Uncommonly Intelligent Chapter 15: Paradise Lost, a pride and prejudice fanfic

A/N: Believe it or not, this is still not the entire chapter I have been working on, and I really didn't want to split it up, because I wanted Fanny Bennet's arc - from worrying about money to finding out how much Lizzy had saved - to be contained in one chapter. But I can't imagine anyone wanting a chapter of 30,000 words, so I have split it again.

Be aware that this chapter assumes knowledge of events that happened in the first few chapters, e.g. the steward being dismissed for theft in Chapter 4. If this were a normal book, or if you just began reading this story from the beginning, that wouldn't be a problem. But if you read those chapters several months ago when they were first posted, you may want to review or refer back to them. I apologize for being such a slow writer.

I also apologize for having so little of Darcy in the next couple of chapters, but it is essential to get the budgets and accounting out of the way before we get to the fun stuff. I am far too clever to spoil the surprise by naming names, but let's just say that we will very soon encounter everybody's favorite little sister, everybody's favorite colonel in the regulars, everybody's favorite scoundrel, and everybody's favorite sycophantic parson, not to mention possible reunions with everybody's favorite fortune-hunting shrew and everybody's favorite marchioness.

Thank you again for your patience and constructive criticism.

Chapter 15: Paradise Lost

Netherfield Park, Hertfordshire, October 7, 1811

Lizzy gave Loki a final pat on the neck as the groom tied him to the back of the carriage. She would have loved to ride him back to Longbourn, but she needed to be with Jane in the carriage, in case there were any lingering effects of Jane's illness that might require someone to steady her. She watched approvingly as Bingley handed Jane into the carriage as if she were made of gossamer, and was about to join her when Mr. Darcy, who had been walking behind Bingley, approached her and indicated that he wanted a private word.

"Miss Elizabeth, I wanted to say again how very sorry I am for what happened yesterday, and indeed for Miss Bingley's hostility for the entirety of your visit. I hope that you will not hold it against Bingley. I should also beg a very great favor of you."

"A favor, Mr. Darcy?"

"Yes. I have written to my sister in town to ask her to join me here. She is barely sixteen, very shy, and has few friends her age. Do I ask too much that you allow me to introduce her to you and your sisters?"

"I am sure that we should all be delighted to meet her, Mr. Darcy. She might get on especially well with my two youngest sisters, for they are very near her in age. And I have already assured Mr. Bingley that I impute no blame to him for his sister's actions. Indeed, his resolve in removing her from the house says all that can be said about his contrition."

"Then it only remains for me to express my wishes for a pleasant journey home, and the hope that we shall soon meet again."

After helping Elizabeth into the carriage, Darcy stood next to Bingley as they watched it head off to Longbourn. "It is very odd," said Bingley, "but I miss her already."

Darcy said nothing, but he thought he understood how Bingley felt.

Although the carriage seat could easily accommodate three women of Lizzy's size, she nevertheless sat tightly against Jane to give her support. Jane smiled fondly at her, knowing that Lizzy would not relinquish her role as mother hen until they were safely back at Longbourn. Lizzy had asked the footman to place a small trunk on the floor against the opposite seat, and she braced her feet against it in a most unladylike manner, but there was no one to see except Jane, and Jane knew why she did it.

Now that they were leaving Netherfield, Lizzy reflected on her time there. She had been prepared to endure whatever was necessary to attend to Jane at Netherfield, but to her surprise, except for Caroline's sniping, it had not been nearly as bad as she had feared. Thanks to Mrs. Nicholls' generous assignment of maids to attend to Jane, Lizzy had slept in a bed every night, rather than in a chair at Jane's bedside. She had not slept as much or as soundly as she normally did, and she should be very glad to go to bed early tonight, but she had expected much worse. She had delighted in catching up with old friends like Mrs. Nicholls and Madame Beaumont, not to mention enjoying the delicious cuisine of the latter. And not least, she had to admit, she had enjoyed Mr. Darcy's company. It had not taken her long to realize that when he stared at her, his scowl was not one of censure, it was merely the unfortunate way his resting face set. But when he smiled, she was sure that he was the handsomest man of her acquaintance. She chuckled to herself as she replayed some of the debates they had on books they had read, or articles in the newspaper. Was she imagining it, or did she detect a growing respect for her opinions as their debates progressed to more serious subjects, even including government policy?

Why, oh why, did the first man with whom she could imagine a future of intellectual harmony have to be so far above her social sphere? The fact that he was still unmarried at seven and twenty, despite having the most glittering maidens of the ton paraded before him each season, must indicate that he was holding out for the daughter of a high noble, perhaps even a duke, with a huge dowry. It occurred to her that if Lady Rutherford were 20 years younger, she would be the perfect match for Darcy. And there were almost certainly younger versions of Lady Rutherford whom Darcy would sooner or later meet - if he had not already met one, and was simply biding his time to propose. Lizzy could never hope to rival them. Her fluency in Greek might impress him, but it was not the sort of thing men dreamed of when contemplating their future bride.

No, it was no use. Nothing could ever come of their budding friendship, except perhaps a firmer friendship. She again told herself that she would guard her heart, but she feared that it might be too late.

