Mr. Darcy & Elizabeth

by Alyssa Jefferson

  Mr. Bennet smiled; his wife calling her stepchildren her own daughters was a most endearing occurrence, on those rare occasions when it took place. He said, “I am sure she will be, but it does not follow that she must marry early.”

  “She must marry at some time, however,” Lady Sarah said, “and how could she meet anybody if she comes to Longbourn? How could any of the girls?”

  “The younger girls are not out,” Mr. Bennet replied slowly. “It matters very little if they come to Longbourn, for they would be equally unlikely to meet any men no matter where they go. Mary, you know, is but 14—and Kitty is younger.”

  “True,” Lady Sarah said, “but they would not wish to come away to Longbourn if their sisters could not come—and my dear Mr. Bennet, there is no reason for it! Jane is already living among them in the place of a chaperone; she has finished her lessons and has nothing to do but think of her sisters. Elizabeth, I grant you, would not be able to stay in town without someone to look after her; her spirits are much too high, her temper too lively, to be left without anybody’s influence. Yet, as they are all officially in the care of Mrs. Robinson, assisted by their own sister’s watchful eye, who can think it wrong? Many girls, you know, go to school with no governess at all, so it is quite unnecessary to keep one with them now that Jane is grown.”

  “I—”

  “And who can think me wrong, for wanting little Sarah to have for a governess a lady whom we all know so well, who is perfectly suited for the task and who has to her credit the experience of having raised to maturity two very lovely, respectable young ladies?”

  “I cannot dispute that, my love—” he began. Before more could be said, his wife seized on his words and continued.

  “I knew you would not! I knew you are too affectionate a father to deprive our dear Sarah, now that she is old enough to begin her lessons. I shall write to the girls to inform them of the change.”

  She rose so quickly, and prepared the paper for her letter so rapidly, that Mr. Bennet was for a moment quite taken aback. He had reservations still—and not insignificant ones—but to argue the point now seemed like a poor use of his energy. He liked harmony in his home, and to maintain harmony he would put up with a great many things. His wife’s opinions on matters of the fashionable world usually guided his, being unfamiliar with the ways and habits of fashion himself. If his wife, who had grown up surrounded by those whose wealth and influence far surpassed his, believed that a governess was an unnecessary addition to his daughters’ comforts in London, then could he justly dispute it? He felt he knew not enough about the matter to be convincing, nor to justify himself in stating his mind. He lacked the confidence, in short, to contradict her—and where confidence was in supply, activity was not. He would much rather not argue with her, and so when he became convinced that the conversation was truly over, and that her mind had been made up, he could think of very little else to do but to return to his book and trust in her character and judgement to do what was best in this, as in all cases.

  The letter that Miss Watson received two mornings hence was as follows:

  Dear Miss Watson,

  How astonished I am to learn of this sad business of Jane’s! I must confess that I wish I had known of the matter sooner, for I know I could have influenced her to reconsider the matter, had I had the opportunity to speak to her about it. I shall not interfere now, however, as it seems she has made up her mind. Should she ever reconsider on her own, I would be very glad. Indeed, I would consider it to be a sign of her good judgement, good taste, and good manners if she did show the gratitude and obedience that is appropriate in cases such as these. But it is of little consequence now; I daresay the gentleman would not have her now if she did accept him. How disappointed I feel! I could say more on the subject, but I do not wish to pain you—you, who I know feel so like I do in all matters related to the girls’ marrying well.

  However, what is done is done. Let us not dwell on the past. Let us instead look to the future. I am pleased that you wrote to me, for it put me in mind of a plan that I hoped to enact months ago, which has only now occurred to me to put into motion. It has been five years since you and the girls have gone away to London—and since our dearest girl, little Sarah, was born. She is so well grown now, and so clever. I wish you could see her, and in fact, I plan for you to see her. Having brought up four little girls so admirably, you are the perfect person to act as governess for little Sarah. She shall be ready for her own lessons before the summer is over, and I mean for you to come to Longbourn, that you might superintend her education.

