"Lizzy, what are you doing? Are you out of your senses, to be accepting this man? Have not you always hated him?"
Oh, how Mr. Bennet longed to excoriate her, his favourite daughter. Censure her for compromising her integrity in exchange for the fine jewelry, clothes, and carriages such a rich husband could provide. But he could not. He could think of two of his daughters who might sell their souls for such, but not his Lizzy.
No, Lizzy loved the man. He sniffed to himself. Love, indeed. Love was just the veneer that lust wore to disguise its true nature. He tried to warn her. Lust wanes. He spoke from experience. She brushed his warning aside (to be fair, which he hated to admit, but if he did not, he was a hypocrite – a quarter of a century ago his friends had tried to warn him off Fanny Gardiner and he had brushed their warnings aside).
Her love was greater, bigger, wider, deeper, stronger, longer than any love had been before. Her betrothed was the most amiable, humble, generous, intelligent, gentlemanly, responsible, kind man who had ever existed. Or so it seemed to hear her tell it. Listening to her spin her sweet confection made him feel about the same as he had when, at the age of seven, he had stolen Cook's famous treacle pudding and wolfed it down in about three minutes – at least this time his father would not be tanning his hide after the nausea passed.
And then Lizzy had the audacity to try to sugar coat the bitter pill he was balking at swallowing by promising him unlimited access to the Great Library at Pemberley. She made it sound like the Great Library at Alexandria. He would see, he would see.
He sighed to himself. The deed was done, Lizzy and Mr. Darcy were engaged. And it would be too much trouble to overturn; but then he smiled to himself, that did not preclude him from taking some petty revenge.
"You will be wed on the 28th of September" he said.
"That's six weeks away. We thought to marry on …" Elizabeth said.
He scowled at her. "Is there a reason to marry earlier? A reason the old biddies of the neighbourhood might winkle out by working the calendar backwards from the birth of my first grandchild?"
Elizabeth flushed. "Of course not …"
Mr. Bennet did not let her continue. "And there will no nonsense about marrying by licence. Banns will be read; if there is any valid objection based on Mr. Darcy being engaged to his cousin, as your cousin, Collins, says, then I want it dealt with out in the open.
As for six weeks, I calculate that it is the minimum time your mother will require to prepare the grandest wedding this part of Hertfordshire has seen in many a generation, within the constraints of the fifty pounds I will allow her." Fifty pounds he would save by ridding himself of that blasted Mrs. Longden and her artistic minions.
"But we wanted a simple wedding …"
"If you did, you should have hied yourselves off to Greta Green. There's nothing simpler than being married over an anvil. No, you will have a grandiose wedding. Firstly, it will please your mother and hopefully alleviate her worries about ending up in the hedgerows. And secondly, it will help dissipate the odour left by Lydia's attempted elopement.
Mr. Bennet stood and said, "Now if you have no further objections to your wedding, let us go and announce it."
When he opened the door of his bookroom and heard the joyous hubbub without Mr. Bennet realized his announcement had been pre-empted.
-}{-
Mrs. Longden, Herr Schmold, and M. La Framboise, not wanting to intrude on the Bennet and Gardiner families' reunion, walked into Meryton. There they had errands to run. Herr Schmold intended to check with the bookseller to see if there was any new sheet music; then he would then attend at the tobacconist to purchase two new clay pipes and some tobacco. M. La Framboise would obtain some heavier cold pressed paper, and some watercolour paint-cakes at the stationers, and then join his German colleague at the tobacconist, only he would be looking for a particular brand of snuff. Mrs. Longden was to the apothecarist to pick up some more chalk lozenges for Miss Kitty, and to see when Miss Mary's new spectacles were expected (Meryton did not have an optician, it was serviced by a travelling optician, who, on an erratic schedule, set up in the apothecary shop); then to her favourite shop – the confectioners (where she would spend more than she should of her own funds on marzipan, lemon drops, sugar plums, Pontefract cakes, chocolate nonpareils, and hopefully some Turkish Delight, if the receipt for that confection had made it as far as Meryton; some of which she might perhaps share with her charges, if they were really, really good, and she was feeling particularly generous). Afterwards they would adjourn to the Red Lion Inn to partake in its locally renowned cottage pie for dinner. (M. La Framboise sniffed at this, notwithstanding his two decades in England, he was still contemptuous of English cuisine – Mrs. Longden pointed out that cottage pie was nothing more than hachis Parmentier which he had likely been eating since he was an infant).
