Page 6 of The Power of Refusal

O n return to Longbourn, Elizabeth felt as though she was attempting to cross a frozen stream on a warm day when navigating her mother’s mercurial moods. The ice she trod on was shifting below her feet without warning. She could see no path to safety. Her mother was contriving something. Her father dismissed Elizabeth’s concerns, but she knew her mother.

Chances were good the ice beneath her would soon crack, landing her in a muddy mess.

Elizabeth had no one she could confide in about her heartbreak. She had disclosed little before Jane was whisked away as Mrs Bingley. Her history with Mr Darcy and her unfathomable sense of loss were hers alone. The seasons turned with inexorable slowness, Elizabeth found herself measuring time not by the calendar but by Meryton's social rituals: Lady Lucas's whist parties, her mother's nerves, Mary's scales, Lydia's flirtations, and Kitty's coughs - all performed with such unfailing regularity that one might have set one's time piece by them. The rhythms of Meryton society marked Elizabeth's days with merciless regularity: the same faces at assembly halls, the same gossip at tea tables, the same pointed remarks about the dearth of eligible gentlemen. Winter's frosts gave way to spring shoots, spring blooms withered into summer, and still nothing of consequence disturbed the tranquillity of their little society, until the untimely demise of a neighbour.

The Fisher family resided in a modest estate on the outskirts of Meryton. They were not much a part of local society, not being one of the four-and-twenty families Mrs Bennet boasted of dining with. Their small estate was at some distance, closer to Alton than Meryton. The previous winter, Mrs Fisher died giving birth to her last child. The family’s existence was not at the forefront of Elizabeth’s or Mrs Bennet’s minds when the news of Mrs Fisher’s passing reached Longbourn. That state of affairs did not last.

Mrs Philips, some months later, was whispering with her sister, Mrs Bennet, and pointedly looking at Elizabeth. Mrs Bennet’s eyes lit up with a rapacious glint. A prickle of discomfort stung Elizabeth’s spine. Her mother's enthusiasm for matchmaking remained as fierce as ever. Not long after, a supper party at Mrs Philips’s featured the widowed Mr Fisher. He was approaching the end of mourning. A portly man of perhaps forty, he had thinning hair, a paunch to put Mr Bennet’s to shame, and the harried expression of someone in need of a great deal of help. Elizabeth noted the raised brows and smirk her mother bore when they were introduced.

Initially, she attributed it to her mother’s general oddity, but it took little time to decipher that plans were being put in motion.

Her aunt cornered her into the seat next to Mr Fisher at supper. He spoke a great deal about himself, his estate, his travel to London to visit his sister. Elizabeth wondered at his insistence in explaining his situation so thoroughly.

“Of course, my sister has her own family. She cannot take on my children as much as she would like to. She introduced me to several very kind ladies in London, but none truly suited me,” he said as he shovelled a generous portion of Aunt Phillips tureen of lambs’ tails into his mouth.

“Indeed,” Elizabeth made such an answer as revealed nothing. The clanging of a fire bell signalled in her head. It could not be. Her mother could not possibly be attempting to match her with this man. Mr Collins had been bad enough—foolish, unhygienic, dense, and devoted to his patroness above all. He at least had the inheritance of Longbourn to recommend him. This man was neither interesting nor attractive. He had no more interest in her as a person than Mr Collins had, aside from some appraising looks at her bosom. Worse, he questioned her as if she were interviewing to be a governess.

“Have you taught children their letters? I assume you have a gentle lady’s education?” “Indeed,” Elizabeth said, for once at a loss for words.

“I suppose your mother has taken you to town every spring for the benefit of masters?” he said, refilling his wineglass for the fourth? fifth? time without offering her any. Not that she wished to blunt her wits under the circumstances.

“My mother would have no objection, but my father hates London.”

“Then who taught you? Who attended to you?”

“My mother taught us about keeping a household. My father encouraged us to read, and we had masters as were necessary.”

