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A COMMISSION FOR ELIZABETH

I t had been the strangest Christmas in Elizabeth’s memory.

Her aunt and uncle Gardiner had come, as they did every year, and joined with the rest of the family in acting as though nothing was amiss.

Yet there was no escaping the glaring fact that Mrs Bennet was not there.

A few days before the Gardiners arrived, she had been called to London, where her childhood friend, Mrs Randall, lay abed with a worsening fever and only one recalcitrant maid to nurse her.

Stranger still was that none of Elizabeth’s family appeared to share her misgivings.

Mr Bennet had blithely encouraged everybody to make the most of the peace and quiet.

Jane and Mary were too intent on applauding Mrs Bennet’s Samaritan impulses to question her motives.

Kitty and Lydia had observed that it was no different to Elizabeth running off to Netherfield when Jane had a cold in November.

“It is completely different,” Elizabeth complained to her aunt one day after Christmas when they were walking alone in the lanes.

“Mama’s correspondence with Mrs Randall has dwindled to infrequent at best, and I cannot recall the last time the woman returned to Meryton for a visit.

It is very sad that she is unwell now, but I do not believe Mama would have been half so keen to spend her Christmas in the service of a long-since-lapsed friendship had not I refused Mr Collins, or he proposed to Charlotte, or Mr Bingley not abandoned Jane. ”

Perhaps Mrs Bennet might have borne all these vexations with valiant, if vociferous, fortitude had she remained at home. They would never know, for Mrs Randall’s illness had provided a convenient excuse for her to escape Longbourn and all her woes.

“Does it make a difference why she went?” Mrs Gardiner asked.

“No, I suppose not. I just find it odd.”

“Do you?” Her aunt paused to wait for a cart to roll loudly past them, then continued.

“Your mother does not always conduct herself as we might like, but you must admit she is very caring. She has nursed you and your sisters through enough illnesses for you to know that. And you may well be right—I can imagine she was distressed by everything you have catalogued, but in that case, perhaps it is fortuitous that she was needed elsewhere. Her attempts to see two of her daughters wed came to nothing, but she can mop Mrs Randall’s brow well enough.

We all need to feel as though we have purpose, now and again. ”

“But she scarcely knows her any more. She has missed Christmas with her family to mop a stranger’s brow.”

“Your uncle recalls that they were as thick as thieves at one time. If you grew apart from Miss Lucas, would you deny her your assistance twenty years hence, if she really needed it?”

Elizabeth relented with a sigh. “I like to think not.”

Her aunt smiled sympathetically. “Your mother has hardly ever been away from Longbourn—I daresay it feels empty without her, but she will be back before you know it, and no doubt happy to be returned after having toiled all Christmas at someone else’s bedside.”

“You are right.” Elizabeth glanced at her aunt and gave a resigned laugh. “Of course you are right! Pray do not mistake me—I do not begrudge Mama a change of scene. Indeed, I hope it makes her feel better. I only hope it does as much good for Jane.”

For all Mrs Bennet’s lamentations about Mr Bingley’s departure, her anguish was nothing to Jane’s; she had been truly in love, and the toll on her was visible.

Elizabeth’s usually serene sister had grown morose and listless.

Mr and Mrs Gardiner had invited her to return to London with them when they left the next day, in the hope that a little time away would improve her spirits.

“I understand your sister has written to Miss Bingley to inform her that she will be in town. Can we be sure that she is not harbouring the hope that a connexion to the sister will increase her chances of seeing Mr Bingley?”

“Would that be so terrible?”

“I cannot help but think it would be better that she not see him at all, for it would only remind her of her attachment.”

“It might remind him of his as well.”

Elizabeth was perfectly convinced that Mr Bingley’s sisters had seen that their brother was in love with Jane but wanted him to marry Miss Darcy; thus they had followed him to town after the ball and persuaded him to stay there. Nothing could be more obvious, in her opinion.

What Mr Darcy thought of his sister’s part in this plan was anybody’s guess, but it was certain to have pleased him more than the prospect of his friend forming an alliance with anyone from Meryton.

His disdain for the place and all its inhabitants could not have been plainer—though Meryton’s reciprocal scorn had gained significant ground of late, thanks to Mr Wickham.

Since the Netherfield party’s departure, he had grown much less reserved in discussing his unhappy connexion to Mr Darcy.

The tale of his withheld inheritance and refuted living were now openly acknowledged, and the perpetrator generally thought of with little or no warmth by anyone.

“It would be unwise for Jane to pin her hopes on it,” Mrs Gardiner said. “Wish it for her by all means, Lizzy, but have a care not to encourage any expectations. It would not do to prolong her present misery.”

Elizabeth readily acknowledged the wisdom of this advice, but the conversation was thereafter abandoned, for they had arrived back at Longbourn. They were still removing their coats and scarves when Mr Bennet appeared in the door of his book-room and cleared his throat.