Longbourn, Hertfordshire, October 7, 1811

One might think we were returning from India after five years, rather than from Netherfield after five days, Lizzy mused as she saw her family gathered on Longbourn's porch to meet the carriage. Kitty and Lydia rushed down the steps as soon as the horses stopped, and helped Jane out of the carriage and into the house, chattering at her from both sides about the news that the militia was to be stationed in Meryton for the winter.

Mary smiled wryly at Lizzy as they ascended the steps together and said, "Lady Lucas brought the news two days ago, and the girls have not stopped talking about it. Nor has mama."

Lizzy looked up to see her mother fussing over Jane, one moment exclaiming how happy she was to have her home, and the next berating her for not staying longer at Netherfield. Lizzy quickly interceded and said, "Mama, it would not have been proper to remain in a bachelor's house with Jane recovered. But I promise you that Mr. Bingley was a most attentive host, and he is very impressed with our Jane."

That seemed to placate Mrs. Bennet for the moment, and Lizzy turned to her father, who had been an amused spectator to all the commotion.

"Well, Lizzy," he said, "It is good to have you home, though I am sure your ears do not welcome the change."

Lizzy smiled and said, "Indeed, it was so quiet at Netherfield that I was afraid I might be going deaf, but I can see that my worries were groundless."

After unpacking and refreshing themselves, Jane and Lizzy joined their mother and sisters in the parlor. Everyone was eager to quiz them about their time at Netherfield, and to exchange news and gossip, mostly about the advent of the militia. But Lizzy did not linger long, excusing herself and going to talk to her father in his study to see whether any new issues with the estate had arisen.

"Only one," he said with a sly smile, "but it does not require your immediate attention, and I will tell you about it at the same time I tell your mother and sisters after dinner."

When Lizzy returned to the parlor, she noticed that Jane was drooping, and quietly suggested to her that she take a nap. Jane required little persuasion.

Lizzy took advantage of Jane's departure to turn the tables on her younger sisters and see how they had got on in her absence.

"How did things go with the Academy while I was gone?" she asked.

The Academy, known more formally (but just as jokingly) as the Lizzy Bennet Seminary For Young Ladies, had flexible hours but was normally held two or three days per week. It comprised classes that were both taught and attended by the five Bennet sisters and often Charlotte Lucas, along with Mr. Bennet as a guest lecturer in the classics. It was founded after Miss Landers, the governess who had tutored Mary, Kitty, and Lydia for several years, had left for Staffordshire some two years earlier. Mr. Bennet had not seen the need to replace her, with Jane and Mary fully competent to tutor their younger sisters, and Lizzy fully competent to lecture at Oxford, although he did continue to employ music and drawing masters for weekly visits.

By now, all of the sisters were accomplished even by town standards, so the Academy sessions were usually light and informal reviews that sufficed to keep their skills and knowledge current, though more serious tutoring was done by Lizzy or her father when someone (usually Mary) desired advanced instruction in subjects like mathematics or history. Following the principle that the best way to learn something thoroughly was to teach it, Lizzy often assigned Kitty and Lydia to lead the sessions on social graces, which they were happy to do, for "social graces" included dancing.

Lydia spoke up first, as she usually did. "La, Lizzy, how could we have our sessions without you and Jane? And besides, we were busy with the tenant visits."

"Indeed? And how many of the tenants did you visit?"

"All of them!" Kitty cried, wanting her share of the credit. We brought baskets to everyone on your list!"

Lizzy looked at Kitty and Lydia closely to see if they were joking, but she saw no frivolity in their smiles, only pride, and Mary gave her an almost imperceptible nod. Lizzy smiled broadly and said, "I am so proud of you! I shall have to tell papa that you deserve an extra shilling each this week for your faithful service."

Kitty and Lydia looked at each other and grinned, for they knew that when Lizzy asked their father such a favor, he was almost sure to grant it. Had Lydia or Kitty asked their father directly, he would likely say that he would consider it, and then quickly forget about it. Even if their mother asked on their behalf, the chances of a favorable reply were not high.

No one, with the possible exception of Mrs. Bennet, resented Lizzy for this, because they all knew that Lizzy helped their father run Longbourn, though only Jane and Mary had more than an inkling of just how much she did. More importantly, they all knew that if they ever became ill, Lizzy would tend to them until they were well, even if she had to walk three miles through the mud as she had for Jane, for over the years she had tended each of them more than once. She was also the one who had taught them so many fun things - how to use the stars to tell time, how to do card tricks, how to tie useful knots - it seemed that Lizzy knew everything.

"Very well," said Lizzy, "I suppose that is a good enough excuse. But tonight will be Italian Night, and tomorrow we will resume the lessons."

When Caroline Bingley had listed music, singing, drawing, dancing, and the modern languages as requirements to be considered accomplished, she could not have known that her fabled half-dozen accomplished ladies were right under her nose in Hertfordshire, namely the five Bennet sisters and Charlotte. They were all fluent in French and Italian, and it was their custom to keep their hand in by devoting one night a week to each language, simply by banning English and having all their conversation in French or Italian. They also had a music night each week, practicing their playing and singing as a group.