“Thank goodness. You play and sing, then, and draw?”

“I play a little, and I draw,” she said.

“Hmm. I was given to believe you quite accomplished,” he mused, looking down his nose at her.

Mrs Bennet overheard and took over, flogging Elizabeth’s sterling qualities. Mrs Bennet thought she had a knack for making her daughters pleasing to a man. The truth was soon a victim of her ambitions. Elizabeth’s love for long country rambles was evidence of her robust constitution. Her voracious reading Mrs Bennet framed as a good background for the education of children. Elizabeth’s paltry performance on the pianoforte she glamorised as true proficiency. Elizabeth sunk further and further into her chair as her mother extemporised on her non-existent talents.

Naturally, Elizabeth was called upon to exhibit. Her annoyance at being displayed like a delectable slab of mutton hampered her playing. Her voice was unsteady as she tempered her ire. Mary, however, was eager to display and all but pushed Elizabeth from the seat as she took over playing. Elizabeth excused herself to the retiring room, where she remained for an hour to escape the humiliating events.

About a week after the supper party at the Philipses’, Mr Fisher was invited to dinner at Longbourn. Usually, her mother would have at least two families to a dinner party, making for a lively table. On this occasion, she invited only the gentleman.

Mr Fisher entered empty-handed, without even a bottle for his host. He glanced around the drawing room with the air of a fellow brought in to estimate the cost of renovations. Having inspected the furnishings and the occupants, he took the seat Mrs Bennet directed him to, next to Elizabeth.

Mrs Bennet dove in, making disconnected inquiries about his estate and his tenants, obviously in order to gauge his income. To Elizabeth’s more experienced eye, the land and the farms seemed to her as if Mr Fisher lived on perhaps half of what her father did. Her mother’s inquiry did nothing to amend her assessment. He spoke of tenants and rents in terms which led Elizabeth to wonder whether he was in some danger of failing to cover his expenses.

Mr Fisher took Mrs Bennet into dinner as he was an honoured guest. He sat on her left, and Mrs Bennet firmly sent Elizabeth to occupy his other side. Mr Bennet’s brows twitched as he watched the performance. Elizabeth’s ire rose as her father did nothing to relieve her obvious discomfort. Would he go along with this farce, despite Elizabeth’s distaste? She was no longer certain he would take her side.

Dinner was tedious, unless a person had a fascination for the intricacies of Mr Fisher’s particular fences. He bemoaned the difficulty of managing his estate and his household. His housekeeper, he distrusted. With Mrs Bennet, he compared the cost of foodstuffs his cook claimed to require. Mrs Bennet’s assurance about the cost of excellent fish he met with a dismissive shake of the head. As for the expense of dressing his children, he now must pay for plain sewing of the boys’ shirts and the girls’ underthings, besides dresses, pants, and coats. This outrage he had yet to come to terms with. His expenses were plainly a significant matter in his quest for a new wife.

Mrs Bennet deduced Mr Fisher’s interest in having the attendant advantage of a free seamstress in his home and praised Elizabeth’s needle.

“Our Lizzy can run up a petticoat as quick as anything. She will sit and stitch until the light fades, and then do rough work in candlelight. Such quick and careful work, she does.”

Elizabeth stared at her mother in disbelief. Bad enough she was throwing her at this man without so much as a thought to whether Elizabeth liked him, but now she had ventured into fairy tales. In no world was Elizabeth a lady who “ran up petticoats.” More like ruined them on her walks. Sewing by candlelight? Under no conceivable circumstance could Mrs Bennet pretend to believe that balderdash. Elizabeth sewed only when it was utterly unavoidable. And she did so with more speed than skill.

Kitty poked Lydia with an elbow as the two smothered giggles at Elizabeth’s discomfort. Bless Mary, who could be relied upon to say that which needed saying, without regard to matters of decorum.