  What do you think of this plan? I shall send a carriage for you in one week’s time, that you might have ample opportunity to prepare for the journey and to establish yourself permanently at Longbourn. I do not mean to remove the young ladies, however—Jane and Elizabeth do much better where they are. As boarders of Mrs. Robinson’s, they are certainly well cared for. Jane, at least, seems no longer to need our supervision at all—she has quite made up her mind about things! The younger girls I am not so particular about; they may either stay or go, as they choose. I shall leave all the little particulars to your discretion; heaven knows I have no patience for such matters! I am glad I shall soon have you always with me; your assistance, you know, is invaluable to me.

  Yours considerately,

  Etc.

  Whatever Miss Watson had expected the response to her letter to Longbourn to be, it had not been this. To be removed from the girls—whom she did truly love as her own—was never an objective of hers. Her astonishment at reading the letter was so great that she had not the presence of mind to prevent Elizabeth—who grabbed the letter as soon as it was placed on the breakfast table—from reading its entire substance aloud to her sister Jane.

  “Good heavens!” Elizabeth exclaimed. “How angry she is! And how little she tries to conceal it!” She glanced up at Jane, whose face was pale.

  “I seem…no longer to need supervision?” she said rather dazedly.

  Elizabeth set the letter down again, feeling all the surprise her sister felt, but none of the guilt—or even the need for it. “She is angry, Jane, that is all. She wants you to be married so she can be relieved of the burden of your care—but we have always known this. Does she not mention it almost whenever we see her? She does not care who you marry, or what his character is, or if you love him, or anything about him! Why, look how she writes—first that she wishes she had known about it, meaning that she knows nothing about it, and then that she thinks to accept him would show good judgement! How can she say so? I’m quite ashamed of her, I assure you.”

  “Lizzy, that is unkind!” Jane said, wringing her fingers together—a loosely veiled attempt to prevent herself from taking up the letter to read it with her own eyes.

  Knowing Jane’s manners well enough to anticipate her, Elizabeth moved the letter just out of her reach. “I do not mean to pain you, Jane, except that she has pained me. All this talk of gratitude and obedience! She must have known we would see the letter; it is very obvious to me that she means to scold you, but that she also knows she has no right to do so. Quite shameful!”

  Jane shook her head. “She does not mean to be cruel, Lizzy.”

  Elizabeth could not answer this in a manner that would spare her sister additional pain, and so said nothing. Meanwhile, Miss Watson seemed finally to recover her wits.

  “I must tell the other girls,” she said quietly. “Mary and Kitty will be most grieved, I am sure.”

  Elizabeth and Jane exchanged a glance. Through their own careful means, they had kept their younger sisters from learning what had taken place between Jane and her would-be suitor, making them indeed quite unprepared for the news of this impending separation. Mary and Kitty were both at such a critical age—not quite out, yet every day becoming more like the respectable young women they would soon be—that the influence of their governess was scarcely less important to them than the influence of their elder sisters. That they must now choose bet
ween one and the other was evidently inevitable. And whom they would ultimately choose—in Elizabeth’s eyes, at least—did not admit of a doubt. The girls loved their sisters, but they needed their governess.

  Miss Watson rose from the table to carry out the unhappy business, and Jane moved to go with her—but Elizabeth held her back. “Jane,” she said softly, “I would not have you become uneasy.”

  Jane looked at her incredulously, and she went on, “Truly! Your love for your sisters, your duty to your family, your continual respect toward all who might feel themselves owed even the smallest attention from you—your behavior has been quite above reproach, I assure you.”

  “It did not appear,” Jane replied quietly, “in our stepmother’s letter that she sees things quite the way you do.”

