Consequences (13 page)

***

Sunday, January 17, 1813

In the next two days, Elizabeth spent almost as much time sitting with Lady Lucas as did Sir William. The reason had less to do with her closeness to the afflicted woman than to the complete numbing of emotion she suffered when Lady Lucas fell into her arms. She had not even time to grieve for her dead friend before this further malady ensued, and now her emotions were frozen until the condition of Lady Lucas was resolved, for good or ill.

So she witnessed the slow decline and weakening of virtually the only friend of their family who had not consigned them to ostracism after Lydia’s disappearance. Sir William hardly said a word, simply holding his wife’s hands as one or another of his children attended him. Elizabeth’s mother came sometimes into the parlour, but she could not bring herself to stay long. Silly she might be, but she could not see her friend sinking slowly toward darkness without being overcome by her emotions.

But Mrs. Bennet had made one of her visits to the parlour, and she was in attendance along with Elizabeth, Maria Lucas, and the ever-present Sir William when Lady Lucas’s shallow breathing was interrupted as she made a sudden gurgling sound. Everyone instantly focused on the shrunken woman as they waited in dread for further sounds. Instead, there was only silence, and Elizabeth looked closer as she realized Lady Lucas’s chest was still. Instantly, she fell to her knees beside the bed and put her hand on the older woman’s chest. Her breath caught in her throat as she confirmed the cessation of breathing. Almost at that same moment, she felt Lady Lucas’s valiant heart stop fluttering, and she put her ear to the motionless chest.

Nothing. Lady Lucas’s heart was still, and Elizabeth realized she was gone.

She looked up wordlessly at Sir William, who made no effort to stop the tears rolling down his pallid cheeks as the two of them shared the unspoken knowledge that the end had come. Mrs. Bennet and Maria Lucas took a few moments longer to grasp what had happened, and then the two of them began to wail as they fell into each other’s arms.

But Elizabeth and Sir William were silent. Sir William maintained his grip on his wife’s hand, while Elizabeth pulled the mother of her dead friend to her chest, beginning to rock herself back and forth in her grief.

She continued in that manner for some minutes, her mind a blank; the anguish of her loss filled her while her mother and Maria continued to wail. The turmoil brought other members of the household into the parlour, the first of whom was Kitty, who looked about uncomprehendingly.

“What is happening, Lizzy?” she whispered in confusion, stepping close to her sister’s side, but Elizabeth did not answer. Kitty started to repeat her question but desisted as Jane, who just entered the room, laid her hand on her arm. Jane leaned close and whispered into Kitty’s ear, and Kitty’s expression of confusion changed to one of horror as she looked down at Lady Lucas. In her short life, she had never before had to face the inescapable fact of mortality, and her shock was so great that she fled the room without another word. Jane said nothing to Elizabeth, simply laying her hand on her sister’s shoulder, but the mere touch of consolation from her beloved sister was most welcome.

Mary and her father came into the room even as Kitty left, and neither of them had any doubt as to the reason for the tumult. Mary even came prepared with Fordyce’s
Sermons for Young Women
in her hand, a passage already bookmarked. Always ready to exhibit, she quickly announced, “I shall read a passage from Fordyce on the subject of grief and mourning . . .”

Her thin voice went almost unnoticed in the tumult of the room, but Mr. Bennet forestalled his daughter, removing the book from her hands and shaking his head. Bereft of her anticipated display of her learning, Mary was left silent and hurt as the noise in the room slowly diminished.

Oblivious to everything else, Elizabeth was far away, remembering the years she had known Charlotte, the many visits exchanged, and the conversations and confidences they shared. Especially she recalled her ill-fated visit to her friend in Kent and the calamities that followed. Finally, still without speaking to anyone else, not even to Jane, she laid the frail body of Charlotte’s mother back on the sick bed and stood.

