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T hat night, Jane and Elizabeth spoke together quietly in their shared bed. “Jane, I saw Mr. Bingley when I was in Derbyshire.”

“What? When?”

“When your letter arrived in Lambton, we were sitting with Mr. Darcy and Mr. Bingley at an inn. No, I must start a bit further back. When we first came to Lambton, Aunt Gardiner wanted very much to see Pemberley. We had toured a number of fine estates already, and so I resisted her suggestion on those grounds. Of course, the truth was that I did not want to see Mr. Darcy. But the maid at the inn assured us that the family was not at home, so I agreed to go, though with more than a little reluctance.”

“What was it like?”

“Oh, Jane, it is a veritable Eden! The house is enormous; there must be a hundred rooms or more. And there is a lake in front of it, with ducks and swans and geese, and the lawns are enormous! Oh, and the gardens! I have never imagined anything so lovely.”

“Were you able to go inside? I know the housekeeper will generally let people in to these great estates.”

Elizabeth was silent.

“Lizzy?”

Elizabeth took a deep breath. “Yes, we went inside, but – oh, Jane! – Mr. Darcy was there!”

“That must have been rather awkward, but I am certain he behaved as a gentleman.”

“Awkward? Awkward? Oh, Jane, you have no idea! You do not know!”

“What do I not know? You are not making any sense, Lizzy.”

Elizabeth then told her incredulous sister about Mr. Darcy’s proposal and her immediate rejection of it. Rising from her bed, she went to a drawer and pulled out a letter. “And then he gave me this.”

“You received a letter from Mr. Darcy? But –“

“Yes, everything improper, I know, Jane, but read it. Wait, I will light a candle.” Elizabeth did so, and held the candle as Jane read. Elizabeth watched as Jane’s face registered surprise, then dismay, and then her eyes grew teary.

“He loved you, Lizzy, he really did!”

“I know.”

Jane stared at her sister’s face for a long minute. “And you love him,” she concluded, softly.

“I do. I did not then, but now I understand him better, and I think he must be the best man I have ever met.”

“But he helped separate me from Mr. Bingley, just as we suspected.” Jane’s voice shook as she spoke.

“He did, Jane, but he did it from concern for his friend.”

“And now all hope is gone, thanks to Lydia. Oh, Lizzy! You and I swore to marry for love, but it has eluded us both. How can life be so very unfair?”

Elizabeth blew out the candle, set it down, and climbed back into bed. Then Elizabeth whispered, “Jane, what has happened to Mary?”

“It is quite the oddest thing, Lizzy,” Jane whispered back.

“When we learnt of Lydia’s elopement, followed almost immediately by Mama’s death, something changed in Mary.

She stopped reading her Bible entirely; she spent long hours staring out the window, and her speech has – as you heard – become most unforgiving.

I have tried to speak to her, but she only turns away. Perhaps you will have better luck.”

“I will try,” Elizabeth said.

***

The next morning, as they were helping each other dress, Jane had more questions. “You said last night that you saw Mr. Bingley. How did that happen? We never did finish the conversation.”

“Oh! Well, I told you that Mr. Darcy was there when we went to Pemberley.”

“Yes, and how did he act when he saw you?”

“He was everything amiable, Jane. He spoke with the Gardiners, and then invited us for tea.”

“And you accepted, I hope?”

“Yes, and we met his sister, Miss Darcy. Mr. Wickham said she was proud, but she is nothing of the sort; she is only very shy.”

“Everything Mr. Wickham says is a lie.”

“Yes, that is clear now. Mr. Darcy told us that the Bingleys and the Hursts were coming to Pemberley the next day, and that Mr. Darcy would call on us, along with anyone else who wanted to come. We made certain to be at the inn, of course, and Mr. Darcy and Mr. Bingley arrived mid-afternoon. Evidently Miss Bingley chose not to come, which was no surprise.”

“Did he…” Jane faltered.

“Aunt Gardiner said that you were sorry not to have seen him while you were in Town, and he was as surprised as anything to learn that you had been there! Jane, he could not have feigned it; he truly did not know you were in London.”

“Did he say anything else?”

“He began to say something about what he would have done had he known you were in Town, but then there was a knock on the door and he was not able to finish the sentence. I am certain he was about to say that he would have visited you.”

“And the knock?”

“Your two letters arrived and the maid came to deliver them. I excused myself to read them, just to assure myself that all was well, as your handwriting was so very odd.”

“And you soon discovered that all was far from well.”

