by Anne Morris
"We assume that Kitty is enjoying herself, and must be flirting with young men and might soon be announcing her betrothal, but such an event would mean her loss to us as well, the diminution of our little family party," sighed Elizabeth.
"You are in a foul mood tonight Lizzy," said her mother. "Whatever will happen to any of you if you did not marry? Simon could not keep all of you here to grow old and sickly. Some of you must marry, that is the natural progression in life, children grow up, marry, and leave home. Just because you have failed to secure a husband, do not discount the fact that others may do so." Her mother got up to refill the men's coffee cups.
Her aunt looked at her with sad eyes, "perhaps you have been too much at home, and need to get away, Lizzy? We shall see if we can have you to Town before our little house becomes overly full," she smiled, and sighed. Elizabeth glanced at Mrs. Gardiner's belly which already showed signs of increasing, as if her body remembered the steps after four children though she was not that far along.
"I am not certain what I wish, though leaving home behind might be efficacious." Elizabeth looked around the room, at her father and uncle with their books, her mother with a coffee cup in hand—Mrs. Bennet's weak eyes meant she no longer worked at embroidery—her sister, Mary, sat a little impatiently with fingers drumming a tune on the sofa beside her. Her family life was changing, and she would need to consider that, and its impact on all of them.
Children's voices echoed through the door, and the Gardiner children and Simon came into the room to say their good nights to their parents. The Gardiner boys frisked about the room with high-pitched, but sleepy voices, protesting at its being bedtime while the Gardiner nanny kept watch. Miss Simnel had Anna's hand in hers while she watched Paulette and Simon speaking to Mrs. Gardiner and Mrs. Bennet about a story that had been read to them. Elizabeth watched with a slight smile as the mothers exclaimed over the children and received kisses in return. The five children were herded to the fathers, and they all bowed or curtsied to the men, were told they were all handsome, and then they left.
Elizabeth excused herself, claiming a long walk had tired her out, and retired to her bed to weep.
• • •
Of all of her daughters, Mrs. Bennet would never have suspected Elizabeth to have been the one to have been discovered in the family way. Lydia and Catherine to be sure, and even Mary, to some extent, who exhibited a certain passion for her pianoforte, and her accomplishments, and might find some passion for a young man. But Mrs. Bennet would never have believed it of her practical, oldest daughter, Elizabeth. Of Jane, it would be impossible, of course. So that December in '05 when the Gardiners had come to visit, as they always had, bringing with them news of the joyous type that there was to be another little Gardiner making an appearance, there had been a lot of celebrations. Somewhere in those celebrations, a discovery had been made that Mrs. Gardiner was not the only family member who was with child. Perhaps she had seen similar signs in her niece, but Mrs. Gardiner had taken Elizabeth aside and coaxed the truth from her. She also convinced her niece that they needed to inform her mother about her condition.
Mrs. Bennet thought that that was when she first began to notice her heart palpitations, and when she began to need the constant attentions of Mr. Jones, the apothecary. That practical daughter proved stubborn, as she refused for almost a week to name the father, which was so vexing that Mrs. Bennet considered that she had never enjoyed a holiday period less.
But somehow, they had kept the secret between the three of them, managed to get through the season, and had developed the idea at first, that Mrs. Gardiner might be able to adopt Elizabeth's baby as her own, and claim to give birth to twins. This was considered for a week or two, though it would require prevailing upon Mr. Gardiner to also keep the secret. In the meantime, Mrs. Bennet encouraged Elizabeth to take up walking as much as possible in the hopes that she might miscarry and so create an easy solution to this vexing problem for all of them.
Elizabeth did take to walking, and found she enjoyed it. After a lot of badgering from her mother and firm talking to from her aunt, Elizabeth relented, and named the father as Edmund Goulding, who had died back in October at Trafalgar. There would be no forced marriage with such a groom. Mrs. Bennet, considered he was the handsomest of the Goulding sons and that this baby, given Elizabeth's own beauty, would surely be a good-looking child.