"Now, did someone say the militia is coming to Meryton?" Lizzy asked, and her sisters eagerly began repeating the gossip.

Jane appeared quite refreshed when she came down for dinner; her nap had evidently been just the thing. Lizzy wished that she had done the same, for the stress of her interactions with the Bingley sisters the previous day had caused her to sleep especially ill that night, and she wanted nothing more than to find her bed.

As the special "Welcome Home" dessert was being served, Mrs. Bennet began another refrain.

"Jane, you simply must secure Mr. Bingley. And Lizzy, you must secure Mr. Darcy. They are certainly the best prospects we have ever seen in Meryton." She frowned. "Although I do not know why you did not go to London last winter. You missed a full season!"

"Mama," said Lizzy, "surely you remember that there was a wave of scarlet fever going around, and that it was especially bad in Cheapside. Little Horace even caught it, and my aunt was very worried about him for a time. We could not possibly have stayed with your brother."

"Yes, yes, it is always something," huffed Mrs. Bennet. "All the more reason for you to secure the Netherfield gentlemen."

As they finished dessert, Mr. Bennet cleared his throat and announced, "I have an item that may be of interest to you all," and retrieved a folded letter from his breast pocket. He adjusted his spectacles, saying, "I received this letter Friday, but I wanted everyone to be home before I shared it with you, for it is rather extraordinary. It seems that we are to have a visit from Mr. Collins next month."

Lizzy looked at him sharply, and he nodded. Her sisters looked at each other questioningly. Mrs. Bennet frowned in thought, but then, after a quick gasp, she cried, "Oh, that odious man! I suppose he is coming to count the silver!"

"Who is he, papa?" Lydia asked.

"He is my heir presumptive, who, when I am dead, may turn you all out of this house as soon as he pleases."

Lizzy gave her father a stern look. The entail on Longbourn was not a joking matter, especially to her mother.

There followed more imprecations from Mrs. Bennet as she muttered to herself how unfair it was that Longbourn was entailed to the male line, until Mr. Bennet began reading.

The letter was a great sensation. First Lizzy and Mary, then everyone but Mrs. Bennet exchanged smiles and eye-rolls as the overly flowery prose began to become ridiculous, for when it came to vocabulary, the man's reach clearly exceeded his grasp.

They burst into outright laughter as Mr. Bennet neared the end and read, "My illustrious patroness, the most elegant and incontinent Lady Catherine de Bourgh, condescends to give me the most meretricious advice, to wit, that I should extend an olive branch to my family, and perhaps unite us all in the most splendiferous occurrence. While she is a pentagon of wisdom, and I myself am an invertebrate optimist, I will say no more for the moment, for I would not presume to hope for such an honor, though I maintain some small hope of success, for the joys of familial bondage are certainly most desirous."

"What can he mean by this?" asked Lydia, between giggles.

Lizzy offered, "While I was at Netherfield, Mr. Bingley mentioned that Mr. Darcy always studies to find words of four syllables to put in his letters. I suppose that Mr. Collins does the same, except that he has not mastered their meanings."

It became a game to dissect the letter and guess what Mr. Collins had intended to write. They easily agreed on "paragon" and "inveterate," but they were quite stumped with "incontinent." They finally decided that Mary must be right in supposing that he had somehow fused "incomparable" and "eminent."

Mr. Bennet rose and, after giving Lizzy a meaningful look, repaired to his study. Lizzy excused herself and followed him. Once the door was closed, he said, "Well, Lizzy, this is quite the unexpected development, is it not? Which of my daughters do you suppose I should sacrifice on the altar of the entail."

Expecting her to laugh, Bennet was surprised when Lizzy looked thoughtful.

"Certainly not Jane," said Lizzy. "From all that I can see on both sides, she is well on her way to happiness with Mr. Bingley. As for the rest of us, I suppose we must wait to meet him."

Her father gaped at her, then relaxed and chuckled. "Oh, very good, Lizzy. You had me going for a moment."

Lizzy shook her head. "I am quite serious, papa. If one of us marrying him can give my mother peace of mind, and perhaps even persuade him to end the entail altogether, it cannot be dismissed out of hand."

"What, even you? You cannot mean it!"

"Who better? You know that I am better suited to manage Longbourn than my mother or my sisters."

"But… the man is a simpleton!"

"Perhaps, papa. I agree the letter is not promising. But perhaps he is a Shakespearean scholar, and is emulating Dogberry as a jest. Or Mrs. Malaprop.* He would not be the first man to jape when it is not appropriate." She frowned at her father, recalling his comment earlier about his family being thrown out of the house. "He would not even be the first man I have heard do so today."

Mr. Bennet was neither repentant nor offended. "Well Lizzy, for what do we live, but to make sport for our neighbors, and laugh at them in our turn?"

"Papa, can you not see that mama is genuinely upset about the entail? I do not know what has made her so agitated all of a sudden, but you are not helping."

This time her father was repentant. "You are right, Lizzy. Your mother is not the only one who seems to have regressed since the withdrawal of Lady Rutherford's influence. I will curb my questionable wit around her."

Now Lizzy smiled, walked over to him, and bent down to place a resounding kiss on his forehead. "Thank you, papa."