“Yes; but oh, Jane, I was so very stupid! I should have held my tongue, but I was so upset that I could not hide my tears. Everyone demanded to know what was wrong, and I told them about Lydia. They promised not to tell anyone, but –“

“It does not matter, Lizzy; soon enough, everyone will know the truth.” And Mr. Bingley is doubtless relieved at not being connected to the Bennet family, Jane thought, bitterly.

***

Mary and Kitty were at the breakfast table, as were Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner, though Mr. Bennet was not.

“Has he eaten?” Jane asked Mrs. Hill.

The housekeeper shook her head. “He says he is not hungry.”

Jane said, “He refused dinner last night as well. But he must be made to eat.”

Mary added, “He must indeed; if we lose Papa, we are in dire straits indeed!”

Kitty shuddered. “Do not even think such a thing, Mary.”

Mr. Gardiner said, “Mary is right; your father cannot be allowed to continue in this manner. I will deal with him.”

But before Mr. Gardiner could do so, Mr. and Mrs. Philips arrived.

Mrs. Philips, quite naturally, very much needed to condole with her brother and with Elizabeth, who had been absent, over the loss of Mrs. Bennet.

Mrs. Philips wept continuously, saying again and again that it was Lydia’s dreadful behaviour that had caused their sister’s death.

“Fanny never before had a stroke of any sort, Henry! You know that!”

“I do know, Hattie. But I hope you have not told your friends about Lydia’s elopement?”

“Oh, no, it was to be a great secret, I know!”

“Please continue to keep it such, sister. We must protect the Bennet family name as long as we can.”

“Is it even possible to do so?” Mr. Philips put in.

“Hattie, what have the neighbours been told?” Mr. Gardiner asked.

“They know that Lydia went to Brighton, of course. Heaven knows, Lydia told anyone who would listen!”

“And what else?”

“That our sister Bennet died, of course.”

“And Colonel Forster’s message and subsequent visit?”

“I am afraid that the news that the Colonel had visited Longbourn was spread about quite soon. The reason for his visit was not known generally, but the fact of his arrival could not be disguised,” Mrs. Philips said.

“So we cannot simply say that nothing has occurred,” Mr. Gardiner said. “But I do not know that we have to talk about an elopement. Jane, you said that your mother went to her room and asked for trays. Is it possible that no one, apart from Hattie here, knew of the elopement?”

“I have not considered that, Uncle. No, I do not think anyone outside the house was aware.”

“Then what if we simply say that Lydia had become very ill, and Colonel Forster came to tell Papa?”

“It is also known that Mama kept to her room and refused visitors. So how does that fit into the story?” Mary asked.

“Because she was upset that Lydia was ill and she was not able to help,” Kitty suggested. “That would upset Mama mightily, you know, if Lydia were to be ill and Mama not able to nurse her.”

“And so we could say that Lydia remains in Brighton, still ill,” Mr. Gardiner concluded. “Hattie, you must be careful to say no more.”

They all agreed on this version of the tale.

Mrs. Hill was brought into the room and told what to say to those who would, inevitably, question her.

Mrs. Hill assented at once, assuring the family that to the best of her knowledge, Mrs. Bennet had only told herself and Mrs. Philips about the elopement; the immediacy of Mrs. Bennet’s demise had quenched any curiosity the other servants might have had about Colonel Forster’s visit.

Mrs. Hill promised to make certain that the other servants were told of Miss Lydia’s illness.

***

When the Philips departed, Mr. Gardiner cornered Mr. Bennet in his library. “This will not do, Thomas.”

“I do not understand.” Mr. Bennet avoided Mr. Gardiner’s steady gaze.

“Are you trying to starve yourself to death? Is that your plan?”

Mr. Bennet shook his head. “I may as well do so, for I have already failed everyone, Henry.”

“And you are continuing to do so, Thomas.” Mr. Gardiner’s tone was severe.

“How very comforting you are, brother!” Mr. Bennet scoffed.

“I am not here to comfort you, though I fully sympathize with your losses. Your girls need you more than ever, and you are hiding – still! – in this thrice-damned library of yours.” His expression was thunderous.

Mr. Bennet covered his face with his hands for a long minute. When he finally dropped them, he said, “I cannot face them, Henry.”

“The girls?”

“Yes; I have let them down in every possible way, and they blame me for it.”

“So you plan to hide away forever?”

