Chapter 2

CHAPTER TWO

Early February 1812, London

A t yet another ball, Miss Rose Grantley made her way through the crush. There were too many people to enjoy oneself. It was hot, there was not room enough to dance, and she had grown weary of it before the musicians even began to play. She sighed, wishing to be home in Lincolnshire, but Parliament was in session, and the family was spending the winter in town.

Miss Grantley had been out in society for four years. She enjoyed London and had many friends, but most of them were now married. She was two-and-twenty, pretty but not beautiful, monied but not rich, intelligent but not sparkling, of a venerable family but not haut ton . The main thing that people remembered about her was that she was good-natured, sensible, and kind. If she had come out back home, she would have been exceptional, but in London, she was lost in a veritable sea of hopeful young ladies, all getting younger every Season.

As she edged, sidled, and squeezed her way around the ballroom, she noticed Mr Bingley standing alone, almost hidden by a large potted palm. That alone was most unusual, but he also was without his ever-present shadow, Mr Darcy. Miss Grantley scanned the crowd and spotted her erstwhile friend Miss Caroline Bingley—not her person but the very tall feathers on her headdress—moving through a quadrille.

Miss Grantley's instincts won out over her ill-humour; Mr Bingley had always been amiable to her, even when Caroline had not. She stepped over to greet him.

"Mr Bingley?" she said. He was evidently fascinated by the palm tree, and it was not until she repeated his name that he startled into awareness.

Miss Grantley had known the man almost as long as she had known his sisters, and she had never once seen him look unhappy, but now he seemed to be dreadfully so. His attempt at a smile was painful to watch.

"Miss Grantley, it is a pleasure to see you again. Is your family well?" he said, straightening his shoulders.

"We are all well, sir," she answered. He looked so sad it was disturbing. "Mr Bingley, are you well? You look a little peaked. Might we sit down?" She gestured towards some chairs pushed against the wall.

Mr Bingley complied. They sat, and Miss Grantley gently asked him again whether he was well. Appearing relieved at her concern, he confessed he had been trying for weeks to sternly talk himself out of his low spirits and had no one who wished to listen. Out it all came: his feelings for Jane Bennet, his sisters' opinions, Mr Darcy's opinions, his disappointment.

Miss Grantley listened carefully, interjecting a few questions and keeping her opinions to herself. She wondered whether it had ever occurred to Mr Bingley to speak directly to this Miss Bennet. The poor girl might be broken-hearted. And Mr Darcy was so full of his own consequence that he did not seem to approve of any young ladies. Why would Mr Bingley take his advice on personal matters? Certainly, listening to Caroline's opinion on anything was a terrible mistake!

Miss Grantley knew Caroline Bingley well. When the Bingleys and their new industrial money had arrived in town, the sisters had been enrolled in the same exclusive seminary as she. Most of the other girls had cut Caroline and Louisa, but Rose had been kind and generous with her time and introductions, up until the time Mr Darcy had befriended their brother. That was when she had felt the betrayal of her status-seeking friends. Suddenly the Bingley sisters sought better company than a girl who was only the second cousin of a viscount and whose dowry was a mere seven thousand pounds.

But it was Caroline's cutting criticisms behind her back that raised Miss Grantley's ire. Her former friend belittled her to others every chance she got, disparaging her needlework, her gowns, her singing, her conversation—anything to raise her own consequence with high-born ladies.

Still, Rose was glad she had taken the time to hear out Mr Bingley; he seemed to be perking up slightly. As the quadrille drew to a close, he asked her for the next dance, which was the supper dance, so they would go into supper together and continue their friendly conversation.

Days passed, and the carriage accident remained the main topic of conversation in the streets, shops, and homes of Meryton. The more forgiving members of the community felt that while it was indeed a tragic scandal, the young people had certainly planned to marry, and if the roads had not been rutted and coated with ice, they would have lived to be wed, and the whole affair would have been no more than a nine-day wonder. They had known the Bennets all their lives, and while they had many faults, they had never done anyone any harm. Others felt that a disgrace was a disgrace, and the Bennets should be avoided for a time, though perhaps not permanently. They were a leading family in what was a small, closely connected community, and they could not be ostracised forever.

