“Now, Mrs. Bennet, if you will sit.”
Mamma collapsed onto the best chair with the air of affronted dignity. “Lizzy, I must speak with you upon a matter of great urgency, for that disagreeable man, Mr. Darcy, has neglected his fiduciary duties,” Mamma pronounced ‘fiduciary’ slowly, as if she had practiced this extremely complicatedword. “That most horrid man has placed your fortune under the guardianship of your uncle, your own mother’s brother, as though Mr. Gardiner, who sells cloth, is a more appropriate guardian than your own mother. Furthermore, I have been given to understand that certain tradespeople in Meryton will no longer extend me credit, and this is a disgrace, for I won seventeen pounds in the lottery. Seventeen pounds, and people were happy to lend me money on the strength of your fortune, Lizzy, because everyone knows you are worth fifteen thousand a year, and now certain persons are saying I cannot borrow against your name. I wish to know who has told them this, and I believe it is that insufferable Mr. Darcy, who has no right?—”
Elizabeth’s temples throbbed. Closing her eyes would be bliss, but leaving Mrs. Bennet unsupervised was rather like arming a toddler with a cannon in a room full of porcelain.
“Mamma, the Consols are held in trust. Mr. Darcy, as my trustee, passed them to Mr. Gardiner to serve as your trustee. It is a legal arrangement.”
“Legal arrangement! What care I for legal arrangements when my daughter is fifteen thousand a year, and I am told I cannot purchase a bonnet in Meryton without Mr. Darcy’s permission.”
“Mamma, you do not need anyone’s permission to purchase a bonnet with your own money. However, you cannot use my name or Mr. Darcy’s, and if tradespeople have ceased extending credit in my name, it is because borrowing against another person’s fortune without their consent is?—”
“Without their consent! You are my daughter. My consent is your consent. A mother’s interests and her daughter’s interests are one and the same, and when I tell Mr. Mercer the draper that my Elizabeth is worth fifteen thousand a year,”
“You told Mr. Mercer the draper?”
“And Mrs. Croft, the milliner. And Mr. Potts the butcher, though what the butcher has to do with credit I cannot fathom, but he was very obliging until recently. I believe that odious Mr. Darcy has written letters.”
“Mamma.” Elizabeth pressed her fingers against her temples. “This is why the money is held in trust, so it is not frittered away on bonnets and sweets.”
“The trust! That horrid arrangement that gives a man I absolutely detest and your uncle, who is very kind but not at all grand, control over what should rightfully be in my hands, for I am your mother, Lizzy, your mother, and Mr. Darcy—that disagreeable, proud man who insulted you at the Meryton assembly—has no business managing your fortune, none at all, and I wish to speak with him directly about the Consols, for I have a very clear idea of what should be done with them, and what should be done is that I should have access.”
“Which is precisely why Uncle will dole out your portion, Mamma, as he sees fit. But Mamma, you cannot borrow in my name again. The merchants in Meryton will be informed that future credit requires Uncle Gardiner’s authorization. This is a protection, not a punishment.”
“It is a punishment, and it is the most personal slight I have ever?—”
“Tea,” Jane said, setting down a tray with seedcake and a pot of steaming tea. “Mamma, you must be exhausted from the journey. Come and sit. Tell me about Lady Lucas.”
Mrs. Bennet, whose grievances about Lady Lucas were inexhaustible and whose willingness to share them was a force that transcended all other considerations, allowed herself to be redirected. “Lady Lucas has been insufferable since Charlotte married Mr. Collins, and the smugness with which she reported back on her London visit—imagine that, Lizzy, she sat here, in your parlor before your own mother had a chance to?—”
Elizabeth slipped into the corridor, grateful for the reprieve. Mary lingered outside, uncertain whether to brave the breakfast room and risk being remembered, or remain safely invisible in the shadows where she so often found herself.
“Mamma and Lydia are taking tea in the breakfast room,” Elizabeth said. “Are you well?”
Mary nodded, but her feet remained planted. A question hovered at the edge of her mouth, as if uncertain of its welcome.
“What is it?” Elizabeth asked. “I shall try to keep Lydia from your things.”
“This isn’t about Lydia,” Mary said. “Although I did notice the absence of officers at Lady Harewood’s ball. Are London balls more exclusive than Meryton balls? I noticed John Lucas and Charlotte were not in attendance, but Sir William and Lady Lucas came.”
Elizabeth leaned against the wall’s paneling, letting out a sigh. “Not everyone is invited to Lady Harewood’s ball. Sir William holds a knighthood and a connection to the Court. Charlotte and John are not on the lists curated by the matrons, who are the arbiters of the Londonton, foremost of whom are Lady Jersey and Mrs. Drummond-Burrell.”
“Were we on the list because of your fortune?”
“Yes. The gulf between a provincial assembly and the Londontonis as wide as the Atlantic. We were invited because of Lady Sophia’s ducal credentials and the fortune she gifted me, but I fear Mamma and Lydia will not gain invitations if Lady Sophia does not give them the nod, and Mamma has been… quite loud.”
Mary absorbed this the way she absorbed difficult music. “The gentleman who danced with me at the ball. Mr. Davenport and one of the Arthurs. Were they dancing with me, or with fifteen thousand a year’s sister?”
Mary’s eyes begged her to confess the worst: that the enchanted evening—the rose gown, Georgiana’s pin, the music,the gentlemen—might have been nothing more than a parade for her fortune.
“Some may be, were dancing with the fortune,” Elizabeth said. “But the ones who are real will ask about your opinions, and they will listen with their eyes, and not glance around for another connection while complimenting your family. They remember what you said last Tuesday about Clementi’s use of the minor seventh. They write to their sisters about the girl who played from memory and did not make a single error.”
“Then there is hope,” Mary said. “Mr. Davenport and I spoke about the Psalms, and how Princess Michal sinned by lying to her father about David, but that she loved him and preserved the line to Christ.”
“Then he was real.” Elizabeth squeezed her sister’s hand. “Just like Mr. Bingley was real to Jane, and… the men who look beneath the burrs and the torn ear to toss a ball with a dog who should have been left in the hedgerows.”
“You are not speaking about Mr. Davenport or Mr. Bingley,” Mary stated, but her eyes held a new light. “And because of the Consols and your fortune, and the gift of the rose gown, I can wait for someone real. It is a gift, Elizabeth. You gave us wings.”
Elizabeth’s throat tightened. She pulled Mary close and held her. “Yes, dearest. We Bennet girls are not made for settling, and we never shall.”
