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T hree times a week?” Jane asked.

“Yes; that is what we agreed upon. But, Jane, if you do not wish to see him, then I shall send a message telling him not to come. I will support any choice you make.” Mr. Bennet was – at last – determined to protect his daughter.

“May I think about it, Papa?”

“Of course, child.”

She turned to leave, but turned back when her father cleared his throat. “Yes, Papa?”

“Jane, I dislike having to ask this, but – well, I suppose it is right for you to take on the responsibility – unless it is too much.”

“What responsibility is that, Papa?”

He sighed. “Your mother’s things are still in her room.

I know not what to do with them. In point of fact, I cannot bear to go into her room at all.

I thought of having Hill take everything to the parish poor-box, but then I realised that you girls might want some of her things.

Certainly she would wish you to have her jewelry. ”

“Oh, of course, Papa. My sisters and I will take care of this.”

“Thank you, Jane. You have always been such a wonderful daughter; I suspect I have not told you so often enough.”

Jane, shocked speechless, managed to nod her thanks before leaving.

***

“Lizzy, will you walk with me for a minute?”

“Of course, Jane.”

Once the two girls were in the back garden and away from the house, Jane told her sister about the conversation she had just had with their father.

Elizabeth said, thoughtfully, “It is good to see Papa taking a hand in things, is it not? And three times a week is as generous as anyone might expect, given – well, given Mr. Bingley’s history with you.”

“But do I want to see him? That is what is worrying at me, Lizzy. He treated me terribly; Mary was quite right, he has been gone a very long time and he has hurt me badly. Why would I give him a chance to do so again?”

“Because you still love him, Jane.”

“Is it that simple, though?”

“How can it not be? Jane, every word Mr. Bingley said rang with truth, did it not? Oh, you were not there when he answered Mary’s objections, saying that he had been convinced of your indifference, but if you could have heard him, Jane! He was speaking from his heart, I could not doubt it.”

“So you think I should permit the visits?”

“I do, yes.”

“But how can I trust a man who is so easily persuaded by his friend and his sisters? Why did he not ask me himself how I felt about him?”

Elizabeth hesitated, wondering how much to tell her sister, but finally decided that Mary was right; they would have all been better off if everyone had simply told what they knew. “Jane, you are rather shy,” she began, hesitantly.

“Everyone knows that about me, Lizzy.”

“But did Mr. Bingley know it? Charlotte Lucas actually told me, months ago, that if you did not make more of an effort to show Mr. Bingley your feelings, that you would lose him.”

Jane stopped in her tracks and turned to her sister, hurt and astonishment on her face. “Charlotte said that?”

“She did, yes.”

“You did not tell me?”

“Jane, what should I have said? Should I have encouraged you to flirt more openly, to flutter your fan and your lashes?”

“Yes. No. I do not know! But, Lizzy, I could not have done such things. I am not a flirt.”

“I knew that, Jane, of course, and so I said nothing.”

They resumed walking. Finally, Jane said, “I am as much to blame as anyone then, for not revealing my feelings.”

“Jane, no. Not at all. We are taught to be demure and ladylike, and your behaviour was perfect in every way. It was just bad fortune that Mr. Bingley’s sisters and friend – mentor, even – were opposed to the match.”

“Bad fortune for both myself and for Mr. Bingley,” Jane said. “I suppose I should allow his visits, and determine for myself how strong his affections are. I will not be made a fool of again.”

“I believe this is the right decision, Jane.”

“But you will sit with me when he comes, Lizzy?”

“Of course; and I think you can count on Kitty and Mary as well.”

“Oh, Lizzy, there is something else. Papa wants us to go through Mama’s things and – well, do whatever is right with them.”

Elizabeth winced. “I do not think I can do that, Jane.”

“But it must be done, Lizzy; perhaps some of her gowns can be made over for us. And certainly Mrs. Hill must have something of hers to remember her by. You were not here, but Mrs. Hill was absolutely inconsolable for days.”

“And here I thought she just tolerated Mama!”

“Nothing could be further from the truth; she rolled her eyes a good deal behind Mama’s back, as did we all, but she loved Mama.”

Elizabeth considered this. Then she said, “Kitty and Mary must be there too, of course.”

“Of course.”

“Very well; I suppose there is no time like the present.”

As Jane went to fetch Kitty and Mary, Elizabeth made her way up to her mother’s room.

She stopped at the closed door, tears beginning to gather in her eyes.

There had been so much happening – Lydia, Mr. Darcy, Mr. Bingley – that Elizabeth had managed to push the fact of her mother’s death to the back of her mind.

