Page 37

The journey home from Netherfield was conducted at a stately pace through moonlit fields, the air crisp with autumn chill.

In the first carriage, Lydia and Kitty, who had been locked in earnest discussion of the officers’ uniforms and the comparative merit of privates and lieutenants, now broke off with squeals of delight.

“We shall be able to go to town every season!” Kitty cried.

“And have all the officers to dine, whenever we like!” added Lydia, stamping her feet in happy anticipation.

“Now, girls,” Mr. Bennet said. “Let me give you some advice.”

Mary cleared her throat and began to recite:

“What if you slept? And what if, in your sleep, you dreamed?

And what if, in your dream, you went to heaven,

and there plucked a strange and beautiful flower?”

“Very well, Mary. It has nothing to do with what I was going to say, but it helps me. So, Lydia and Kitty, did you recognize Coleridge’s quote?” asked Mr. Bennet.

“I am far from being called a choleric, Papa,” Lydia said.

“Samuel Taylor Coleridge is a poet, my dear,” Mr. Bennet said, dryly. “Shame on you both for not knowing that.”

“I cannot possibly memorize every obscure verse Mary finds interesting,” Lydia retorted, trying to defend herself. “Nor can I read every book in the world.”

“To find beautiful and interesting things—noble thoughts, or fine phrases—you must make the effort to read,” Mr. Bennet said. “Not everything, certainly, but something. You must learn to distinguish what is useful or worthy from what is not.”

“Jane, Lizzy, and Mary are clever, Papa. We are not like them,” Kitty interjected, eager to have her say.

“They are clever because they read—and because they use their minds to understand what they read, to question it, and to reflect on it. You two, by contrast, have not even curiosity.”

“We do too!” Lydia protested.

“Indeed you do not. Can you tell me what book of poetry Jane is reading at present? Or what novel Elizabeth has taken up this week?”

The girls glanced at each other, blank with surprise, and shook their heads.

Mary opened her mouth to answer, but her father stopped her with a hand gesture.

“You have no idea. When was the last time you asked an elder sister what she was reading—if it was interesting, or whether she might lend it to you once she was done? You do not know, because it has never occurred to you. You have not even the inspiration to glance at the title page. For instance, I happen to know Mary has been reading the poems of Samuel Taylor Coleridge these past four days. Is that not so, Mary?”

“Yes, Papa. It is,” Mary confirmed.

“I noticed it in passing. You, however, did not even know he is a living poet.”

“Oh, Papa, you make too much of books,” Lydia complained. “You always know what they are reading just by looking at the shelves.”

“I do. And I only wish five books were missing instead of three—so long as they were being read. Understood, digested, and remembered.”

“At the very least,” Mary added, “they might cease to mock those of us who choose to read.”

“La! That will be the day,” Lydia scoffed.

“But it shall come,” said Mr. Bennet, raising a finger. “You two have idled long enough. Tonight, you distinguished yourselves only by shrill laughter and ill-placed giggles. Therefore, I am taking measures.”

“I told you he heard us,” Kitty muttered to Lydia, with a scowl. “This is all your fault.”

Mr. Bennet cleared his throat. “From now on, mark my words carefully, Lydia and Kitty: if you wish to so much as exchange pleasantries with a Militia officer, you must first read a book from beginning to end. I shall ensure that it is done with precision myself. No book, no young officer. Is that clear?”

Lydia’s eyes widened in outrage. “But Papa! That is most unfair. What if the officer is handsome and about to go off to war?”

“Then, my dear, I suggest you read very quickly,” Mr. Bennet replied. “Preferably something with at least three chapters on military honor. That way, you might hold a conversation that does not begin and end with the color of his sash.”

Kitty stifled a giggle while Mary looked up from her book with cautious approval.

“But Papa! That is difficult and boring,” Lydia said.

“I believe, my dear, you may survive the shock. Life is more than balls, ribbons, and nonsense talk,” said Mr. Bennet.

“Furthermore, I shall ask your mother to impose upon you all the rules of behavior and conduct proper to your station—those very rules you are so eager to criticize in others, and which you break daily with the most astonishing nonchalance.”

“But Papa—” Lydia began.

“Any attempt at negotiation shall only result in additional rules. Do not defy me. The matter is settled. And now, I should like a moment’s peace before we arrive home,” Mr. Bennet concluded.

It might have been a period of tranquil reflection for the Bennet household—had Mrs. Bennet’s spirits been subject to any regulation less capricious than her own delight.