"All I can say is, Mr. Collins will not know what hit him if you charm him like that," said her father. "But Lizzy, all joking aside, could you be happy with such a man?"

"As I said, papa, we will have to meet him before we know how to go on. But consider - he chose to become a clergyman, which indicates a willingness to serve. He seems to idolize his patroness, which indicates a willingness to serve even a woman. It should not be so very hard for a clever woman to transfer that devotion to herself."

Lizzy sighed. "Just before she left Netherfield, Lady Rutherford gave me some good advice. In fact, she gave me good advice about several things. One of them was not to consider being a governess in a private home, and that is one reason I started the Academy - if I do not marry, and wish to make myself useful, I might start a real seminary rather than become a governess, and this is good practice."

Bennet smiled. "Yes, I can see that would suit you well. If any of the teachers had an illness or accident, you could take her place for the interim, no matter the subject."

Lizzy nodded. "But another thing she told me was that intelligent men are proud of their intelligence, and are not inclined to marry a woman who makes them feel inferior. I have thought much about that, and it seems to me that a stupid man might suit me better, for he will be accustomed to not being the smartest person in the room, even when only two people are present."

Mr. Bennet shook his head. "What a pity you are not a man, Lizzy. You would do well in Parliament. I would have bet a hundred pounds that nobody could convince me that you and Collins might make a match."

Lizzy smiled. "Well, it is early days. If it turns out that he is vicious, or he never bathes, then you can send him packing. Or if sparks fly between him and one of my sisters, then I shall somehow manage to live without him. I only say, let us keep an open mind."

Lizzy left her father and repaired to the parlor, where her mother and all her sisters but Jane, who must have retired early, were animatedly discussing Mr. Collins. After it had been explained to her that Mr. Collins had very strongly implied that he might marry one of her daughters, Mrs. Bennet had completely reformed her opinion of him. As Lizzy sat down next to Mary, Mrs. Bennet looked at her and said, "There you are, Lizzy! You shall marry Mr. Collins, for you know the most about Longbourn's affairs. Lydia can marry Mr. Darcy. And Mary and Kitty, you must find some officers to marry when the militia arrives. I used to be very partial to a red coat myself, you know."

Even though Lizzy had just told her father that she was open to the idea of marrying Collins, she resented that her mother had ordered her to do so without a care for Lizzy's feelings or Collins' suitability. Her tone was for that reason a bit sharp when she said, "Mama, you cannot want your daughters to marry some penniless soldiers!"

Her mother glared at her. "I said no such thing! I said officers! If a smart young colonel with five or six thousand a year should want one of my girls, I shall not say nay to him."

Lizzy, still peeved, and rather cross from lack of sleep, momentarily lost her temper. "Mama, colonels are rarely young, and a colonel in the militia does not make five thousand, nor even five hundred!"

Lizzy realized too late that she had forgotten the golden rule of never directly contradicting her mother. For many years, she had always tried to gentle her statements with an "I believe…" or "I have heard…" She began to try to fix it, but her mother did not give her time.

"Oh yes," sneered her mother, "we all know that you are too high and mighty to marry anyone less than a prince, but the rest of us must live in the real world!" She stood and stalked out of the room, picking up speed as she went.

Lizzy was shocked and hurt. She had never been her mother's favorite, but their relations had at least been civil. While her mother sometimes made thoughtless remarks, especially when comparing her looks to Jane's, she had not intentionally insulted Lizzy like that for over ten years.

Mary reached for Lizzy and squeezed her hand. "It is not your fault, Lizzy. Mama has been very touchy since we heard about the militia. One moment she is almost giddy, and the next she is scowling and muttering to herself." Kitty and Lydia nodded in agreement, their eyes wide. "And I have never seen her so shrill before," Mary concluded.

Yes you have, but you do not remember, thought Lizzy. Mary had not been two years old when Lady Rutherford began exchanging visits with the Bennets. Like most people, Mary's memories of anything before the age of five or so were hazy or non-existent, except for extraordinary events like a journey to grandmama's house for a Christmas party, or a tumble down the stairs that resulted in a painfully scraped knee.

Lizzy had been only three, but she had clear memories of every day of her life since before her second birthday. She knew that her mother had been shrill before Lady Rutherford had come into their lives. The marchioness had been the epitome of decorum, and had made it her mission to improve Fanny's manners without seeming to do so. She did not overtly correct Mrs. Bennet; she led by example, and by casual observations about her experiences at the most exclusive parties and balls. She would often mention Lady Soandso, who never spoke loudly - there was no need, for when a lady was as highly regarded as Lady Soandso, everyone wanted to hear what she had to say. Like a river wearing away rock, Lady Rutherford had slowly worn down Fanny's rough edges.

But it had been two years since Lady Rutherford had quit Hertfordshire, and Mrs. Bennet seemed to be regressing somewhat.

"Well," said Lizzy, "my fault or no, I will apologize to her. I should not have provoked her when it was obvious how upset she was over Mr. Collins and the entail." She rose and went to seek her mother.

She was not anywhere on the ground floor, so Lizzy climbed the stairs to her mother's room and knocked softly on the door.

"Who is it?"

"It is Lizzy, mama. I have come to apologize."