Her heart was empty. Too much had happened; too many disasters had befallen her and her family. Now her closest friend, her friend’s newborn baby, and her friend’s mother were taken from her in less than a few days. She felt cold and drained, and her mother, Kitty, and Maria were still fluttering and crying to such a degree that the noise was raucous and unbearable. Several servants came into the room, and Elizabeth gave one of them orders to hasten to Lucas Lodge and inform Lady Lucas’s sons. That accomplished, she left the parlour and climbed the stairs to her room. When she closed the door behind her, she inexplicably and for the first time in her life threw the latch to her door.

Having thus secured her seclusion, Elizabeth collapsed to her bed, clutching her blanket to her chest as her slender body shook with great, wracking sobs.

Chapter 7

“When all the world dissolves,
And every creature shall be purified,
All place shall be hell that is not heaven.”

—Christopher Marlowe,
English dramatist,
poet, and translator

January to April 1813

The isolation of the Bennet family became even more severe after the passing of Lady Lucas. Only she had deigned to visit Longbourn and the Bennet family and to provide at least a degree of society as well as news of the neighbourhood. Her visits had been of especial significance to Elizabeth, since she often brought news and letters from Charlotte. She confided that Charlotte had been ordered by her husband to break her friendship with Elizabeth, and while Charlotte had not been willing to openly confront her husband, she was unwilling to obey his command and enlisted her mother’s help to keep a means of communicating with her friend by including letters to Elizabeth inside letters to her mother. For her part, Elizabeth was outraged by the treacherous behaviour of Mr. Collins, who was, after all, her father’s heir apparent, but she recognized Charlotte’s dilemma and had passed her own letters by the same method. Now both Charlotte and her mother were gone, and Elizabeth no longer had Charlotte’s correspondence to provide any relief whatsoever from the barren life at Longbourn. Elizabeth had only Jane’s companionship, really, for there was precious little amiability provided by her sisters and none at all from her mother.

Even worse, Elizabeth dreadfully missed the amity she formerly shared with her father. He was never the same after returning from his second fruitless journey to London in search of Lydia. While at first appearing to resume his normal detachment and giving every indication of being little affected by his family’s pariah status, except for a degree of discontent over the future of his remaining daughters, he had in fact become more ineffectual than ever. He had not even followed through with his intent to change his will, dividing his wife’s fortune four ways instead of five. He continued with his usual pursuits, speaking as little as ever, reading his beloved books, and finding diversion in the silliness of his family. But he could not seem to find time for his favourite daughter.

Because of the change in his behaviour, Elizabeth began to observe him more closely while taking care to ensure he did not see her doing so. As the weeks passed, she was distressed to conclude that he was definitely becoming more distracted and forgetful. It seemed to Elizabeth that he spent many hours reading but made little progress through his books. Further, he appeared to be getting frailer and in an alarmingly short time.

She mentioned this to her mother, but Mrs. Bennet would hear none of it. Indeed, when Elizabeth repeated her worries, her mother was indignant at the very thought that something might be wrong with her husband. Elizabeth was confused by her mother’s obtuseness, and she discussed this repeatedly with Jane, who had grown to share her concerns about their father. At length, they decided the situation was rapidly getting worse, and they sent a note to Mr. Jones, asking him to stop by Longbourn as soon as possible.

Mrs. Bennet’s ire was rekindled when the apothecary arrived, and it took both of them to keep her mother out of her father’s library while Mr. Jones examined him. Afterwards, Mr. Jones provided the information that he could find nothing specifically wrong with Mr. Bennet except his advanced years, which Mrs. Bennet seized on as justification for her denial of her husband’s ailment.

“I told you girls that nothing is wrong with Mr. Bennet!” she chortled. “This has all been a waste of time, and I shall have nothing further to do with it!”

So saying, she flounced out of Mr. Bennet’s library, leaving the sisters and her husband alone with a mildly astonished apothecary. However, outside of raising his eyebrows at Jane and Elizabeth, Mr. Jones made no comment regarding their mother.

