Page 8 of Elizabeth is not a Bennet

On the Road to Longbourn

The Next Afternoon

Elizabeth tilted the book in her hand, the better to catch the light of the setting sun, a glow of contentment in her breast. In addition to the luggage they had carried to London, the carriage held six newly purchased books, which were wrapped carefully in a brown paper parcel. She and Mr. Bennet had spent a pleasurable morning browsing Hatchard’s in London, exclaiming in delight over each leather-bound treasure.

It had been after lunch when at last they had departed on the road to Longbourn, each entirely absorbed in one of their newest acquisitions. There was little conversation inside the box, neither passenger suffering from traveling illness, and both completely happy with their occupations.

The carriage came to a halt, and Elizabeth looked up to observe the stables of Longbourn out the window. She had been so engrossed in her personal copy of Robinson Crusoe that she had not been aware that they were so close to home .

The door opened from the outside, and Mr. Bennet, after setting his own book down reluctantly, descended from the carriage and handed Elizabeth out. She shivered as she stepped onto the ground; the sun was nearly at the horizon now, and the autumn winds were chilly. Arm in arm, the twosome made their hasty way toward the front door of Longbourn, where they were greeted by Mrs. Bennet, who exclaimed, “There you are! I had expected you two hours ago! Come into the drawing room and sit down by the fire, and I will order some tea to warm you!”

“I will be there in a few minutes,” Mr. Bennet replied. “I wish to speak to the servants about the books.”

“Books!” Mrs. Bennet cried out. “Always more books! My dear Lizzy, did you ever know such a bookworm as your uncle?”

“I am a bookworm as well,” Elizabeth said with a chuckle, ambling towards the drawing room. “Indeed, that is why we are later than expected. There were so many wondrous volumes at Hatchard’s that it was hard for us to tear ourselves away!”

Mrs. Bennet shook her head and led her adopted niece into the room, where the four Bennet daughters were gathered. Lydia, who was chattering loudly about the charms of the militia officers, stood up from the chair nearest the fire and hurried over. “Lizzy! Lizzy! Is it true? Have you inherited an estate? ”

Elizabeth winced, suppressed a groan and said, “I do not know.”

“You do not know?” Kitty cried out. “How can you not know?”

“Would you like to sit down near the fire before we discuss this further?” Jane asked kindly. “It is a chilly day.”

Lydia, to Elizabeth’s surprise, gently pushed her into the seat she had just vacated. “There, now you are by the fire. Do tell us, Lizzy!”

Elizabeth held out her hands toward the hearth, relishing the warmth, and said, “Uncle Bennet and I visited the solicitor yesterday. Mr. Appleton is the son of the man who looked after my father’s affairs, and he knew little about Ravenswood, the estate I am supposed to inherit.”

“He did not know anything at all,” Mr. Bennet said, striding into the room and taking his own seat near the fire. “The poor man was completely confused. He could tell us nothing about Lizzy’s father, or the estate, or the condition of the estate, or the income.”

“That seems peculiar for a solicitor in charge of Elizabeth’s affairs,” Mary remarked from her seat next to Jane. The most industrious of the Bennet sisters, Mary was busily knitting a scarf, and Elizabeth felt her anxiety ease at the sight of those busy fingers. Yes, her life was in upheaval, but here at Longbourn, she was loved and at home.

“The elder Mr. Appleton died suddenly, it seems, and left his clients’ affairs in some disarray,” she remarked. “He did, at least, know the location of the estate, and Mr. Gardiner is having one of his young men journey north to Scotland to gather details.”

“How long will that take?” Kitty demanded eagerly.

Mr. Bennet and Elizabeth exchanged looks, and the former said, “It is a long way to Scotland; I daresay it will be at least a fortnight before we will hear any news.”

“That is a very long time to wait,” Lydia declared with a sigh, and Elizabeth could not help but sigh with her. It was a long time, and for a moment, she wished she had spared the money to allow Mr. Jenkins to hire a private carriage. But such a thing would have been expensive, and she was canny enough to know that, while four hundred pounds a year income would be plenty for her own needs, it would not be quite sufficient for her aunt and cousins if Mr. Bennet should die with all his daughters unwed.

It could be argued, of course, that it was the elder Bennets’ responsibility to save for their daughters’ future, but Elizabeth was clear-eyed about that as well. She loved and appreciated her Aunt Bennet, but the lady was a spendthrift, and more than that, could not imagine a happy life for her daughters separate from marriage. The former Francine Gardiner, a solicitor’s daughter, had vaulted into the ranks of the gentry through her marriage to Thomas Bennet and wanted nothing more than to see her own daughters well married.