As she walked Mrs. Longden had time to review the progress of her charges, her companions not being much for casual conversation.
Miss Lydia was illiterate and innumerate; ignorant of history, geography, literature, and any foreign language; her handwriting illegible – the product of being a spoiled child allowed to run wild and choose to study only those things that caught her fancy, which were apparently remaking bonnets, dancing, and admiring males costumed in army scarlet. According to Herr Schmold she had a sense of rhythm and could carry a tune within a note or two of accuracy, but she did not have the discipline to learn any instrument. For presentation pieces she had best stick to two or three comic songs she could vamp her way through. As far as artistic talent, M. La Framboise indicated that she had best stick to tying coloured ribbons to bonnets. Miss Lydia did not need a companion, not yet – she needed at least two years at a school, a strict one. She was intelligent, she could learn, if she was subjected to consistent and rigourous discipline.
Miss Kitty was almost as academically deficient as her younger sister with the exception of her handwriting. If Miss Lydia's attempt at ruination of herself and her sisters had succeeded, whereas her future might have been in millinery, Miss Kitty's could have been in calligraphy, working for some stationer writing out invitations and such for those in the ton too busy or lazy to do their own. M. La Framboise declared she had real artistic talent, she just needed instruction in the astuces du métier (which Mrs. Longden thought sounded so much more sophisticated than 'tricks of the trade'). As for her musical presentation piece, Herr Schmold suggested that Miss Kitty exhibit her watercolours. Miss Kitty needed at least a year in a school, one different from Miss Lydia's, one which would nurture her artistic talent.
Of her three charges, Miss Mary was the one for whom Mrs. Longden would like to act as companion. Miss Mary had potential. She was intelligent, learned, good with children, devout, possessor of a dry wit. An understated beauty, entrancing when she blinked those blue eyes over the top of her spectacles and smiled her shy smile. Given a year, the services of Herr Schmold, sufficient funds for a simple, elegant wardrobe, a more flattering hair style, and a season in town, Mrs. Longden was confident she could transform Her Prissiness into Lady Grace. She knew of three young clergymen, with good livings, who, if they had not been snapped up yet, would fall over themselves for an introduction to Miss Mary – just give her that year.
Of her informal charges, the younger of the two, Miss Gardiner, was a dear. Already more academically advanced than her two youngest Bennet cousins, well mannered, with some musical talent, a little less artistic talent. Perhaps a little peremptory when dealing with her younger brothers, but, having had younger brothers, Mrs. Longden could empathize with her. Mrs. Longden looked forward to meeting the senior Gardiners so she could congratulate them on raising such a wonderful daughter.
And then there was Miss Bennet. Mrs. Longden had heard Mr. Bingley's side, but in the almost three weeks she had been at Longbourn she had not heard anything in that regard from Miss Bennet. She remained a marble riddle wrapped in a porcelain enigma. To M. La Framboise she was an objet d'art, something sculpted by Praxiteles brought to life, rather than any sort of artist. Herr Schmold said Miss Bennet had a good singing voice, if only she would sing loud enough to be heard. Mrs. Longden smiled to recall how Herr Schmold had had Miss Bennet sing in the garden as he backed away from her – when he could no longer hear her, he would bang on a pot with a stirring spoon he had borrowed from Cook until she sang louder – that had caused the window of the bookroom to be slammed down. Mrs. Longden did not think she had taught Miss Bennet anything but she might have confirmed some things she knew already.
She would miss them all. She did not think she was long for this engagement. The senior Bennets were getting increasingly snippy and snappy. Something was bound to break and she would be gone. And she would never know how their stories turned out. She sighed, and shook her head to dispel her melancholy. Perhaps a double order of chocolate nonpareils was in order.