“Mamma, you always said Elizabeth was lucky she had had Jane to redo her work. Elizabeth is the last person to take up the mending box—she always says she would rather clean the stables.” Mary’s eyes were round with dismay.

Mrs Bennet’s gaze narrowed with annoyance. “Oh Mary, you should not jest about such a thing. Elizabeth has a fine hand with a needle, as are all you girls. Jane, of course, was the eldest and the best with the finer work, but she has gone to Cambridgeshire. Did you know, Mr Fisher, my Jane married? Her husband, Mr Bingley, has the estate at Netherfield. I believe he now has over four thousand a year!”

Even Mr Bennet cringed at that remark and put himself out of his way to question Mr Fisher about shooting. Mr Bennet had little interest in the pursuit himself, but it was a subject which always made gentlemen energetic. Spared the need to converse with her dinner partner, Elizabeth kept her eyes on her plate until her mother’s antics caused Mary to speak again. She very innocently said, “What is the matter, Mamma? What do you keep winking at me for? What am I to do?”

“Nothing, child, nothing. I did not wink at you.”

Elizabeth looked up, only to meet her mother’s eyes darting from her to Mr Fisher. Mrs Bennet canted her head toward the man, who was happily describing in minute detail his most recent attempt to shoot a pheasant. Mr Bennet’s eyes were glazing over. Mrs Bennet, lifting her chin now to suggest movement, seemed to suggest that Elizabeth should somehow divert Mr Fisher from his story. Or at least attend to it. Elizabeth fixed a half smile on her face and glanced at Mr Fisher. She soon regretted it. Mr Fisher was more than content with an audience of one, as he gestured with his spoon with little regard for the soup it contained. A large glob of white soup flew from the spoon onto the bodice of Elizabeth’s best silk gown. Elizabeth glanced down to watch the viscous matter drip down from her shoulder toward her chest. She clasped her serviette to the offending mess. The ridiculousness of her situation made her lips twitch. A sound from her father caught her attention. Mr Bennet had covered his lower face with his own serviette, his eyes glistening with mirth. Elizabeth hastily excused herself and ran from the dining room before she erupted into laughter.

She could not easily remedy the stain on her gown. She washed away the soup, which had dripped inside her stays. With the aid of Sarah, the housemaid, Elizabeth changed into a clean day dress. Not a dress for dinner, but far better than wearing Mr Fisher’s dinner. She would not risk another ruined silk.

As Elizabeth descended to return to the dining room, her mother’s heavy tread approached from below. Mrs Bennet stopped a few stairs below Elizabeth and began a tirade.

“What are you thinking, leaving in the middle of dinner? It is no wonder you cannot catch a husband, all your running about, and— what is it you are wearing? Why are you not in your spring green silk? I cannot abide this impertinence! With Charlotte Lucas angling to take my place, you ought to be looking for a husband, not wearing a day dress at dinner!” As she ranted, Mrs Bennet poked at Elizabeth’s gown. She pulled the neckline lower, then grasped her stays and shoved them northward to force Elizabeth’s bosom to occupy a greater part of her neckline.

“Mr Fisher flung white soup onto my green silk. Sarah fears the stain will not come out,” Elizabeth said calmly, wriggling to readjust her bosom to its natural location,

Mrs Bennet grabbed Elizabeth’s arm and propelled her down the stairs.

“Just take your seat and act like a lady for once in your life. Smile at the gentleman. Do you lack the capacity to flirt? For heaven’s sake, you are supposed to be so witty and quick. I cannot account for your inability to charm a gentleman.” Mrs Bennet went on, scowling and giving Elizabeth’s arm a shake, until Mr Hill opened the dining room door. Then, Mrs Bennet’s face transformed into a broad smile.

“Here she is. She just had an accident with her dinner. My apologies for her informal dress,” Mrs Bennet said to Mr Fisher as they entered the room.

Elizabeth angled her chair so further flying food might not strike her. The meal seemed interminable, despite her having missed most of the second course. The evening could not end soon enough for her.