And in considering that point, the beauty of the child, she had an epiphany, and thought that rather than have Elizabeth give up the child to be one of the Gardiner's own children, that she claim it as one of her own. She had given birth to five daughters, had miscarried once, but what if Elizabeth's child was a son? It would solve a world of problems for the family, with the estate entailed away, and with Bennet having not done well by his daughters in terms of their dowries.
Mrs. Bennet was not a woman who was inclined to hold her tongue; she lived for visiting and news. And yet, this was a golden opportunity for her, an opportunity to redeem herself in her husband's eyes and in society's eyes if she would have a son, even if it was a son-by-proxy. So they went to Scarborough, far enough away to be as anonymous as possible, and left Jane and Mary behind—who might just be old enough and clever enough, to understand what was going on. It did not take long for Mr. Bennet to engage Miss Simnel, since he was not used to having his daughters underfoot, and under his instruction all day.
They did not take her sister Philips into their confidences—she was an even worse gossip than Mrs. Bennet or Lady Lucas. Mrs. Philips came for only a short time, only to bring word back to Mr. Bennet that his wife had taken ill, but ill in a joyous sense, as she was to have a child, but was confined to bed in Scarborough and would not be able to leave until after her confinement. Mrs. Philips did her part unwittingly, and was home in Meryton to occasionally check on the job that the new governess was doing with the remaining two children.
When Elizabeth was close to her confinement, then she was said to have gone to London to stay with the Gardiners for a Season, but was actually ensconced in a small inn in a different section of Scarborough under the name of Mrs. Benton until she gave birth. And holding her tongue had paid off, Elizabeth gave birth to a boy child, and Mrs. Bennet claimed it as her own. Mrs. Gardiner gave birth not a week later to a daughter so their schemes of the fiction of Mrs. Gardiner having twins might have been realized as well.
And in all of this, not a whiff of scandal had managed to escape, no rumors circulated beyond people in Meryton wondering at the Bennet's long sojourn in Scarborough, and in discussing that they were rich enough to afford such a long holiday. A few doubted as to the truth that Mrs. Bennet was so ill that she could not return to Longbourn, but no one had ever doubted that the child was her son and was not, in fact, her grandson.
• • •
Elizabeth had waited for seven years for someone to ask; for someone to confront her about Simon. She simply could not have anticipated that it would be Mr. Darcy who was able to piece together what few clues there were. Elizabeth felt that they had managed it well, considering all the times that something could have gone against them. Even Aunt Philips, who was so nosy, had never suspected. But Mrs. Philips was barren so had not the experience to know the signs to see them on her niece those few weeks they had been in Scarborough together. And Catherine and Lydia had been too young to notice Lizzy's changing shape, though to this day, Lydia still fumed about those months when Elizabeth was chubby and used it to goad Elizabeth about her secretly liking sweets.
But they had engineered a great lie against Mr. Bennet and that cousin who was to inherit and kick them out of Longbourn and to all of their neighbors. Elizabeth lay on her bed and wept. She was not one bred for deception; it was not her natural inclination. She was more inclined to love. She loved books and walking; she loved her sisters and her mother and father. She loved her dear friend, Charlotte Lucas. She enjoyed the company of her neighbors—even if sometimes it was only to laugh at them—she loved her village
and her little county.
She had loved Henry. It was as she had told Mr. Darcy, she had loved Simon's father. Elizabeth knew she had loved him and would never discount the love she had felt, despite being sixteen when they had met. He had come to visit his grandfather in an attempt to reconcile with him after being estranged for two years. She had had that one glimpse of him when he had come to Meryton when she was younger—when Jane had spied him and reckoned him to be an Adonis—and Elizabeth had to agree with Jane that Henry Mandeville was indeed handsome. He and Mr. Darcy had to be the two most handsome men she had ever known.
Elizabeth had been out walking, without maid or footman, as she so often did, and run into him that August, 1805. He had been in a foul mood having had a bitter fight with his grandfather and ridden past her on his horse, but then something had made him turn, alight, and speak to her. She supposed her tendency to surreptitiously meet with gentlemen had been set back then, as they had begun to meet most mornings, and discovered they shared a similarity of outlook on many thing,s and an interest in many other topics; though he loved the city, and she the countryside, and they would often argue warmly about the merits of both.