But now, about to walk into her mother’s chamber, the reality that she would never see her mother again could not be avoided.

She opened the door and paused at the threshold.

Her mother’s scent, lavender, washed over her.

“Oh, Mama,” she whispered, tears now pouring down her cheeks.

She threw herself down upon her mother’s bed and wept as she had never wept before.

She remembered her mother cleaning her skinned knees, comforting her when she had been teased by the Lucas boys, helping her pin up her hair for the first time.

She remembered arguing over how much – or, preferably, how little – lace should be on her dresses, wincing when Mama compared her unfavorably to Jane, despairing of her mother’s merchant-class manners, and she wished – oh, how very much she wished!

– that she could have those moments back, that she could tell Mama how much, how very much, she loved her!

As her tears began to slow, she became aware that her sisters were in the room with her. Mary put a hand on Elizabeth’s hair, stroking, saying, “Cry, Lizzie, cry. We three are all but cried out, I think, but you have not had the leisure to do so.”

Elizabeth sniffed hard and sat up. “I thank you, Mary. No, it seems there has not been a moment – and I truly still cannot believe that she will not walk in and scold us for lying on her bed.”

“And scold you in particular for wetting her pillowcases with your tears!” Kitty added.

The girls laughed a little at that.

“I suppose it is easier for us to accept the truth of her death, since we sat with her until she was buried,” Jane said. “Though I envy you for not having the image of her lying here, cold and still, stamped forever in your mind.”

Elizabeth shivered. “I have never seen a dead person. Was it terrible?”

Kitty nodded vigorously. “It was, Lizzy, it was the worst thing imaginable.”

“In truth, I thought it seemed very peaceful,” Mary put in, thoughtfully. “I do not think I ever saw Mama so much at peace. But we are here to go through her things, are we not?”

“Yes,” Jane agreed. “I would like to suggest that Mrs. Hill be given her choice of a souvenir, anything of Mama’s that she would like.”

“Her jewelry, though?” Kitty asked.

“No, Mama would want her jewelry to go to us, of course,” Jane said.

“A good deal of it was handed down from her own mother.” The girls agreed, and between them were able to decide upon the proper distribution of the opal ring, the pearl eardrops, the gold chains, the amethyst brooch and a variety of other lesser items. Kitty claimed some pieces for Lydia, in case their sister returned and demanded her share.

“I will get Mrs. Hill,” Elizabeth said, grateful for an escape from the somber proceedings.

She found the housekeeper in the kitchen, stirring something with perhaps unnecessary vigor.

Cook was responsible for the daily meals, of course, but Mrs. Hill had her own specialties that she occasionally provided for the family. “Mrs. Hill?”

The woman looked up. “Miss Elizabeth?”

“We are going through Mama’s things, Mrs. Hill, and we thought you might wish to have a – well, a souvenir – but perhaps that is not the right word. Mama would want you to have something to remember her by, Mrs. Hill.” There, that was better.

A tear dripped down Mrs. Hill’s face, unheeded, and fell into the pot she was stirring. “I do not need anything to remember her by. She was a kind mistress to me, she always was, and I will not forget that.” She stirred the pot even more energetically, her black cap askew.

“Nonetheless, Mrs. Hill, it is what she would have wanted. Please?”

Mrs. Hill finally agreed to accompany Elizabeth up to Mrs. Bennet’s room, though she would not promise to take anything. She gave the pot a final stir, washed her hands and followed Miss Elizabeth upstairs.

The girls had laid out Mrs. Bennet’s various gowns, shawls, nightgowns, shoes, and undergarments, and were recalling what had occurred when various gowns had been worn. “This stain was from Sir Lucas spilling his wine on her at dinner, do you remember that?” Kitty asked, laughing.

“Oh, yes, she was furious!” Mary recalled.

“And I never could get the stain out,” Mrs. Hill added from the doorway. She surveyed the yards of fabric on the bed; walking in, she picked up Mrs. Bennet’s cashmere shawl. “I always loved the feel of this,” she mused, quietly. “But it is too fine for me.” She put it back down.

“No, no,” Jane said. “It is certainly not too fine for you, Mrs. Hill; it is just right. Heaven knows you ran up and down these stairs often enough to fetch her shawls! Take the cashmere one, and also this lovely blue woolen one; you will be glad of it when winter comes.”

Mrs. Hill tried to protest against such generosity, but the girls would hear none of it; sniffling back her tears, Mrs. Hill left the room with her treasures in her arms.