That meant that Mrs. Bennet felt justified in spending too much on clothing, and fine meals, and entertainment at Longbourn, and Mr. Bennet did not have the energy and determination to restrain his wife’s spending beyond an occasional admonishment. Longbourn was not in debt, and that was something, but the Longbourn income was sufficiently large that…

“Lizzy? Lizzy?”

Elizabeth looked up in surprise to discover that the drawing room was now empty except for Jane, who was looking down on her with concern.

“My apologies,” she said, rising to her feet. “I was wool gathering.”

“Oh, I can well imagine,” Jane said with her ready sympathy. “You have had much to think of in the last week. But it is time to change for dinner, and Mamma ordered roast chicken for you and Father.”

Elizabeth’s eyes lit up, and she said, “Oh, I love roast chicken. How very kind of her! ”

The two ladies made their way out of the drawing room and up the stairwell to the west wing and their bedchambers.

“Have you seen any more of Mr. Bingley?” Elizabeth asked, pausing at her own door. “I forgot to ask.”

Jane, who had proceeded further down the corridor, paused and then turned, her cheeks slightly pink. “We saw him at the Lucases two nights ago.”

“And?”

“I continue to think him a most estimable young man,” Jane said softly.

/

Pig in the Poke Pub and Inn

Meryton

The Next Day

George Wickham looked about appreciatively as he followed his old acquaintance Denny – now a captain in the militia – into the charming inn that served Meryton and its environs. He took note of the doors leading off into private parlors, and then fixed his gaze on the sturdy oak tables with their scars and their stains set near the windows, and the kitchen door half-open and emitting tempting aromas. A maid tripped forward to greet the two men and led them to the narrow stairwell to the second floor, where several of the officers were to be quartered. Wickham looked her over and smiled charmingly. He was rewarded with a blush and a giggle from the pretty girl as she started climbing the stairs, with himself in close pursuit.

His shoulders relaxed for the first time since he had left London as he and Denny attained the upper floor of the inn. His luck had been out for a while, the cards and the dice against him, his debts mounting, the shopkeepers becoming more insistent that he pay off his accounts, and food, or at least food to his liking, growing scarce. He had just come to the conclusion that a change of scenery was in order when, by the very hand of Providence, Denny had appeared on the doorstep of the squalid little boarding house where he was staying, and informed him that the militia was looking for gentlemen such as Wickham. It was an appealing picture Denny had painted; a steady stipend, little work, food and lodgings paid for, and the welcome of gentry and shopkeepers alike.

The more Wickham saw of military life, the better he liked it. The maid guided both men into a guest bedchamber and shot him a last flirtatious look before leaving to resume her duties elsewhere. Wickham looked around in satisfaction – the room was not large, but no smaller than his last, and far cleaner. A cursory examination of the bed showed it well-filled and covered with clean sheets, the quilt atop it in good repair. Simple off-white curtains hung at the window, and he moved to push them aside and look out. The glass was clean and revealed a view of Meryton’s main street below, currently bustling with activity. Wickham smiled to himself; he had always preferred windows that looked out over busy streets, rather than dull, deserted back courtyards, occupied only by slumping stablehands on their unhurried way through to other tasks.

He turned at last to examine the uniform spread out across the bed, white breeches and polished black boots and striking scarlet coat. He felt the hem of the coat and gave it an approving look. The color would, he thought, flatter him nicely, further enhancing his natural charm. Denny, watching with a lurking grin, suggested, “You should change and come down and join us, maybe have something to eat and a drink.”

“It will be my great pleasure,” he agreed enthusiastically and waited until the door closed behind his friend to turn back to his new uniform and start to change .

A quarter of an hour later, Wickham wore the red coat and white breeches of his new profession and spent a full minute admiring himself in the mirror attached to the wall. He concluded that looked very well indeed, and would doubtless entrance local ladies and susceptible shopkeepers alike.

He flicked a nonexistent speck of dust off his trousers and strolled out of his room, down the stairs, and toward the tantalizing smells of eggs and ham and the sound of enthusiastic voices.

A hasty glance around immediately revealed the other militia officers, a bright knot of cheerful red amidst the drab browns and greens of the farmers in their smocks and the servants stopping for a quick bite to eat before resuming their masters’ business. Dark oak beams held up the roof, now stained by years of smoke drifting up from below. The floor itself was of rough-hewn boards, swept clean throughout the day, stained from food and ale dropped over the course of years.

“Over here, Wickham!” Denny called jovially, and Wickham turned toward his friend’s voice and strode confidently over to a table in the corner, where three red-coated men were seated around a small table, all of them with tankards of ale in their hands and tantalizing victuals on their plates.

