Page 1 of It Taught Me to Hope

I t has often been said that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife. However true that aphorism is, not much is said of a single woman in possession of an estate and the desirability of a husband. Perhaps this was because few such women could boast of such a situation compared to throngs of men who found themselves wealthy and a bachelor.

Elizabeth Bennet was just such a woman. At six and twenty years of age, Elizabeth was past the point of grand dreams and thoughts of romance and all its attendant concerns. The young woman she had been at twenty when she and her dear elder sister Jane had covenanted between themselves that they would marry for only the deepest love, was childish in the memories of the mature and world-weary woman now in control of her life and livelihood. Elizabeth still adhered to that determination in her more advanced years, nearly on the shelf her mother would have said were she still alive to bedevil Elizabeth with her opinions and her shrill cries of what would become of them all. Elizabeth’s intention to only allow true love to induce her into matrimony now consisted of a cynical certainty she would never meet such a man. As such, she was content to manage her estate, dote on the children her sisters had produced, and plan to leave the estate to one of them on that date in the—hopefully—distant future when she would also leave the mortal realm.

On a day in the spring of 1818, Elizabeth sat in Longbourn’s study working on certain tasks that accompanied estate management. The room looked much the same as it had in previous years when her beloved father had occupied that space, the stout oak door serving as a barrier against the concerns of six women. The only evidence of the current occupant being a young woman rather than a middle-aged man was the absence of the port wine her father preferred and consumed and larger portions than he ought, a few novels occupying the shelves, an indulgence Elizabeth still enjoyed occasionally, and several knick-knacks, doilies, and other odds and ends that a woman might prefer. Her father’s solid oak desk was still the same, the shelves laden with the fruits of her father’s appreciation for the written word remained, and if the chair on which she sat was new, replacing her father’s chair that had grown too old for use, it resembled its predecessor such that one not possessing an intimate knowledge of the room would not have known the difference.

Elizabeth’s current activity, balancing the ledgers of Longbourn’s business this past month, was a task that she did not enjoy, but which her father had detested above all others. Her father so despised the activity that when Elizabeth had discovered his books in a sorry state when she had been a mere eighteen years old, she had offered to take the task off her father’s shoulders and attend to it herself. Mr. Bennet had accepted with no little gratitude, and thereafter she had kept the books in a more current state and could find any expenditure or line of Longbourn’s income without difficulty. As the ledgers from her father’s time attested, that had not been the case when he had been the master of the estate, which had led to several episodes of her father’s anger, rarely displayed, when he could not find an entry that Elizabeth had later discovered absent from his records.

As Elizabeth sat writing the entries with painstaking neatness, she could not surrender to the notion that her father’s failures had not comprised only the state of the property’s records. Though she had known it from the time she had comprehended such things, her father had not managed the estate to the best of his abilities; it was closer to the truth that the estate had been near disaster several times during his stewardship. The bounty of books that decorated the shelves around her had been his source of enjoyment and escape from the noise he detested and the wife he could not tolerate. It pained her to consider a beloved parent in such a way, but Elizabeth could not deny the truth of it.

These days, several years after his passing, Elizabeth chose to remember her parents with pleasure and affection, rather than dwell on the failures that marred the characters of all who live. Mrs. Bennet had been flighty and shrill, possessing little knowledge and less interest in improving herself, but she had been a loving mother, one concerned for the future of her progeny, even if she had not always shown her concern in the most proper manner. If Mr. Bennet had been a man of little interest in the estate he owned and a sarcastic temperament, he had also been an intelligent man, one of good morals, and Elizabeth’s companion in scholarly pursuits.

If Mrs. Bennet could see them now, Elizabeth knew she would find ease in their current situations—she would have shared in Elizabeth’s comfort at the estate she had long called home had she not suffered an untimely death. Elizabeth was now the mistress of Longbourn and thus protected from the indignity of genteel poverty, whereas three of her other daughters had found fulfillment and protection, though to unequal degrees, in the estate of matrimony. It was much more than Elizabeth had hoped when she had thought as a young woman that it was likely that only Jane would find a husband willing to overlook her situation and lack of dowry. Yet Jane, of the three, was the one for whom lasting happiness had proven the most elusive...

Jane’s current situation was what it was, and Elizabeth had no power to change it. As she had long determined to endure what she could not change, she pushed such thoughts away and instead focused on the good in her life. Mary and Kitty were, by their own accounts, happy in their lives, and Jane gave the appearance of unhappiness, though her letters attempted to betray forced cheer, much as they had those few sorrowful months she had been in London pining after Mr. Bingley, Elizabeth tried to consider instead what she might do to ease her sister’s distress. Though Jane had not accepted yet, Elizabeth hoped she would consent to spend a month or two at Longbourn in the summer, escaping her troubles for a time.