There was a long pause, but finally, "Come in."

Lizzy was surprised to see that her mother appeared near tears. "Mama, I am very sorry I contradicted you. I suppose I am a bit cross from lack of sleep at Netherfield."

Mrs. Bennet looked mollified, and said, "Oh Lizzy, I know you are a good girl. I don't know why I am in such a dither lately."

She began to babble. "It is just that I had such high hopes that Jane might marry Clarence Rutherford, or at least that Lady Rutherford might introduce you and Jane to other rich men when she took you to London, but then they all moved away, and then nothing happened with you and Jane on your season, and then you did not even do a season last year, and then there were no eligible men at all except for John Lucas who will have none of you, and then I practically gave up, and then all of a sudden two eligible men take Netherfield, and then we hear the militia is coming, and now even Mr. Collins says he is interested in marrying one of you, and it is too much at once, why did not one thing happen one year, and another the next, instead of nothing nothing nothing and then boom boom boom all three at once? It makes me so nervous sometimes!"

Lizzy had a thought. Her mother was now 40 years old. "Mama, may I ask you a very personal question? A medical question?"

Her mother looked startled, but said, "I suppose, but I may not answer."

"Have your courses stopped?"

Mrs. Bennet's eyes went wide. "Oh! Now that you mention it, they have been erratic. But no, I cannot be pregnant!" Her face reddened, and she looked at the floor. "No, it is not possible. I… your father… it is simply not possible."

Lizzy said softly, "No, mama, that is not what I am suggesting. Have you ever heard of the 'change of life'?"

Her mother sat down on her bed. "Of course I have heard of it, but I am too young for that! Alice is three years older than I, and it has not even happened to her!"

Lizzy walked over and knelt next to her, taking her hands. "Everyone is different, mama. Your sister Alice tried to have a child for years, and could not, while you had one almost every year. It… I have read that it usually happens anywhere between the ages of forty and fifty, but it is not that unusual for it to happen even before that. It often makes women nervous, and changeable in their moods." Lizzy mentally reviewed what she had read. "Mama, do you ever feel hot all of a sudden?"

Her mother's eyes widened again. "Oh! Oh! I believe you might be right! I didn't even realize… I never thought… Oh, Lizzy! That explains it! I am not going mad!"

"No mama, of course you are not. It is perfectly normal, and it will pass. You have nothing to worry about."

Mrs. Bennet snorted. "Now you sound like your father! That is what he always says when I hint about dowries for you girls. It vexes me so!"

Lizzy did not understand. "What do you mean, mama?"

"It's just that things would be different if we had more money. I know that he is trying. I know that he no longer wastes his money the way he used to. You would not believe how much he spent on books and wine and other nonsense years ago. But you girls still need dowries, and time is running out! That is what worries me so, and your father saying not to worry only makes me worry more! We should be putting money aside, and I know we are not!"

"Mama, what makes you think that?" Lizzy frowned. "Did papa tell you that?" Making sport of people may be diverting for him, but he should not make sport of his wife, especially about something so important to her.

"No, he just says I needn't worry, but I am sure he is only putting me off," her mother said. "When we were first married, he had some harebrained scheme about having a son and ending the entail, but it is certainly too late for that."

Lizzy could not understand how her father could "put her off" for 20 years. "But mama, have you never asked him for specifics? About exactly how much he is putting aside?"

Mrs. Bennet paled, and Lizzy thought she saw fear in her eyes. "Oh Lizzy," she said, "I cannot." She thought back to the worst day of her life, 15 years earlier.

Longbourn, Hertfordshire, May 26, 1796

Bennet recognized the familiar creak of the farm wagon and rose from his chair to look out of his study's window. He smiled with satisfaction and relief at the safe delivery of his purchases from London. A highwayman would have been most chagrined to learn that, under the turnips in the wagon that he had not deigned worthy of his time, there was a false bottom concealing hundreds of pounds worth of luxuries.

He quickly rang for Mr. Hill, and told him to instruct the men to bring the crates straight to his study, and to bring him a pry bar so that he could open them himself.

The scholar in him ensured that he would open the smallest crate first, for it contained Milton's Paradise Lost - not the first edition, which was rather ugly, but even better, the first illustrated edition from 1688, which was beautiful. As he unwound the muslin that protected it, he was gratified to see that as his brother Gardiner had promised, it was in excellent condition. It had cost nearly a hundred pounds.

The largest crate was next. It contained a mohair rug of the purest white, about five feet by four feet in size, and incredibly soft and luxurious. It was imported from Turkey, where the angora goats of the mountains grew thick coats to withstand the bitter winds of winter. Again he had his brother Gardiner to thank, for only someone specializing in imports could have procured it, even at sixty pounds. He was about to place it in front of his chair near the fire, but he reconsidered. The rug would not remain pure white for long if it were placed too near the fire. He scooted his chair back several feet, then put the rug in front of it, and sat and removed his slippers. He wriggled his toes and reveled in the warmth and softness of the rug for several minutes. Ah, life is good.