  “No,” Elizabeth conceded, “however, she and I disagree about many things.” A sudden thought occurring to Elizabeth, she added, “Remember how our mother’s brother used to write to us and invite us to call on him in Gracechurch Street? He is now married, if you recall, and his wife has expressed a wish for us to come to her after our classes ended. Lady Sarah has made quite clear how little she approves of this or any other of our mother’s connections—but if she is to send us off so callously, then what is to prevent our going to stay with our aunt?”

  Indeed, Mrs. Mary Gardiner had written to her nieces shortly after her marriage to their uncle. Knowing that the uncle had an affection for the girls which had sadly outlived his connection to their family, she had been eager to meet them and know them all better. Her invitation, when it became known to Lady Sarah, was unequivocally condemned as an inappropriate gesture of unearned intimacy—but Elizabeth had written a much kinder reply to her aunt, wishing to preserve whatever connection to her mother that was left. Having been orphaned while still too young to remember much of that lady, Elizabeth had few interests keener than learning more about her mother. Her relationship with the Gardiners was quiet, therefore, but devotedly maintained. She wrote every month, keeping the correspondence quite private, and had been on the point of writing again to decline a very kind invitation for herself and her sister to spend four weeks with them. However, to now accept said invitation seemed the most natural thing in the world.

  Jane said with some anxiety, “We hardly know our aunt and uncle, Lizzy. And is not our uncle in trade?”

  “Yes,” Elizabeth replied, “and so? I understand he is quite respectable—at least his choice of wife makes him appear so, for I assure you, there is nothing in her letters to make any impression except that she is quite well-bred.”

  Jane looked away. “Lady Sarah would be highly displeased if we accepted her into our acquaintance.”

  “You have chosen a fine time to give credit to our stepmother’s opinions,” Elizabeth teased, smiling. “Had you thought of her pleasure sooner, perhaps we should not have been left to shift for ourselves in London. Then again, you would be marrying a man you did not love, and that must be an evil greater even than disappointing that woman.”

  “I do not regret my choice,” Jane said with firmness. “There, my duty was impossible to ignore. Here, I cannot think what would be best.”

  “I can,” Elizabeth said, leaning forward excitedly. “To accept the invitation of a person who is respectable and generous, who has always been kind to us, and who was most intimately connected to our family before the death of our mother—to accept such an invitation is no crime. We have been elevated by our connection with Lady Sarah to a sphere of influence that we do not naturally deserve. Our blood relations must remain valued by us, if we are not too hypocritical to see that they have all the same claims to elevation that we have ever had.”

  “But Lady Sarah—”

  “Lady Sarah has all but thrown us off, Jane. Our consideration of her need not prevent us now from doing what is right.”

  Jane paused. “You believe…It is your opinion, then, that to accept our aunt and uncle’s invitation is a right thing to do?”

  “Yes, certainly.”

  Jane sighed, nodding her head slowly. She was not a young woman of poor understanding, but neither was she terribly quick in her abilities; her sister’s opinions were almost of the highest merit in her eyes. “Very well,” she said. “Write to our aunt, then, Lizzy, if you would be so kind. If we shall have no governess here, then it cannot be wrong in anybody’s eyes that we accept her invitation thither.”

  CHAPTER 3

  __________

  Not even the most careful of secret-keepers could prevent a story like Jane’s from spreading rapidly throughout the school. First that she had been offered Mr. Pembroke’s hand in marriage, and then that she had refused it, and finally—even more shockingly—that she had been robbed of her position and standing in her own family as a result of it, quickly became the most well-known circumstance in the school. Everybody was aware of what Jane had done, everybody had heard some version of the story (either true or imaginary) of how her stepmother had reacted, and everybody had an opinion about it.

  A set of sisters who were in nature and character similar to the eldest Miss Bennets, the Miss Campbells, were astonished and pitying when they heard the news. Miss Bennet was intimate friends with Miss Campbell, and Elizabeth was nearly as close with her younger sister Margaret. The four girls had spent many evenings together at balls and parties, and it was Miss Campbell’s opinion from the first that Mr. Pembroke was never quite the right match for Jane. His character could not please her any more than it could satisfy the optimistic musings of her more accepting friend.