Still others, particularly one other, felt that that sort of behaviour should never be tolerated, and that the Bennets should be made an example to all: banished, shamed, and repudiated for life.

Mrs Etheline Crombe, the former Miss Etheline Goulding of Haye-Park, did not feel a bit of sympathy for the Bennet family, especially the grieving mother. She had been waiting for something like this for years. Fanny Bennet, née Gardiner, had long ago stolen something that had rightfully belonged to her; that item being Mr Thomas Bennet.

From the time she was a child, the elder Mrs Goulding had filled her daughter's head with the certainty that the heir to Longbourn was hers to marry, even though the unfortunate young lady was not attractive in either appearance or personality, having little conversation that was not a complaint, criticism, or insinuation. Moreover, there were no other families of rank in the area with a daughter of the right age. Etheline was destined to be, according to her mother, the mistress of Longbourn and the pre-eminent lady of the neighbourhood.

Unfortunately, young Mr Bennet had been indifferent to Miss Goulding, seeming in fact to never quite remember who she was. One evening, as the Gouldings hosted a dinner for pillars of the Meryton community—gentry, the militia, and the most prosperous merchants—the beautiful Fanny had snatched up the most eligible bachelor in the neighbourhood in an entrapment scheme. Mrs Crombe had been forced to content herself with a rector, a friend of her cousins in Bedfordshire. They had produced one daughter before he died, and she had been obliged to come home to Haye-Park to keep house for her brother William. Now she had an axe to grind, and she went at it with a will.

Although there would be no entertaining for the foreseeable future, Mrs Hill drove the little cart into Meryton for supplies. She was just leaving the haberdasher, where she had met with a baffling lack of civility, the proprietor barely speaking to her as he wrapped her order of thread, fabric, and pins. Her next stop was the butcher, who stood ready to assist her but would not meet her eye. The man was wrapping her order of venison when a strident voice came from behind her.

"You are serving this woman, Mr Johnson?"

Mrs Hill turned to see Mrs Crombe standing in the door of the shop, pointing at her. "You would serve this…person…from a house of immorality and disgrace? Is that not tantamount to condoning depravity?"

Momentarily stunned, Mrs Hill pulled herself together quickly enough to hear Mr Johnson's muttered instructions. "Just come to the back door from now on. Come early and through the back alley and there won't be no trouble."

Mrs Hill gathered her courage and straightened her spine. Ignoring Mrs Crombe, she nodded to the butcher, thanked him, took the venison, and, head held high, walked to the cart in as unruffled a manner as she could manage. She did not show fear or embarrassment, but before driving off, she met the older woman's eyes evenly. She turned towards Longbourn, hearing Mrs Crombe spouting her opinions to all and sundry and feeling the weight of dozens of eyes staring after her.

When she reported the events to Mr Bennet, he and Osbeck heard her out sombrely.

"Thank you, Hill." Longbourn's master sat at his desk, steepling his hands. "Well, well. I knew we would be outcast in society, but I neglected to consider that merchants might refuse our custom." He wearily ran a black-bordered handkerchief over his face. "Osbeck, Hill, I do not expect any of my servants to frequent the back alleys of Meryton begging shopkeepers to take our money. That said, do you have any suggestions as to how we should proceed? Shall we take our custom to Ware? Hertford, perhaps?"

The housekeeper and butler exchanged glances. Hill spoke first. "Is not the very nature of mourning to retreat from the world for a while? Perhaps, sir, we can use the time to change our ways, to plan carefully so that Mr Osbeck, or I, or other servants, can make the trip to a more distant market town once every week or two. The travel there and back may take an entire day, but with careful planning, it need not amount to excessive inconvenience.

"Mr Osbeck," she continued, "let us take a detailed inventory of what we purchase, what quantities, and how often. Let us also request Mr Emmons, Caleb Whitson from the home farm, and Mr Bennet's tenants make similar inventories. Longbourn estate is quite independent in terms of supplying the necessities of life. The items we purchase need not be a long list."

Mr Bennet thought for a long moment. "Do you concur, Osbeck?" The butler gave his assent, and the project was begun. It would be a long, long time before the merchants of Meryton would see any Bennets visiting their establishments.