“Yes, exactly. Henry, I am utterly defeated. Look at me! I have not managed the estate well, I have failed to provide dowries for my daughters, I allowed my youngest, most foolish daughter to ruin her life entirely. I am fit for nothing but sitting here and contemplating my many failings.” His voice was replete with sorrow, self-recrimination, and defeat.

“May I make an alternate suggestion?” Mr. Gardiner’s voice was not kind.

Mr. Bennet looked at Mr. Gardiner warily.

“You will not like it,” Mr. Gardiner assured him. “But I beg you, most sincerely, to consider it.”

“Very well; what is it?”

“Mend your ways entirely. Apologise to the girls, tell them that you intend to do better starting now, and – heavens, man, get a bath and some fresh clothes! You are the patriarch of the family, and you must take the role on with every ounce of your intelligence, your courage, and the love you bear your daughters. Thomas, you must, you must step into your role at once. They have no one else; they rely on you entirely. You must put aside your feelings, your sense of failure and sorrow, and become the father that they need.” That they had always needed, he thought to himself.

The two men stared at one another. Finally, Mr. Bennet said, “You should have been a politician, Henry; that was a fine speech.”

“I was, actually, thinking of running for office. I understand George Scholey is not doing well, so perhaps I can become Mayor of London.”

Mr. Bennet’s eyes opened wide; when Mr. Gardiner began to chuckle, Mr. Bennet could not help but join in. When their mirth subsided, Mr. Gardiner put out his hand. “Will you do it, Thomas?”

“I suppose I must, Henry,” Mr. Bennet replied, grasping his brother’s hand firmly.

“Excellent! Now let me tell you what story we have agreed upon,” Mr. Gardiner said, and proceeded to tell Mr. Bennet that Lydia was in Brighton, quite ill and unable to come home.

Mr. Bennet raised his eyebrows, but said that the tale would do for now.

“She cannot be ill in Brighton forever, Henry; at some point, there will have to be another story.”

“We will worry about that when the time comes. For now, I hope your family can find peace.”

***

Mr. Bennet presented himself in the drawing room at tea time. He had eaten, bathed, shaved, and put on clean clothes.

“Papa! You look – well, you look much better,” Elizabeth said, her relief evident in her voice.

“I wish I could say that I felt better, Lizzy, but it has been pointed out to me that my own feelings must be put aside for now.”

Mr. Bennet saw his girls exchange puzzled glances. It was Elizabeth, of course, who pressed him. “And what, precisely, does that mean, Papa?”

“It means I must refrain from retreating into my library and instead become the leader of the family.”

“And can you do that, Papa?” Mary asked, with some skepticism.

“I shall do my very best, Mary, and I rely on you – on all of you – to tell me when I am neglecting my duty to you.”

“I most certainly shall,” Mary replied, firmly. “If there is one thing I have learnt in these past weeks, it is that keeping silent and hoping for people to do what is right is futile.”

“I have wondered what had caused this change in you, Mary,” her father answered.

“And you remain firm in deciding not to look for Lydia?” Elizabeth asked.

“I am, yes; I think I am needed here at Longbourn.”

Mr. Gardiner added, “Your father is right, I fear; where in London would we look for her? There are thousands of inns and boarding houses. If someone is intent on disappearing, there can be no better place to do so than London.”

Kitty murmured, “Oh, poor Lydia!”

“Poor Lydia indeed,” her father said. “I hate to think what her life will become, should she not marry Wickham. Or even if she does marry him, come to that.”

***

Later that night, Mr. Gardiner spoke privately to Mr. Bennet. “Do you want me to look for her, Thomas?”

Mr. Bennet sighed. “I think not. As you said, you are unlikely to meet with any success.”

“I agree, but what if she manages to return on her own? What will you do with her?”

“Lock her in the nursery for the rest of her life, I suppose, but I think it unlikely that she will be able to make her way home.”

Mr. Gardiner sighed deeply. “To lose both a wife and a daughter together! I am sorry, Thomas, more sorry than I can tell you.”

“And you have lost a sister, Henry. Fanny loved you dearly, you know, and spoke about your business successes with great pride.”

“Which did her no good with her social superiors, I am certain.”

“She did not care, Henry. She never did learn fine manners, and how very much I wish I could tell her that it did not matter. I was not kind to her, you know, and I regret –“ He broke off, unable to continue.

***

The Gardiners left the next morning, the children bouncing about impatiently in the carriage.

Promises of a good deal of letter writing had been extracted on both sides.

Mr. Bennet held his girls close as the Gardiner carriage disappeared around the bend.

He meant to make good on his promise to Henry Gardiner.