  When the girls met after breakfast, Miss Campbell could not stop herself from telling Jane just what she thought of the business. “It is no fault of yours, Jane, I assure you,” she said in a whisper. “Indeed, it is to your credit.”

  Jane looked at her friend with wide eyes, having been unaware that Miss Campbell knew anything of the business, and the smile that had been on her face faded.

  “Do not fret,” Miss Campbell added, taking Jane’s hand. “You will not truly be cast off by your family, for I am sure they shall relent.”

  “Oh!” Jane cried. “Nobody said anything of being cast off!” Not knowing what her friend had heard or what there was of truth in the rumors that she was too naïve to suspect—she said, “But what have you heard, Fanny?”

  “Forgive me,” Miss Campbell said at once, leaning closer and saying in a whisper, “your story has been told by so many people that I neglected to allow you to tell it yourself.”

  “I would rather not tell it at all,” Jane lamented. But, not wanting to offend her friend, she added, “I would not mind you knowing it; I only wish it were not so very publicly known.”

  With no other preamble but this, she explained what Mr. Pembroke had said, and what she had said, and what the news had been from Longbourn. When she was finished, Miss Campbell’s look of pity was even deeper.

  “And even now,” she said, “with such opposition before you, you do not waver in your choice? I commend you, Jane. From you, I should never expect anything less than perfect clearness of mind and steadiness of principle.”

  Elizabeth, sitting near them, was satisfied enough with this description of her sister’s virtues that she put down her book and looked up at them. “I am quite of your opinion,” Elizabeth told Miss Campbell. “I only wish our stepmother knew Jane well enough to see the situation as it truly stands.”

  “Oh, do not blame Lady Sarah,” Jane cried. “I know she only wants what is best for all of her daughters, and she has always been generous to us—nearly to a fault.”

  Though Elizabeth was feeling a degree of steady annoyance and dislike toward her stepmother that can only be caused by an implacable difference of opinions, she was not angry enough to besmirch Lady Sarah’s name publicly—for in general, it was creditable to all the Bennet sisters to be connected with her, and more so to be thought on good terms with her. “Forgive me,” Elizabeth said lightly, “for I never mean to pain you. I am only angry beca
use she has pained you.”

  Jane could not deny this, and as she had no happier comment to make on the topic, remained silent. It was Miss Campbell who spoke next. “And are you truly to remain in London all summer without a governess to attend you?”

  “We were not asked to return to Longbourn with Miss Watson,” Elizabeth said, “but we are not without protection.”

  “Certainly not,” Miss Campbell interrupted. “The school—”

  “The school is not our only refuge here,” Elizabeth said. “We have been made able by this circumstance to do something we have never done before. I was just on the point of writing to our aunt and uncle to accept their kind invitation to stay with them in town.”

  “What? An aunt and uncle in town?” Miss Campbell looked back and forth between the sisters, who had never mentioned this particular connection to her before. “You do not mean the Earl and Countess?”

  Elizabeth smiled. “No, not my stepmother’s brother, but my mother’s brother. Mr. Gardiner lives in Gracechurch street with his wife, with whom I have corresponded but have never had the pleasure of meeting. We have been invited to stay with them four weeks.”

  Miss Campbell’s smile faltered slightly. She and her sister had, through considerable inheritances of their own, established themselves as some of the most fashionable young ladies in that part of London. The elder sister was perhaps slightly more influenced by appearances than the younger, but neither were totally immune to the reaction that a humble family living so near to Cheapside could not be an appropriate connection for their friends. However, they were a real connection—a blood relation, with claims that neither sister could dispute. Therefore, the girls exchanged a glance—for Miss Margaret, too, had been sitting quietly nearby—and said, “Four weeks with an aunt you have never met—when you have never spent any time in our family?”