There was, of course, a fifth daughter born to the Bennets, but neither Elizabeth nor any of her sisters had heard from Lydia in more than half a decade. Where she had gone, how she had lived, or whether she even still drew breath was a mystery to the remaining sisters. Considering the damage she had done, running away and eloping with Mr. Wickham with nary a word and then disappearing from all knowledge rendered her fate one of indifference to Elizabeth. At least that was what she told herself. As most of her sisters now lived at a distance from Longbourn, Elizabeth missed their company, and she also missed the little sprite of a sister who begged her for stories and sweets when she had been a young child. To think of Lydia was now to invite pain, so Elizabeth considered other, more pleasurable thoughts.

The truth was that Elizabeth’s situation was a good one. She was the proprietor of an estate that, while it was not large, was more than enough to support her for the rest of her life, even if she did not marry. Longbourn’s finances had never been better, and if that was in part because Elizabeth was a far more active manager than her father had been, it was also because the expenses were far less for a lone woman than for a family of seven, several of whom seemed determined to exceed Mr. Bennet’s income. In that group of heedless spenders Elizabeth could not absolve her father, as the number of books and the expenses of his port attested to.

This did not account for how lonely Elizabeth often felt as the single occupant of the estate. She had her sisters with whom she corresponded regularly, one of whom lived only two minutes’ walk from Longbourn’s entrance, and she had her friends in the neighborhood with whom she met as often as occasion permitted. That did not change her solitary state when not in the company of those in the surrounding neighborhood, though she was not alone with the servants also in residence. The difference between even the lowly proprietor of a small estate and the servants working on that estate was as good as a chasm. While she esteemed Sarah, the maid who had become her ladies’ maid now that she was the only woman in residence, she was not a girl with whom Elizabeth could share confidences or relax in pleasant companionship.

Still, Elizabeth preferred to consider what she had rather than the drawbacks of her situation. In this, she learned to be content.

When a knock interrupted her work, Elizabeth called out permission to enter at once, smiling at the sight of Longbourn’s longstanding housekeeper silhouetted in the door.

“If you please, Miss Bennet, Mrs. Collins has come to call.”

“Thank you, Hill,” said Elizabeth. “Please inform Charlotte that I shall come directly.”

With a curtsey, Mrs. Hill departed, and Elizabeth set about returning her effects to their places on the desk and setting the ledgers aside. Her work for the day was complete and Elizabeth appreciated Charlotte’s company. The desk and bookshelves were the one habit Elizabeth had in common with her father, for Mr. Bennet also had never been a man to allow a storm of correspondence and books to accumulate on his desk. He delayed long in seeing to the estate, but he had always kept everything in its place as he had not appreciated disorder.

“Charlotte!” exclaimed Elizabeth upon entering the parlor.

The friends of longstanding exchanged an affectionate embrace and sat together, the ever-efficient Mrs. Hill entering a moment later with a tray of tea and biscuits. Elizabeth busied herself pouring tea for her friend, preparing it according to Charlotte’s preferences and her intimate knowledge of her friend. Soon they both had teacups and biscuits in their hands and settled for their visit.

“How fortunate for you to come at such a propitious time, for Longbourn’s ledgers were lulling me to sleep!”

Charlotte laughed at Elizabeth’s sally. “The perils of owning an estate, my friend. I cannot but think you are equal to the task.”

“I should hope so,” quipped Elizabeth. “Otherwise, that genteel poverty my mother feared may become a reality.”

A shake of her head was Charlotte’s response. “Had I any doubt of your abilities I might worry for you. As it is, I know you are more than capable.”

“I see you did not bring Jenny with you today.”

“No, I did not,” agreed Charlotte. “Jenny was too immersed in her books with her grandmother to bother with the outdoors.”

Elizabeth shook her head. “Well, I can see that she is not my daughter if she does not like the outdoors. I would never tolerate such a failing in any child of mine!”

As the friends continued to banter, Elizabeth considered Charlotte’s child, the girl who made her inheritance of Longbourn possible. Jennifer Collins was a pretty girl of five, precocious and full of life, the same as most children her age. After the disaster of the summer of 1812, one good bit of news came from the Lucases, who informed the Bennets of Charlotte’s condition as an expecting mother, the girl having been born the following spring. Jenny’s birthday had been only the previous month, a celebration Elizabeth had been happy to attend and shower her with gifts as a beloved aunt.

The subject of Jenny’s sex was one Charlotte and Elizabeth did not often discuss, for it was fraught with echoes of what might have been. As Mr. Collins had been the heir of Longbourn before he died, any male child of his would have become the heir of the property after his passing; the only circumstance that had prevented Elizabeth and her sisters from losing their home when their father had passed away was that Jenny had been a girl rather than a boy. Had she been a boy, Charlotte would now be the mistress of Longbourn, managing it in her son’s stead until he came of age. It was only natural that the friends would not discuss this twist of fate that had allowed Mr. Bennet’s will to come into effect when he died after Mr. Collins, leaving the estate to his favorite daughter.