He had proposed under the Spanish chestnut trees in front of Netherfield Hall, and Elizabeth had said yes. Henry had been twenty; still shy of his majority, and he felt his grandfather would disapprove of their match; they had discussed running to Gretna Green. Elizabeth knew of her family's stories of his father and her mother courting at one time, and of old Sir John not approving that match. Now that there was only Henry—and Sir John was certainly older—they felt sure he would not approve their own match.
Time had been short; Henry had joined the navy as Sir John had refused to purchase an army commission for him as he had requested, and was insisting Henry move to Netherfield to begin living as a gentleman. But Henry had to be in Portsmouth in the early part of September to join Nelson's fleet, and they had no time; Henry wished to make his own decisions about the direction of his life. They decided to betroth themselves to one another, and planned to wed when he was next on leave. He had ridden over to Longbourn at night, she had stolen out, and they had spent a wedding night at Netherfield Hall before parting in the morning. He had not said goodbye to Sir John, though their own farewell was extended and painful. Elizabeth had never seen him again.
She had followed Henry's progress on the HMS Revenge like any navy wife, but then she was not actually a wife. The news of Trafalgar was a triumph for the entire country, but she had waited for word of Henry. Elizabeth read the casualty lists everyday, expressing to Mr. Bennet a new interest in the news as an explanation for reading the broadsheets. But Henry Mandeville's name never appeared in the casualty lists. Henry never contacted her, and she had begun to worry. To worry, because by the time the Trafalgar news made it to the newspapers the first week in November—despite the battle being on the 21st of October—she was sure of her condition, but she was not sure of Henry Mandeville's fate.
It was presumed he was killed at Trafalgar as the HMS Revenge had fought that day and suffered heavy casualties. His body had never been identified or recovered, and some who were there cast thoughts of desertion against his name. These assertions had hurt Elizabeth deeply, for she knew he was not capable of such action, and was assuredly dead if they thought him deserted. It had wounded Sir John, who had aged considerably when news had come about the battle, and about the HMS Revenge's casualties, despite Admiral Nelson's magnificent victory. Admiral Nelson had, after all, died in the battle as well.
News came, as all neighborhood news is borne to them, by Aunt Philips, to say that Sir John had been officially told that his grandson was presumed dead, though only officially listed as 'missing' at Trafalgar, which they all knew meant he had probably been blown apart by canon fire like poor Edmund Goulding had half his body blow away. "At least they found enough of Edmund to identify," had quipped Aunt Philips. If her niece Lizzy took over sick for a number of days, no one seemed to notice, as both of the youngest ones were bothered with colds as well.
Elizabeth had considered she would be an outcast then; she would be discovered one day and sent away somewhere, stripped from her family in disgrace, though she could never regret her actions, or falling in love. Then, a few days before Christmas, her Aunt Gardiner had taken her for a stroll in the gardens and cajoled the truth from her; and far from being an outcast, her sin had turned into a beneficial event for the Bennet family.
That small boy child had brought her father out of his book room, and made him pay more attention to his other five children and their needs. The introduction of Miss Simnel, borne from necessity—which might have been laziness on Mr. Bennet's part, since Mrs. Bennet had been away for five months in Scarborough—meant that his daughters received instruction that had expanded their minds, and toned their manners so they did not turn out like Mrs. Bennet. Even Mrs. Bennet had benefited, as she enjoyed having space and quiet, it soothed her nerves, and while it did not expand her mind, it tempered her public displays when they were out in society.
No one knew that she had deceived even her mother and her aunt as to Simon's father's identity. Elizabeth had often cried desperately that there would be no one to know; no living person but Elizabeth Bennet who would ever know that Henry Mandeville had fathered a son. They had badgered her for over a week to name the father, thinking of a hasty marriage—it was what so often occurred in such cases, after all—but Elizabeth could not speak about Henry to her mother and aunt. Part of her still clung then to some hope that he was simply missing and not dead; that he was lost or captured, and might return to her yet.