She filled the second carriage with exclamations, self-congratulation, and wild projections of domestic glory, leaving her daughters scarcely a syllable for reply.

“Did you see, Lizzy! Did you mark it, Jane? How Mr. Bingley never left your side, my dear! And Lady Lucas herself said, ‘It is a match; depend upon it, Mrs. Bennet!’ Oh, I am the happiest creature in the world this night. And as for you, Lizzy—well, I shall not say more than I ought, but when a certain gentleman will neither dance nor speak to another young lady in the room—oh, but you must not look so cross, my dear! It was all I could do to keep from laughing when I saw Miss Bingley’s face. Did you ever see anything so wretched?”

“Never,” said Elizabeth, concealing her smile in the dark. “Miss Bingley was the very picture of despair.”

Jane, demure as always, sought to moderate her mother’s triumph. “Perhaps we ought not to presume—Mr. Bingley is so amiable that he may mean nothing by his attentions. I would not wish to disappoint ourselves.”

“Nonsense, child! Why should you be disappointed? He could not have been more in love if he had been born with it. I dare say you will be mistress of Netherfield by next Michaelmas! And what a fine thing it will be for your sisters. We shall have balls and dinners and officers from the regiment forever in attendance—oh, think of it! To have daughters so handsomely settled and one of them by so rich a man!”

Elizabeth exchanged a glance with Jane, who looked mortified but also quietly amused.

“I think you may be allowing your imagination some liberty, Mama,” said Elizabeth gently. “As yet, there are no engagements at all, and—”

Mrs. Bennet, who never permitted other opinions to stand in the way of domestic achievement, felt forced to interfere: “We must think of our prospects! Why, with Mr. Bingley in the family, we shall be connected to such grand people—I dare say, Lizzy, Mr. Darcy will propose within a fortnight, or two! And then you will be mistress of Pemberley, which everyone says is the finest estate in all Derbyshire, even grander than others that we have visited so far. Oh, my nerves! I shall never be able to bear it, not if all my daughters are married to ten thousand a year!”

At last, the carriages arrived at Longbourn, where a meagre supper had been prepared. Mrs. Bennet recounted the events of the night, embellishing where necessary and omitting every detail that might dampen the triumph.

Mr. Bennet, having retired to his library, was spared the brunt of her monologue, though his wife occasionally shouted through the door with tidings of their impending greatness.

“There will be, there will be as I feel!” Mrs. Bennet insisted, wagging her index finger.

“If I know anything of men—and I flatter myself, Lizzy, that I do—they never look so much as you have been looked at without meaning to propose. Besides, you will not have another ball to best this one. Mr. Darcy danced with no one else; he even fetched your father a glass of punch! Did you not see the way he hovered? Poor Miss Bingley nearly expired. I never liked her, and now I see I was right!”

Kitty and Lydia, wrapped in shawls and dreams, plotted the conquest of every eligible officer within fifty miles.

Lydia swore she would have Captain Carter die in the attempt; Kitty, less ambitious, would settle for the most handsome cornet.

Mary, undeterred by the general indifference, resolved to play the pianoforte every day until her fingers bled so that she might perform at Jane’s wedding to universal acclaim.

“Lizzy, you must write to your aunt Gardiner at once! She will be in raptures over Jane’s conquest—and do not forget to mention Mr. Darcy’s devotion to you! We must let them know that the Bennet girls are not to be trifled with, even in such elevated company.”

“I will write tomorrow,” Elizabeth said, and escaped upstairs. She paused at Jane’s door, where her sister was already preparing for bed, her hair unpinned and her face still flushed with uncertainty.

“What a night,” Jane murmured, clasping Elizabeth’s hand. “I am afraid Mama will have the banns read out before Mr. Bingley can call again.”

Elizabeth laughed. “She may well attempt it. But I think your Mr. Bingley will not need such encouragement—he was all but ready to declare himself on the spot had the gathering afforded him the chance. You are a marvel, Jane; even the Lucases admit it now.”

Jane blushed. “I wish I could be sure. I just want him to be happy. He is so... so gentle. It is difficult to believe he could ever be unkind to anyone.”

Elizabeth, recalling the memory of Mr. Darcy’s glance across the ballroom—his earnest, unguarded gaze—felt a pang of some emotion she had not yet named. “I believe that you and Mr. Bingley will be very happy. As for Mr. Darcy—”

Jane smiled, sly for once. “He has never looked at anyone as he looked at you tonight, Lizzy. Not even himself.”