“A word, Lizzy, when you are ready?” He did not wait for a reply but retreated directly.

Elizabeth exchanged a perplexed look with her aunt, then laid her bonnet on the hall table and followed her father.

“Close the door,” he said quietly.

“Is something the matter?”

He gave a small shake of his head, but it seemed more indicative of confusion than a rebuttal. He lowered himself into the chair behind his desk and gestured for her to take a seat. Elizabeth waited, disquieted by his demeanour.

“I should like you to go with your sister to London tomorrow.”

Going to London was the last thing Elizabeth wished to do when she was enjoying Mr Wickham’s attentions so well. She had been anticipating spending more time with him once her sister was gone to town. “Why?”

“I need you to call on your mother at Mrs Randall’s establishment.”

Elizabeth frowned. “Could Jane not do that?”

“Yes, and I am sure she will. But Jane cannot report to me her mother’s situation, as I hope you will.”

“Why do you need me to report Mama’s situation? And why could not Jane?—”

“Jane has not your good sense. And before you contradict me, I do not mean that she is deficient in understanding. But we both know she is too apt to see the good in everything, and I do not need a roseate view of matters. I need the truth.”

“Goodness, what do you fear the truth might be that warrants such clear-sightedness?”

Mr Bennet sighed quietly. “I am sorry to give you any anxiety, Lizzy, but I am afraid it cannot be avoided. Before your mother went away, she was quite out of sorts. Recent events had made her more than commonly fretful.”

Elizabeth winced. “My refusal to accept Mr Collins distressed her a great deal.”

“You cannot be held responsible for your mother’s nerves, child. They are an entity unto themselves. The point is, she did not depart in a convivial state of mind. We had words.”

“If you will pardon my saying so, that is not entirely uncommon. It is unfortunate that she had to go away before you resolved your quarrel, but I am sure it will all be forgotten by the time she comes home.”

He shook his head. “This was different. Your mother was not herself when she left—and now she is not responding to my letters. Her note to Lydia that she had arrived safely and wishing you all a happy Christmas is the only correspondence she has sent.”

Elizabeth smiled indulgently. “She has not been gone very long. How many letters have you honestly sent to her?”

She knew she must begin to take the matter seriously when Mr Bennet answered “Three.” Her father loathed correspondence: not even the most urgent communication could usually induce him to reply within a month. That he had written to Mrs Bennet at all was indicative of his concern.

“I beg you would not worry, Papa. Her friend cannot remain ill forever. She will be back before you know it.”

“I thought she would be back within a few days, Lizzy. I did not want her to go and foolishly believed refusing her enough money to make the visit comfortable would stop her. She took what funds she had left over from this month’s housekeeping and went regardless, but it was not much.

Unless she has suddenly discovered a sense of frugality that has entirely eluded her for the last quarter of a century, I would have expected her to run out by now. ”

“Why have you given no indication that you suspected anything was amiss? You have seemed perfectly at ease with her absence.”

“And so I shall continue to do until she comes home. You must comprehend the damage it would do to our reputation if it were to be discovered that my wife has…” He looked down at his desk, his complexion turning ruddy and his voice gruff as he concluded, “…left me.”

“Oh, Papa! That is surely not even a possibility. ’Tis much more likely that Mama is simply too busy looking after her friend to write. I expect a letter will arrive in the next few days.”

“And if that happens, I shall send the carriage directly to bring you home. But if you do not go with your sister tomorrow, then another plausible excuse for you to go to London may not soon arise.”

“Would it not be better for you to go yourself?”

“It would only draw attention to her absence. Your uncle would certainly ask questions.”

“You cannot mean to keep this from him?”

“I have every intention of keeping this from him! I cannot have your uncle think his sister is so unhappy that she has left her home and all her family. And as for Jane, her beau has already hied off to London without her. Imagine her dismay to discover her mother has done likewise.”

“But what of my sisters? You will have to involve yourself in their activities far more than you are used to if you hope to keep them in check.”

He looked somewhat dejected at the suggestion but did not recede. “I am sure Mrs Philips will help should any matter arise that requires a woman’s wisdom.”

This was little consolation to Elizabeth; wisdom was not a concept one commonly associated with her aunt Philips.

“I would ordinarily say you would do better to ask Charlotte for help, but of course, she will be gone to Kent with her new husband.” The thought gave Elizabeth pause, and she added, “I would miss her wedding if I left tomorrow.”

Her father grunted dismissively. “You will never convince me that you would enjoy watching your friend shackle herself to my nincompoop of a cousin.”

Elizabeth laughed softly, resignedly. “No, I do not think I much would.”

She did not relish the prospect of giving up Mr Wickham’s company to travel to London on a fool’s errand either, yet her father would not be moved, and she had no choice but to accede. She could only hope her assurances that she and her mother would very soon be home were correct.