Finally, he turned to the middle crate, which anyone might guess held a case of wine. They would be wrong. It was not mere wine, it was Armagnac, a special French brandy that had been very expensive even before the war, and was now incredibly expensive. Like the book, he had bought it as much as an investment as for enjoyment, telling himself that when the time came, he could sell his collectibles for his daughters' dowries. Unlike the book, he could not both enjoy and preserve the brandy. However, he could enjoy one or two bottles and preserve the rest, and that was what he intended to do.

He had never tried Armagnac before, but men whom he respected had raved about it. Bennet moved a small table next to his chair, retrieved the book from his desk, picked up the bottle of Armagnac, and poured a small portion into a snifter. The bright sun shining through the large bay window gave him plenty of light to read.

He turned to the title page, dug his toes into the mohair, and took a sip of the Armagnac. This was sheer paradise.

He had been told that Armagnac was an acquired taste, but to his delight, it was not an acquired taste at all. From his first sip, he thought it the very nectar of the gods. He could not describe what it was about the complex combination of flavors and aroma that made it so delightful, but he could not resist its pull. He had intended to have only a small glass, or maybe two, but that resolve soon fell by the wayside. Some part of his mind told him that he should not overindulge, but he rationalized that he was taking such small sips that the effect would be mitigated, and that even in his student days, when he drank more liberally, he had never got blind drunk.

Gardiner had warned him that this would be stronger than regular spirits, but Bennet did not realize how much stronger. The beer he favored was around 7 percent alcohol, and the wine he usually drank varied between 12 and 16 percent, so he assumed the Armagnac would be around 20 percent. But in fact, Armagnac was typically over twice that, and this particular batch was over 50 percent alcohol.

He became more and more relaxed and content as he continued to sip and read, until the squawk of a bird outside made him realize that he had dozed off. He was surprised to see that the sun was getting lower, and that his bottle was almost half empty. He transferred the book from his lap to the table, leaving it open to preserve his place, and moved to put the cork back into the bottle, but for some reason his brain was dull and his arms were clumsy, and he knocked the bottle over. Time slowed to a crawl as he watched in horror, unable to move, while the bottle slowly fell onto the open book and dispensed its deep amber liquid onto the thirsty pages. He finally escaped his trance and lunged to pick up the bottle, but again he was too clumsy, and he knocked it off the table. He braced himself for the sound of it shattering on the hardwood floor, but instead he heard a dull thud. He was momentarily relieved, but then experienced even more horror when he realized the significance of that thud. Sure enough, he looked around the table to see that the bottle had landed on his snow-white mohair rug, which was now greedily absorbing the remaining liquid.

He fell to his knees to grab at the bottle, but succeeded only in pushing it under the table. He crawled under the table and at last secured the bottle, but to little benefit, for it was now almost completely empty. He began to straighten up, but he miscalculated the extent of the table top, and rapped the back of his head smartly on the sharp under-edge of the table.

It was too much. His beautiful book was ruined. His exquisite rug was ruined. Half a bottle of his heavenly Armagnac was wasted. The pain in his head was excruciating. The combination of all that, along with his intoxication, made him angrier than he had ever been in his life.

And that was the moment that Fanny barged into his study without knocking.

Fanny, too, had heard the farm wagon creak as it pulled up to the house. Jane and Lizzy were outside playing; Mary and Kitty were taking their naps. Her darling Lydia was with her in her bedroom. Fanny looked out her window and saw the footman remove a crate of what she thought must be more wine for her husband.

"What is wrong with the man?" she asked Lydia in exasperation. "He is always buying wine and books as if there were no tomorrow!"

Her eight-month-old offered no opinion, but she looked at her mother solemnly through the slats in her crib in what Mrs. Bennet was sure was agreement.

Lydia's had been a difficult birth, and the midwife had said that Fanny would likely have no more children. A London physician had later confirmed this. So there was now no hope of her having a son, and her husband knew it. Yet he still spent freely, rather than saving money for his daughters' dowries.

"And what if we did have a son? That might let us keep Longbourn if your father should die, but it will not do a thing to help your sisters marry. They will still need dowries to marry well, brother or no. If anything, having a brother will lessen their dowries, for a son costs far more to raise than a daughter, with his schooling and horses and whatnot. No, there is no excuse! Mr. Bennet should have been putting money aside since the day Jane was born."

Lydia, now sensing her mother's agitation, began to cry. Fanny swiftly picked her up and began crooning, "There, there, I did not mean you! You will have no trouble finding a husband, for you are so beautiful! Oh yes, yes you are!" She began to walk around the room while carrying Lydia, softly singing:

"Golden slumbers kiss your eyes,
Smiles awake you when you rise;
Sleep, pretty wantons, do not cry,
And I will sing a lullaby."*

Lydia eventually fell asleep, and Fanny put her back in her crib. But she continued to pace back and forth, working herself into a lather. It was even more frustrating for her that she could not speak aloud for fear of waking Lydia, but in her head, she continued to rail at her husband, with an infinite number of variations on the same subject: He should be saving for dowries, but instead he wastes all his money on books and wine.

Her husband had once told her that she could sell his books for a large sum after he died, but she did not believe it. She had been to the bookstore in Meryton, and most of the books cost less than a pound. So even if Bennet had hundreds of books, a few hundred pounds from their sale would not last long. And she might not get even that much, for the books in his library were not the popular novels that everyone liked, but boring old tomes, fit only for boring old men like her husband.