But to name him would have made her mother's eyes shine at the idea of Elizabeth marrying a baronet's grandson, and Mrs. Bennet would have stormed Netherfield Hall and demanded some sort of recognition of Elizabeth's child, some sort of recompense, and that Elizabeth could not do. As word had already come of Edmund Goulding's fate, she had alighted on him as the father; he too had been home the previous summer before joining in the Trafalgar action. Elizabeth had wondered that neither of the older women had pressed her for details about how and when she gotten pregnant, for she knew little of Edmund Gouldings' movements before he had shipped off to war.
The recollection of Simon and all the Gardiner children coming in to say goodnight to their parents had triggered something inside of Elizabeth that she had not been able to acknowledge, though it had been the goal all along, Simon was not her son. He was Mr. Bennet of Longbourn's son; he came every evening to kiss his father good night, to be chuffed under the chin by that father and looked on proudly by that father. He was Mrs. Bennet's son; she gently scolded him with no true energy behind her admonishments, and she was just as affectionate with her son as she was with her daughters. Mrs. Bennet liked to parade that son with her in Meryton, whenever Miss Simnel permitted his departure from the nursery.
When they had created their great deception, part of Elizabeth had considered or hoped for some eventual way for her to be able to be acknowledged as Simon's mother at some future date, which was why she had often considered, and often worried that someone would discover her secret. But they had covered their tracks well, and all the world thought Simon Bennet to be Mr. and Mrs. Bennet's son—except Mr. Darcy to whom she had so readily acknowledged the truth of the whole thing.
The tears would not abate; her world was not what she believed, no matter how carefully she had constructed it. These past years, she had worked at being such a motherly figure to her sisters by having a predictable to a hair's breadth life. But Jane was gone now; surely they would lose Catherine soon. Her old life was melting away, a puddle in her hand she could no longer grasp. Since rejecting Richard Goulding, and deciding that she would not be one of those women who did as others did—marries—Elizabeth had written off her life at the age of twenty. But her constructed life was not the life she truly wished for; circumstances had directed her there years ago, but could she change course now?
Ther
e was no knock at the door that she heard, but her aunt closed her bedroom door softly, and came to sit beside her on the bed. She rubbed her hand across Elizabeth's back as Lizzy attempted to stop the tears.
"I could tell you were upset when the children came in, even earlier," said Mrs. Gardiner. "It is not like you to suffer from depression, and so I believe it must be an old wound that is bothering you." Her aunt was ever discreet. Elizabeth sat up, and Mrs. Gardiner's hand snaked around her waist, to pull her into a hug which Elizabeth leaned into, and which caused her to weep again. Her hair was stroked as her aunt's loving touch was gentle, warm, and affectionate, and provided a sense of comfort that was welcome.
"You need to consider your future, Elizabeth, and what you wish for in life. You are still a young woman, and I cannot see you living forever under Longbourn's roof. Consider getting away, consider marrying, my dear."
"But what of my sins, aunt," Elizabeth pulled away to look at Aunt Gardiner. "What man would consider me? I have known the delights of the marriage bed, do not men wish for maids?"
"It is not such a worry as you may think. I do not believe men notice such or can tell, most men are considerate creatures, Lizzy."
"Not, I believe, with my sins. How do I disclose such a thing as having borne a child?" she said in a whisper.
"I would not disclose all, Lizzy. If you feel the need to be honest, you can admit to your having known a man's embrace, but I would not disclose the other. To do so, would open a Pandora's Box, and risk a lot; the biggest would be to disclose such things which would grieve your beloved father."
"I cared for Richard Goulding, though I did not love him, but felt I could not deceive him and told him I was not a maid. He was not as considerate as you have suggested gentlemen can be about such a subject," said Elizabeth, "though perhaps if he had loved me more, it would not have mattered as much to him."
"Perhaps he faltered because you had loved his brother?" suggested her aunt, "I think it was best that you did not marry him, because you did not love him. You need to find love again, Lizzy. You said you loved once before, and I believed you. You are entitled to find love a second time; I am sorry this cruel war has taken such a toll on our young men, but it is looking better on the Peninsula."