“Wickham!” Denny continued, grinning. “May I please introduce you to Lieutenant Pratt and Captain Smythe. Pratt, Smythe, Mr. Wickham, now Lieutenant Wickham, whom I convinced to join the regiment only two days ago!”

“Take a load off of those handsome legs, Wickham,” Pratt said cheerfully. “I can vouch for the ale; it is excellent!”

“Thank you,” Wickham said, sliding happily into the remaining seat and gesturing to a comely barmaid, who made her way hastily to his side.

“What can I get you, sir?” she asked with a flirtatious toss of her dark head.

“May I have what my friend Denny is having?” he requested with a winsome smile. “And some ale as well?”

“Of course, sir!”

The ale was, as advertised, excellent, and Wickham relished the feeling of the smooth, cool liquid sliding down his throat.

“It is a pity about the red hair though,” Smythe remarked, obviously continuing an interrupted conversation. “It seems the way of the world that the most beautiful women have no dowry, and the plain ones have the money! ”

“Miss Stowe is not plain,” Pratt protested. “She is quite pretty, I think, with those dark eyes and straight nose and determined chin.”

“I cannot get past her hair,” Smythe said with a gloomy shake of the head.

“Whom are you speaking of?” Wickham asked in a deliberately casual tone.

“Oh, of course, you do not know the local society at all yet!” Pratt exclaimed. “Given your good looks and fine figure, I daresay that the ladies will be paying you a great deal of attention. Indeed, Denny, why did you bring Wickham here? The rest of us will have no chance at all!”

Wickham chuckled but could not help preen at these words. He was, he knew, handsome, and had been blessed with a pleasant voice and considerable charm.

“There are some four and twenty families in the gentry,” Smythe said just as Wickham’s plate of food arrived. He immediately began to eat hungrily as he listened intently. He enjoyed the attention, and when possible, the embraces of pretty women, but his greatest desire was to wed an heiress.

“Four and twenty, yes,” Denny remarked, “but many of them are of no interest to us. They are older and do not consort with militia officers. But there are at least ten families with young ladies among them, and the Bennets of Longbourn are the most handsome in the area; four daughters, all blonde and blue eyed, and while the eldest is considered the local beauty, they are all quite pretty.”

“They are,” Pratt agreed with a grin. “Indeed, I think I prefer the younger three to Miss Bennet; she is such a celestial creature that she does not even seem entirely real. The younger three are all attractive, and the younger two are extremely lively.”

Wickham grinned back. He had a great appreciation for pretty, lively young ladies.

“Are the Bennet ladies well dowered?” he asked.

Smythe rolled his eyes and said, “That is the problem; they are all as poor as the proverbial church mice. No dowry at all, and their father’s estate entailed away from the female line.”

There was a collective groan from the three other men, and Wickham set aside the possibility of marrying one of the Bennet women. While he appreciated feminine beauty, he would never marry an undowered female.

“What about this Miss Stowe?” he asked and shoveled another bite of ham into his mouth. It was perfectly cured and incredibly tasty.

“Now Miss Stowe is quite interesting!” Pratt declared. “She is some kind of cousin of the Bennets and has lived with them since she was a small child. She is an orphan, and her father left her ten thousand pounds.”

“A tidy sum,” Wickham remarked, though inwardly, he was disappointed. Assuming the money was in the four percents, ten thousand pounds would yield an income of four hundred pounds a year. That was enough for most men, but he, who enjoyed the finer things in life and was an enthusiastic gambler, would be ill served with twice that. Not for the first time, he mourned the loss of Georgiana Darcy and her dowry of thirty thousand pounds. He had nearly managed to steal away to Gretna Green with the sole daughter of Pemberley, only to be stopped by Georgiana’s pompous, irritating, older brother, Fitzwilliam Darcy.

“Yes, it is,” Pratt continued, “but more than that, rumors are circulating through Meryton that Miss Stowe will inherit an estate in Scotland when she attains her majority next summer.”

This provoked Wickham to sit up straight and peer at him intently. “An estate, you say?”

“I think it most unlikely,” Denny protested. “How could a girl be twenty years of age and discover now that she is heiress to an estate? I expect it is merely a foolish rumor. ”

“Perhaps,” Wickham mused. “From a financial perspective, anyway, the young lady sounds interesting indeed, regardless of her looks.”

“Can you tolerate red hair?” Smythe demanded.

“I can tolerate red hair, freckles, and a squint if the lady is an heiress!” Wickham said jovially, and this produced a welcome laugh from his fellow officers.

Yes, Meryton was proving a most pleasing landing place for George Wickham.