Chapter 3

CHAPTER THREE

A lthough the lady of the house did not understand, there were no callers. A daughter's death was one thing; a wanton, unmarried daughter's death in an accident while absconding in the night with a scoundrel, also now dead, was something else entirely. Mr Philips and Sir William Lucas had come briefly to Longbourn on the second morning, joining Mr Gardiner and Mr Bennet, when a brief, hasty funeral service was held at the family cemetery. Their parson, Mr Pym, sent his regrets. They offered awkward condolences before quickly and furtively leaving. The Bennets kept to their home, cloaked in shock and silence. Mr and Mrs Gardiner stayed for a week but then left to attend to their family and business.

Mrs Bennet mourned her youngest daughter profoundly and bitterly and failed to understand why what Lydia had done was so wrong. Indeed, it was romantic, was it not? Lydia would have been married to a handsome and charming officer, and it was not her fault that a carriage wheel had splintered and broken on the icy, rutted road.

Mrs Bennet was not made for isolation. Finally, she took matters into her own hands. "Hill, order the carriage. I mean to visit my sister."

Elizabeth stared at her mother in dismay. She knew that a visit to Meryton would not end well. Mrs Hill also knew and tried to sidestep the command. "Perhaps, ma'am, you might invite Mrs Philips to Longbourn instead."

"I have sent her notes, but she does not answer!" wailed her mistress. "If she will not come to me, I will go to her. Jane, attend me."

Within the hour, the carriage was drawn up in front of the manor house, and Mrs Bennet was handed in, followed by Jane and then Elizabeth, who felt she had to join them. Jane was pale and nervous, her hands plucking at her black skirts. She, who judged little and forgave much, was terrified of conflict and knew that the visit would be painful. Elizabeth, while not exactly certain how their aunt would receive them, did not expect mercy. She understood that the Philipses were in an untenable position, on the edge of being themselves shunned. They had a business to maintain, not an estate to retreat to.

The carriage pulled to a stop in front of the Philipses' home and business. After being handed down, Mrs Bennet banged the knocker on the door to the residence. Several minutes went by, and their mother knocked again. A lace curtain on the upper floor twitched. Mrs Bennet looked up and briefly caught her sister's eye before the curtain was tugged shut. She gasped and was reaching for the knocker a third time when the door opened. It was the housekeeper. "Mrs Philips is not at home today," she said severely.

"She is at home! I saw her!" insisted Mrs Bennet, stamping her foot. She began to shout at the upstairs window. "Dottie! Dottie! Come down!"

The housekeeper stood her ground. "She will not come down, Mrs Bennet. She is not at home to you , madam."

Jane stood quietly by, staring at the ground, her face scarlet. Elizabeth could see her sister's chin trembling; she was about to dissolve into tears. She stepped forwards and took her mother's arm gently. "Mama, Aunt Philips cannot see you today. Let us go home."

Mrs Bennet, shaking, let her second daughter lead her away from the door. A small audience had gathered; several people had stopped to witness the miserable scene. A few cut them scornfully, but the majority sadly shook their heads and turned away.

"Mr Emmons, let us go quickly!" Elizabeth hurriedly handed her mother into the carriage, then Jane, who seemed positively ill, and finally leapt in herself just as the vehicle made its escape.

Mr Bennet was waiting at the door, ready to scold his wife until he saw her shattered demeanour. Instead, he led her gently up to her chambers and called Martha to put her to bed.

The next morning, Mrs Bennet once more sat in the drawing room dressed in her best, her hands primly in her lap. Elizabeth sat near her, pretending to read, watching warily. An hour went by, then another, and from her mother's strangled cry, she saw that she finally understood. There would be no visitors, no friends, no sister. No assemblies, no teas, no dances, no parties. No chatting with neighbours after church. No gentlemen callers for her daughters. No courtships. No weddings. No grandchildren. Only the hedgerows. Mrs Bennet buried her face in her hands and wept heaving, keening, racking sobs. Mr Bennet raced into the drawing room and took in the scene of his anguished wife and frightened daughters. He lifted his wife from the chair and carried her in his arms to her chambers, where he sat with her and held her hand.

It was very late in the evening when the family finished their dinner. Mrs Bennet kept to her rooms. Mr Bennet sat with his daughters, speaking quietly of the day and how they all needed to set aside their own grief and care for their mother. Osbeck came into the sitting room. "Sir, there is a matter that requires your attention."

