speak of Lydia,” said Jane, twisting her handkerchief, “Mama says she has disgraced the family; that she is no proper daughter of hers.”
Elizabeth was silent a moment, the sting of these words settling uncomfortably about the room. She looked from Jane’s pale, anxious face to her mother, whose lips were pressed together ina stubborn pout. Mary gazed into her lap, and Kitty fidgeted with the trim of her sleeve.
“But, Mama,” Elizabeth ventured at last, “Lydia is still your daughter, and I have every confidence she will return. But she is very much needed, ministering to the sick and wounded, and especially the children of the army wives. I know she would wish to be received with kindness when she returns to Longbourn. She has been very brave.”
Mrs. Bennet sniffed and dabbed at her eyes again. “It is all very well for you to speak so, Lizzy, but you did not see the looks Mrs. Long gave me at church, nor the whispers from Mrs. Goulding. No, I have suffered enough on Lydia’s account. She may remain in Spain forever, for all I care.”
Jane placed a gentle hand on her mother’s arm. “Perhaps, when she is safely home, all may be forgiven. I am sure Lydia did not mean to bring us pain.”
“I am sorry, Mama. But Lydia is an exceptional woman,” said Elizabeth, with some fervour. “I would rather you disdained the opinion of Mrs. Long; she knows nothing of the war. And Mrs. Goulding—Lieutenant William Goulding of the 95th Rifles should be informed of his mother’s opinion, he would be exceedingly displeased.”
“William Goulding? A lieutenant? Why, that boy could hardly ride a horse,” Mrs. Bennet scoffed.
“Did you meet William?” asked Kitty. “Was he in Spain? For I last heard he was at Shorncliffe in Kent.”
“Mayhap we can talk later, Kitty. Indeed, I did meet him, and often he asked after you.” Elizabeth smiled. She had never suspected that Kitty and William held some affection for each other—neither, she supposed, did her mother, who had occasionally pushed her towards William. With time, and promotion, William would make an excellent husband, once the war was done.
There was no more talk of Lydia, for Mrs. Bennet refused to countenance that her daughter, the daughter that had been her favourite, had not deliberately stayed behind in Spain solely to vex her. Her nerves were fraught, which was her right having had two daughters abducted and no word of them for over a month. But now they were safe.
Later that evening, in the privacy of their room, the two sisters could speak of matters as they truly were, though Elizabeth would never, not even to dearest Jane, speak of her entering the French camp, of her being dressed as amaja, and her liaison with Colonel Dumoustier. Some things should never be known to someone of such a sweet and gentle nature.
“And you, Jane, you said you were well, but I do not believe it,” said Elizabeth, holding her sister’s hand. “Is it Mr. Bingley?”
“And why should you say that?” said Jane, slightly colouring.
“Because our dear mother has no command over herself, that she continually reflects on him.”
“I do not repine,” said Jane. “He will be forgot, and you and I will be as we were before.”
Elizabeth squeezed her sister’s hand more strongly, but said nothing.
“You doubt me,” cried Jane. “Indeed you have no reason. He may live in my memory as the most amiable man of my acquaintance, but that is all. I have nothing either to hope or fear, and nothing to reproach him with. In the months you have been away, all my fears and love were directed to your safe return. I have scarcely thought on Mr. Bingley above once a day.”
Once a day. To think of a man once a day must—certainly must—signify some measure of love still lingering in her sister’s heart. Elizabeth felt her own heart tremble. There was a man whom she thought of once a day; more often if she were tobe truthful. Surely, she only thought of Mr. Darcy when the thoughts pressed so hard she recalled that the very presence of the man had lent her such relief that she could have spent the remainder of her life walking the Camino de San Salvador in his company, climbing mountains higher than she thought possible, solely to escape her stifling gift.
* * *
Elizabeth now settled at home, but the dynamic of the household had changed. Mrs. Bennet had become even more petulant. Though she never spoke of Lydia, it was clear the girl was never far from her mind. Now, she turned her attentions to Jane, Elizabeth, and Kitty. As always, Mary seemed to escape her notice, for she had once been declared plain by Aunt Phillips, and now she was plain in the eyes of her mother, the one person who should have defended her against such slights.
Mrs. Bennet never understood her daughter. Beauty was the only way to secure a wealthy husband, and Mary’s unconventional looks were so unlike her mother’s that the latter preferred to ignore her completely. Elizabeth often saw Mary hide her face, or, more likely, run to the piano-forte whenever their mother embarked on yet another tirade about her selfish daughters having not secured husbands; about those daughters who were plain, or coughed, or disgraced the family.