After an hour or so of this, she had worked herself into such a rage that she lost all inhibition. She stormed down the stairs to her husband's study, and for the first time in years, barged in without knocking.

Mr. Bennet was facing the window, but Fanny did not wait for him to turn around. She simply said out loud, very loud, what had been filling her mind for most of the afternoon: "Mr. Bennet, how can you continue to waste money on books and port when you now have five daughters, and not a shilling saved for their dowries?"

It was not the first time that Fanny had shouted at her husband. Very early in their marriage, the result was invariably an abject apology and pleas for forgiveness from Bennet. This phase lasted less than a year, and it became more common for him to argue with her, but with sarcasm rather than heat. And for the last few years, he had typically not cared enough to do even that. He would just roll his eyes and ignore her if possible, or retreat to his study and close the door behind him if not.

Thus, she was completely unprepared for his reaction this time. He turned and glared at her, his face frighteningly red, and his expression just plain frightening. And for the first time in his life, he roared back at her just as loudly as she had shouted at him.

"A waste of money, you call it? A book can be enjoyed for a lifetime. A case of fine wine can be savored for a year. But your gowns, which cost just as much, are worn for three or four hours at one dance or party, and then you must have a new one. And I notice that they are getting more and more expensive, which I suppose is because they require more and more material, for you are coming to resemble a cow!"

Fanny felt as if she had fallen off a cliff. Her stomach lurched, her vision darkened, and she could hear the blood rushing in her ears. No one had ever shouted at her in anger before!

And certainly no one had ever disparaged her looks before! Yes, she had put on some weight, but who would not, after bearing five children? This was the thanks she got, going through months of nausea and increasing discomfort, culminating in agonizing pain - five times, no less! - trying her best to produce Longbourn's heir. And he had the temerity to criticize her for gaining weight, when it was all his fault!

She was only vaguely aware of Bennet stalking past her out of the room, and after no more time than it would take a man to put on his shoes, hearing the front door slam. "Yes, go!" she shouted, not caring that he would not hear. "Run away into your woods. I hope a bear eats you! But I will not be here when you get back!"

Bennet's blood was so hot as he left the house that he didn't care that he was still in his shirtsleeves, and the breeze was quite cool. But the farther he walked, the more the exercise did to clear his head, and the breeze to cool him down. Blast and damn, he thought, what perfect timing that woman has! I have never shouted at her before, and had she been even a minute earlier or later, I would not have today. I am most heartily sorry.

There was still plenty of daylight left, so he took his time in starting back. He wanted to be sure that he had purged himself of all anger before seeing Fanny again, for he was sure that she would berate him mercilessly, as well she should, and he must bear it without reciprocating.

He was about half a mile from the house when he saw his carriage pulling out into the road and heading towards Meryton.

Meryton, Hertfordshire, May 26, 1796

Fanny shifted Lydia to her left shoulder as she employed her right hand to work the knocker. The Gardiners' footman opened the door promptly and said, "Why, Mrs. Bennet! How pleasant to see you!" as he swung the door wider.

Fanny was still too upset to answer him, so she simply walked into the house and straight to the parlor, where she found her mother and her spinster sister Alice. Margaret Gardiner looked up in surprise, and immediately could see that Fanny had been crying.

"Fanny, dearest, what is it? Is something wrong at Longbourn?"

"Oh mama, everything is wrong at Longbourn!" wailed Fanny, dissolving into tears again, which made Lydia start crying as well.

Mrs. Gardiner gently pried Lydia out of Fanny's arms, and bounced her softly as she cooed, "There, there, sweetling, it's your grandmama and your auntie Alice, and all is well." She turned to Alice and said, "Here, take the little one up to the nursery and watch her while I talk to your sister." The Gardiners had converted Fanny's old bedroom into a nursery after Jane was born, for Fanny often visited with one or more of her young daughters. Mrs. Gardiner turned back to Fanny and said, "Now, dearest, you take off your pelisse and refresh yourself. We'll have some tea, and you can tell me all about it."

While Fanny was attending to herself, Mrs. Gardiner arranged for tea. The women returned to the parlor at almost the same time, and after closing the door behind them, Mrs. Gardiner repeated her request that Fanny tell her all about her troubles. Fanny's sniffles stopped as she warmed to her subject, listing every grievance she had accumulated against Bennet from the day they were married, up to his horrible outburst of an hour ago. Her mother had heard much of it before, but she did not interrupt, wanting Fanny to vent as much as possible so that she would be more receptive to advice later.

"And then he called me a cow!" she concluded with outrage, and was mortified when her mother could not keep her eyes from straying toward Fanny's prodigious bosom, which had seemed to grow larger after each pregnancy.

"But it is his fault!" she protested, tears beginning to flow again.

"Now, now, it is nobody's fault," said her mother. "It is just nature taking its course. I daresay there is many a woman who is pleased by the effects of pregnancy on her bosom; it's just that you had so much to start with. But I will bet you a pound against a farthing that your husband does not mind it in the least. Angry people often say things just to be hurtful, with no regard for reality."