Elizabeth wondered . Another matter? What could have happened that is more important than Mama's utter collapse? Her father rose and left with the butler. Seconds later, she followed them silently. She was surprised when they turned towards the kitchen rather than the study. She darted into the butler's pantry and left the door slightly ajar. She could hear the drone of masculine voices. Familiar voices. It was Uncle Philips. Why had he come so late? And to the back door?

"… and these are the documents relating to the affairs of Longbourn estate and your family. I am sorry, Bennet, but I cannot keep your business. I cannot risk it. There were…those rumours, you know…years ago. Before I married Dorothy. I cannot take the risk that the old gossip might be dredged up again. It would ruin me!"

There was a slight pause before her father answered sharply, "I can see why that would concern you." After a moment, he continued in a gentler tone, "I do understand, Philips. I thank you for taking the trouble to inform me in person." Their voices faded as they moved away, and Elizabeth heard the back door open and then close.

And so the days went by. At first, their thoughts were all of Lydia. It was hard to believe that she was gone; their home was so altered without her. Lydia had been loud, always causing a stir, leaving disorderly trails of used handkerchiefs, torn bonnets, half-eaten biscuits, knotted ribbons, and unravelling shawls. Arguing, laughing, complaining, teasing. The void she left behind was considerable.

As their sister's absence began to sink in, the family began also to increasingly feel the absence of their community.

For years, Longbourn had been a lively house, bustling with activity. Mrs Bennet had her ‘at home' afternoons, but that had been merely a nod to custom. The reality had been one of friends and neighbours dropping by any day at almost any hour. Elizabeth was surprised at how instantly that had disappeared after the accident. It was as if the Bennet family had never existed.

The Gardiners remained loyal, as did Longbourn's servants and tenants. The farmhands, noting the frequent visits of the four sisters to the new grave, built a sturdy bench and placed it near Lydia's resting place.

A month after the accident, as the severity of the shunning began to become clear, Elizabeth received a letter:

My dear Eliza,

I grieve for you, my friend. My father has written to me of the calamitous event and the response of the community: a double blow indeed. Just when you need the succour of your neighbours, they turn their backs on you.

I am sorry that your concerns about Lydia proved to be real. You must be missing her considerably, for I know you loved her in spite of her behaviour.

At this time, I think it best that we cancel plans for any future visits to Hunsford. It would not do for even a hint of scandal to follow you here. You will be in deep mourning at any rate, so unable to travel.

My father and I have agreed to keep the knowledge of your trials away from my husband. There is no reason for him to know, and he will only speak of it to every person of his acquaintance, including our patroness, Lady Catherine de Bourgh.

My father wishes to continue the long-held association between our families at some time in the future, but my mother has a terror that it will damage Maria's chances for a match, so for now all connexions must be at an end.

It is with best wishes for your future health and happiness that I bid you goodbye.

Farewell,

Charlotte

Elizabeth was motionless, disbelieving what she had just read. Her eyes ran over the lines again, but the words had not changed. It was not unkind, in view of the circumstances, but still a blow; so final. Then the tears came, as they came so often and so easily now. Sometimes she was not even certain what exactly she was crying about; perhaps just the enormity of it all. But this was Charlotte, with whom she had shared a special bond for most of her life, in spite of the disparity in their ages. Charlotte, her dear and sensible friend, had cut ties with her. She put her face in her hands and wept bitterly, though at the same time understanding that it should not be a surprise. Charlotte was married, and her allegiance was to her husband and family, not a childhood friend. The Lucases had cut them too.

That had been made clear several days earlier when Elizabeth and Kitty had dared to walk along a brook that ran between Longbourn and one of Sir William's fields. They spied Maria Lucas not far away on the other side.

"Lizzy! I see Maria!" Kitty cried. "Maria! Maria!" she called, jumping up and down and waving.

Maria gasped when she saw Kitty. "Go away," she shouted. "I cannot talk to you!" Bursting into tears, the girl ran towards Lucas Lodge. "Go away!" she shrieked once more over her shoulder.

Kitty, her arm still suspended over her head mid-wave, her jaw sagging, was frozen in shock. "Kitty!" cried Elizabeth and tugged at her sister's arm.

Kitty lowered her arm and turned her disbelieving eyes to Elizabeth's. "She will not even talk to me."

Elizabeth put her arm around Kitty and guided her back towards Longbourn House. She could not think of a thing to say. To be cut so painfully by a particular friend was inconceivable. Kitty began to weep. "I hate Lydia," she gasped between sobs.

Old friends, all gone. Well, there it was. The Bennets had only each other to depend on now. The Gardiners, bless them, would help when they could, but they had their own very busy lives.