“Perhaps she is somehow related to me!” exclaimed Elizabeth when Charlotte described the scene of her young daughter entering the house in a muddy dress after looking for frogs in the pond. “Were my mother here to comment on the matter, I am certain she would have compared some of my escapades to your daughter’s.”

“Even Jenny is not so adventurous as you were, Lizzy,” replied an affectionate Charlotte.

“My mother would agree with you.”

Amid this banter, Elizabeth could see the sense of melancholy that had become part of Charlotte’s character of late. It was nothing overt, nothing anyone who was not intimate would notice, for Charlotte presented her usual calm and practical demeanor to the world. It was more the sense of inevitability about her life, about the sorrows she had endured that sometimes overpowered the joys, such as losing her husband as opposed to the beautiful daughter she now had in her life.

Elizabeth was not romantic enough to suppose that Charlotte had ever felt anything more than exaggerated tolerance for the man she had married, by her own assertion, because he could offer her a home of her own. The Charlotte of today would make no comments about the advisability of knowing as little as possible about the defects of one’s future husband, even if she still felt that way. Mr. Collins had represented security and a home of her own, yet less than three years after marrying him, Charlotte returned to her childhood home, this time with a young daughter, dependent upon her father for her support.

Charlotte worried about the future—this much she had confided, though Elizabeth had already known given her understanding of her friend’s character. Part of her reason for accepting Mr. Collins had been to avoid becoming a burden on her father and eventually, her brother, though Samuel Lucas would never complain about supporting the sister with whom he shared a close relationship. To have it snatched away because of the accident of birth, even though she adored her daughter, was a difficult cross to bear.

“Your mother is well?” asked Elizabeth after Charlotte had told several anecdotes of her daughter’s recent exploits. “And your father is still as he ever was?”

With a smile at Elizabeth’s questions, Charlotte nodded. “My parents are much as they ever were, Lizzy. You saw them only a week ago if you recall.”

“So I did.” Elizabeth considered her friend for some moments before broaching the subject yet again. “Charlotte, the invitation to live here at Longbourn with me is still open to you and Jenny.”

“You are a selfless friend, Lizzy,” said Charlotte, shaking her head with fond amusement. “Few independent women with their own situations would consider inviting a friend to interrupt their lives.”

“Longbourn might have been yours in other circumstances,” insisted Elizabeth, delving into that forbidden topic they usually avoided.

“Yet it is not,” said Charlotte, her reply firm, allowing no disagreement. “Do you suppose I resent your good fortune?”

“I know you do not. If you will laud my generosity in offering you a place in my home, I will extol your lack of anything resembling resentment for Longbourn being mine and not yours. Had matters been different and Jenny been a son, I suspect you would have offered to allow us to remain at Longbourn.”

“Then we both possess excellent characters,” said Charlotte, saying nothing of Elizabeth’s comment. “Even so, there is no need for you to open your home to me, for I have a comfortable situation where I am. I would not impose upon you, Lizzy, though I understand your generous nature.”

“It would be no imposition.”

“Then what would happen when you marry?” Charlotte regarded her, the light of conviction shining in her eyes. “Your future husband would not appreciate supporting a woman he does not know and with whom he claims no connection.”

“In speaking of my future marriage,” said Elizabeth, “You do not consider the high probability that I will not marry.”

“Until you present that to me as an accomplished fact, I shall not believe it. You have so much to give to a husband, Lizzy, that I cannot imagine the entire male half of humanity is so lacking in sense as to leave you a spinster forever.”

“Yet I am six and twenty and have no prospects.”

“If you recall, I was seven and twenty when Mr. Collins proposed to me. I had much less to offer to Mr. Collins than you have to a potential husband.”

“There is no one beating down my door for the privilege of making their addresses to me.” Elizabeth gave Charlotte a rueful shrug and added: “At least no one I would consider accepting.”

Charlotte smiled and shook her head. “Perhaps not, Lizzy. You must allow me to have faith, even if it regards this matter and exists in small amounts. Either way, I thank you again for your charitable offer, but I shall decline it. Let us speak no more on it.”

The conversation was not singular, for Elizabeth had offered Charlotte a home several times since the last of Elizabeth’s sisters had married, leaving her alone at Longbourn. Charlotte could be as stubborn as any Bennet, but Elizabeth thought she could wear her friend down and with repeated entreaties persuade her to accept. Charlotte often stayed at Longbourn for a few days, and Elizabeth enjoyed her company and that of her little daughter, so it would not be much of an alteration in her life, except to benefit her happiness. Though Charlotte had refused once again, Elizabeth could be as mulish as her friend, and she meant to carry her point.

