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Chapter 4

CHAPTER FOUR

E lizabeth was sitting with her mother as she slept when she heard footsteps running up the stairs. It was Mary, pale-faced with red-rimmed eyes. She went immediately to her chamber and within minutes ran back down the stairs, a pile of books in her arms. Elizabeth slipped out of the room and followed her sister.

Mary ran through the kitchen and out of the back door towards the barns. Mrs Jenks, who was chopping carrots, and Ruthie, elbow-deep in dough, stared after her. Stopping where the goats were penned, she dropped the books in the dirt, chose one, and threw it into the pen, where it was taken up immediately and chewed upon by a whiskered billy goat.

Elizabeth managed to grab Mary's arm as she reached for another book. It was her well-worn copy of Fordyce's Sermons for Young Women . "Mary! Stop! Mary, why are you… What has happened?" Elizabeth cried.

Mary was wild-eyed and breathing hard. She stared at Elizabeth as if snapping out of a dream, looked at the book in her hand, then tossed it into the pen as well.

Elizabeth could not believe her eyes. "Tell me what has happened."

Mary sagged and collapsed to the ground. Her voice shook. "I went to see Mrs Pym today, to return a book I had borrowed from her. Mr and Mrs Pym did not invite me in and said that we should not attend church services in future."

She clasped her hands together and in a mocking imitation of the rector's voice, said, "‘It will be uncomfortable for you and your family, Miss Bennet. If you require my services, send a message and I shall come to Longbourn. It would be better than you coming here.' Then they closed the door in my face."

Elizabeth gasped.

"I felt so dirty! All these books are lies! They are useless! I have striven to live by these ideals, but it does not matter how much I have tried to meet these standards, it is all for nothing. We are smirched, Lizzy! Tainted! It is as if we have a disease, and no one wants to even look at us for fear of catching it. Even our own rector does not want to see us."

Elizabeth scanned the remaining books. Titles by James Fordyce, Hannah More, and Thomas Gismore lay in the dirt. While they purported to teach young women piety and proper conduct, did they teach forgiveness? Empathy? Compassion? Charity? She did not know; she had never read them. Elizabeth did know her scripture, however. Faith, love, charity, mercy, forgiveness were fundamental. Judge not, that ye not be judged. To love, especially to love the unlovable; those were the ideals that struck a chord with her.

Seeing the dejection on Mary's face, she picked up one of the books. "May I?" she asked.

Mary's laugh sounded like a sob. "Please do," she said, wiping her eyes. With a flick of Elizabeth's wrist, the book soared into the pen and was soon being torn apart by two rambunctious kids.

"Goats will eat anything," Mary sniffed, a tremor in her voice. "Even things that make us sick."

When Mr Bennet was informed of the rector's words, a picture formed in his mind of the family box pew at the parish church. The wooden seats were worn and scarred from the backsides of many generations of Bennets, shifting and yawning there since time immemorial, but the sides of the ancient box were gloriously carved with biblical scenes. He remembered trying to sit still when he was a little boy, his grandmother rapping his knees with her fan. An idea formed in his head, and he wondered at himself. Am I truly that petty? With a bitter smile, he went to speak to Caleb.

When Mr Pym entered the nave of the church the next morning, he admired as usual the light streaming in through the stained-glass windows, their rich colours glowing above the graceful marble altar rails and the carved pulpit. But something felt different. He looked up at the windows, then at the vaulted ceiling and the altar, and finally turned slowly about; and there it was. Where the largest and most beautiful family pew had stood for centuries, only the pale outline of its perimeter on the floor remained.

Mrs Bennet's grief transformed into a deep melancholia. She had always enjoyed society as much as her husband did not. She needed the company of others, the gossip, the interactions, like she needed air. Assemblies and parties had always energised her. Although her husband and daughters tried, they could not pull her out of her decline. Over the weeks since Lydia's death, she had gone from keeping to her rooms to keeping to her bed.

As was common in the chill damp of springtime, an inflammation of the lungs wended its way through the household. They were so isolated that it was impossible to say how it had come to them. Through a tenant family perhaps? Their tenants had remained loyal, but they had more freedom to move about the neighbourhood. Mrs Bennet, in her weakened state, was severely afflicted, with a high fever and a racking cough. After several days it became apparent that she did not have the strength, or will, to fight it.

An express was sent to Gracechurch Street, and that evening one of the stable boys carried a note to the Philipses' home. Mr and Mrs Gardiner arrived the next day, and the family set out to make Mrs Bennet's last days as full of comfort as possible. Mrs Philips arrived under the cover of darkness; she wept as she begged her sister's forgiveness and was rewarded with a faint squeeze of her hand. A few days more, and Frances Clementine Gardiner Bennet breathed her last, surrounded by her family.

Elizabeth was up at dawn the next morning. In her previous life, as she thought of it, she would have tramped all the way to the river, or to Oakham Mount. After being rudely cut too many times when she met her neighbours, she no longer ventured beyond the boundaries of her father's lands. She paced back and forth between the gardens and the wilderness, tears streaming down her face.

She had never been her mama's favourite. As a child, Elizabeth had imagined herself to be the opposite, constantly vexing her mother with her active habits and her intellectual curiosity. Still, she felt her mother had cared about her. She could not imagine Longbourn without her. In the distance, she saw farmhands, shovels balanced on their shoulders, making their way to the family cemetery. In the house, she knew Hill and Ruthie and Martha were once again preparing a body for burial. Would they dress their mistress in her best, as they had done with Lydia? Or would they feel compelled to follow the law? Who would know or care if they did not? Good heavens, were they not outlaws already? What did it matter? It was something she could do for her mama. She turned back to the house. What the gentlemen did not know would not hurt them.

So it was that when Mrs Bennet was laid to rest next to her daughter, she was dressed in her favourite green silk ball gown, embroidered silk slippers, formal gloves, and her largest, laciest, ribbon-bedecked cap underneath the grey shroud. Mr Bennet chose not to call on the faint-hearted rector and instead read the service himself from his prayer book as Mr Gardiner and Mr Philips attended.

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