“Despite my observations, Mr. Bennet, I would prescribe a milder diet,” he said quietly, as he began to put his instruments back in his carpetbag. “In addition, I would also advise that you curtail your consumption of the warmer drinks, such as brandy and cognac. It would be better if you stayed with port and wine.”

“I will consider your first suggestion, Mr. Jones,” Mr. Bennet said cheerfully. “But I am greatly afraid that I must reject your second suggestion. It may not be best for me, but I have grown far too fond of my brandy since our family came down with the plague!”

“But Papa—” Elizabeth started, but he interrupted her in a brusque manner he never would have adopted before.

“No, Lizzy,” he said abruptly. “I will not change my habits just because I am getting older. All men die, after all—as will I when my time comes. Now, I have been very accommodating today, but I wish to return to my books—and my tranquillity.”

Unhappily, Elizabeth and Jane obeyed their father and escorted Mr. Jones to the front door, thanking him for stopping by. As they watched him ride away, they looked at each other, misgivings clear on their faces.

“We have done all we could, Lizzy,” said Jane, putting an arm around her sister’s shoulders.

“I know, I know. But I am still worried about Papa.”

But there was nothing else they could do or say, so they returned to the unhappy environs of Longbourn.

***

Wednesday, June 16
to Friday, July 30, 1813

Elizabeth’s premonitions proved prescient when she descended the stairs on a bright morning in June and noted the door to her father’s library was closed. It was his usual habit to leave the door open when he went upstairs to his chambers in the evening, and her first thought was he had arisen even earlier than she had. She was a little surprised, therefore, when there was no response to her knock, and she at first turned away, intending to depart the house on her normal early morning ramble. It was only an idle whim that led her to turn back and open the door, and she was thus completely unprepared to find her father slumped over his desk, with a spilled glass of brandy staining the book on which his head rested.

She instantly comprehended what had transpired—it took only a single look for her to reject the notion that her father had simply fallen asleep at his desk. His posture was so completely abnormal, with his arms outstretched as if he were clawing at the surface of the desk, for her to subscribe to the illusion. In addition, even from the door, she could ascertain his eyes were half-open, and she was reminded of Lady Lucas’s collapse in her arms. Though she had been afraid for weeks something like this might happen, the reality shocked her so severely she just stood still in the doorway for several minutes.

Her first coherent thought was,
He would have his brandy. He would not give it up—and probably would not have done so even if he had known this lay only months in the future.

And her second thought was one of strange relief in the midst of this catastrophe.
At least he went quickly and did not linger on like Lady Lucas.

The next few weeks were the most difficult in Elizabeth’s life. From the moment her husband’s body was discovered, Mrs. Bennet entered a state of enervated turmoil that Mr. Collins would be arriving immediately to have them straightway ejected from their home. All attempts by her daughters to calm her were unsuccessful, and she even wailed about the subject in her room when the servants were encasing Mr. Bennet in a wool shroud and laying his body on a table in the parlour. Elizabeth stayed downstairs to receive anyone who might call to pay their respects while Jane and her other sisters attended their mother in her room. She was not surprised that Sir William Lucas came to pay his respects, but she was surprised when a few of their former friends called. Evidently, the death of the head of the Bennet family relaxed some elements of their disgrace, though all departed quickly after a few words of condolence.

Remarkably, some two weeks later, a letter arrived addressed to Miss Elizabeth Bennet from none other than her father’s cousin and Charlotte’s husband, Mr. Collins. Mrs. Bennet was all astonishment and suspicion when she saw the letter, and she would have opened it herself if Elizabeth had not snatched it from her hand and ran upstairs. When she reached her room, a sudden impulse made her throw the latch to her door. Then she sat down on the bed and looked at the missive in perplexity and disquiet. It was greatly unnerving to be receiving such a personal letter, addressed to her and not to her mother. Even if Mr. Collins was a relative, she was still an unmarried lady, and it was decidedly improper for her to receive such a communication from a gentleman. Then there was the even more unsettling question of just what might be contained in the folded and sealed square of paper.