“Tell me, Lizzy,” said Charlotte, changing the subject, “have you heard of the recent addition to our neighborhood party?”

“It cannot be Netherfield. Do you mean Breckonridge is to be let out?”

“So I heard,” replied Charlotte. “Rumors in Meryton state that a man signed the papers to lease it sight unseen, and this only last week. He will take possession on Lady Day; my father expects him to appear in the neighborhood soon after.”

Elizabeth laughed. “Tell me, Charlotte, do you not feel a great sense of familiarity with the last time there was a new tenant at an estate in the neighborhood?”

“Are you suggesting Mr. Darcy and Mr. Bingley are returning to Meryton?”

The archness in Charlotte’s response was most amusing, allowing Elizabeth to release her mirth. “Not at all! Yet you must acknowledge there is something memorable that makes this new gentleman of more interest than a typical visitor.”

“I must suppose that you are allowing your flights of fancy to fly free, Lizzy.” Charlotte regarded her with evident affection. “Did those newcomers affect you so much that every man joining us provokes such interest? Perhaps you were not so opposed to Mr. Darcy as you suggested.”

Charlotte knew nothing of the scene in Hunsford parsonage that fateful evening when Elizabeth stayed in Kent. Other than Jane, from whom Elizabeth could keep nothing, she had not told a single soul about it, so other than Mr. Darcy, no one else in the world knew what had happened unless the gentleman had been more open with his family than she suspected. Even the maid who answered the door only knew that Mr. Darcy had visited.

“No, Charlotte,” replied Elizabeth, “I was not enamored with Mr. Darcy, and found him only tolerable as you well know. Given Mr. Wickham’s offenses in the community he proved my opinion of Mr. Darcy’s interactions with him nothing less than a falsehood, but my other judgments remain in force.”

“As you stated at the time without cessation. It is strange, however, that you have spoken little of him in the years since.”

Elizabeth shrugged. “Why I should consider Mr. Darcy or anyone else of his party I cannot imagine, for I have seen none of them in six years.”

“You must be correct, I suppose. What of Mr. Mason? Why did you not experience the same sense of nostalgia when we learned he was to purchase Netherfield Park?”

“I beg you, Charlotte,” cried Elizabeth, “do not mention Mr. Mason. Though Longbourn shares a substantial border with Netherfield, I do not appreciate the man at all. There is something about him that disquiets me.”

“Yet he has shown you excessive attention these past weeks.”

It was all Elizabeth could do not to roll her eyes. “That is only because he sees Longbourn as a ripe target to obtain for himself. As I do not care for him and have little interest in falling in with his dynastic ambitions, I prefer not to speak of him.”

“Very well, Lizzy,” said Charlotte. “Mr. Mason is far from the sort of man I expect you would favor as a suitor regardless. At the same time, I shall cling to my opinion. There is some man who will appreciate you for the happiness you can bring to him, and I do not suppose it will be much longer before he appears to sweep you from your feet.”

Later, when Elizabeth was alone and at liberty to consider the conversation, the only conclusion she could reach was that Charlotte was being silly. While she did not feel older than she had at twenty other than the added weight of experience, it was a fact that society at large considered ladies who reached her age to be unmarriageable. There was no one other than Mr. Mason who showed the slightest interest in her—and she preferred not to consider him —so it was not productive to allow such thoughts to occupy her mind. She had grown comfortable in her life and was not looking for a man to charm her, as Charlotte had stated in eloquent terms.

The true difficulty in marrying was in contrast to the disinterest she felt for Mr. Mason. Not only would a man need to present himself for consideration, but he would also need to provoke her to love him. That was Mr. Mason’s deficiency, for regardless of his eligibility as a suitor, Elizabeth could not imagine herself in love with him for many reasons. It was an added layer of complexity surrounding her situation, one that all but guaranteed her continued single state.

Elizabeth had grown and matured and now held an adult’s views, but while her opinions had altered to a certain extent, the core of her determination to marry for love alone remained unaffected by the years. A marriage in which both partners could not love and esteem the other could not be an agreeable union, and Elizabeth had far too many examples of this truism to allow her to compromise. It was that determination more than anything else that ensured that she would never marry.

When she was younger, Elizabeth would have lamented the truth, for she had always wished for a husband, to feel joy in the children of her body. If she considered the matter at any length, she still wished for it, despite the scant chance it ever had of coming about. Over the years, Elizabeth had come to terms with it—she still wished for love, but she could be content if it never happened. Elizabeth Bennet was not formed for melancholy; rather than long for that which she could not have, she had long determined to give thanks for what she had.