"Oh, he is a monster!" cried Fanny. "He pretends to be so amiable to everyone, but he is so mean to me! I only wish I could have married his brother instead - he was far more lively and fun to be around."

Mrs. Gardiner was appalled at this. "Fanny, you do not know what you are saying. 'Lively,' indeed! Has Thomas ever struck you?"

Fanny was both puzzled at the non sequitur and aghast at the implication. "Struck me? Of course not! What kind of man would strike a woman?"

Mrs. Gardiner replied, "Your husband's brother, for one." At Fanny's look of disbelief, she continued, "Shortly after Robert Bennet died, his widow left for Canada, and I was then able to persuade Mrs. Hill to tell me how poor Mrs. Bennet had suffered under that man. He was a drunkard and a gambler. Why, the main reason there is an entail on Longbourn at all is that his father knew that he might very well gamble it away if not constrained, so he wrote the entail to prohibit him from selling or mortgaging any part of the estate. The provision for inheritance only through the male line was merely an afterthought. Ask your father; he will tell you, for he went over it all with your husband when he inherited."

She huffed in exasperation. "Aye, he was lively, but in a bad way. He was the most popular man at the pub, for money flowed through his hands like water, buying drinks all around. He gambled freely on both cards and horses. He kept a mistress. And yet, there is still worse.

"He beat his wife, for no reason other than he was mean when he was drunk, and he was angry at the world when he lost at gambling. His wife had so many bruises on her arms from trying to defend herself that she always wore long sleeves. But there was nary a mark on her face, which showed that he was not out of his mind with rage when he beat her. No, he took pleasure in it, and was clever enough not to strike her where it would show. He could not keep good servants because when they learned of his proclivities, they would quit in disgust. Mrs. Hill said that she and her husband had been looking for another position before he died, and would have left Longbourn had not your husband proved to be a far better master."

Fanny's eyes were wide. She said nothing, though she was thinking furiously. Why has Hill never told me of this?

Seeing that Fanny had nothing to say, Mrs. Gardiner continued, "Now, how often does Thomas get so drunk that he yells at you and insults you?"

Fanny looked down and said reluctantly, "Today was the first time."

Now it was Mrs. Gardiner who was incredulous. "The first time in eight years of marriage?"

Fanny nodded.

Mrs. Gardiner shook her head. "Fanny, you cannot think that very many men go eight years without once getting angry at their wives?"

Fanny continued looking down, but said, "Oh, very well, I suppose I could have done worse. But he vexes me so about the money!"

Mrs. Gardiner said cautiously, "Money is a subject of contention in many marriages. But I never thought it would be a problem for you, given Longbourn's income and your jointure."

Just then the clock in the hall struck five, and Mrs. Gardiner had an idea. "Fanny, may I ask your father to join us? He knows a great deal about money, and especially saving for dowries. He did very well by you, as you know."

Fanny hesitated, but finally nodded. "Yes, I should like to hear what papa thinks of all this."

As if on cue, they heard the front door open, and the voice of Horace Gardiner greeting the footman, though the words were indistinct. It was no coincidence, for Mr. Gardiner always came home at five unless some unexpected problem prevented it. Mrs. Gardiner rose and went out to greet him. Fanny heard them talking in low voices, then Mr. Gardiner saying more loudly, "Let me freshen up, and I will join you directly."

A few minutes later, the three were seated in the parlor being served fresh tea.

"Thank you, Harriet," said Mrs. Gardiner to her maid. "Please close the door behind you."

When they had all had a sip of tea, Mr. Gardiner said, "Margaret tells me that you have some monetary concerns, Fanny. I would be glad to help if I can."

Fanny picked up where she had left off, without considering that her father had heard none of her previous diatribe. "It is just so unfair! He gives me a pittance, and then spends like a lord himself."

"I see," said Mr. Gardiner, not the least bit unhappy that Fanny had come straight to the point. "And exactly how much does he give you?"

"Only three hundred pounds a year! When everybody knows that Longbourn makes two thousand! Why should he get to spend 1700 pounds and give me only three hundred?"

Horace Gardiner looked at his wife, an eyebrow raised, but she just shook her head. Fanny knew that they could communicate much without words.

"Fanny," her father began, "I want to be sure I understand you, because something does not add up. You get two hundred pounds per year interest from your jointure, correct?" It had better be correct, he thought, for I wrote the settlement myself.

"Yes."

"Then are you saying that Thomas gives you another one hundred pounds in pin money, for a total of three hundred?"

"No, he gives me another three hundred."

Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner looked at each other again.

"So your pin money is 500 pounds per year?"

"Yes! Did I not say that? But his is 1700!"

"And you feel hard done by because you only get 500 pounds per year?"

"Whyever should I not?"

Mr. Gardiner again looked at his wife, who nodded. He said, "Fanny, how many people in Meryton do you suppose have 500 pounds a year? Not pin money, but simply money. Money to pay their rent, buy their food and clothing, and so forth."

Fanny was getting frustrated. She had come here for comfort and sympathy, not to be lectured. But he was her father, so she looked down and said, "Since you seem to be making some point, I suppose not many."

Her father snorted. "'Not many' is technically correct. But I shall be more specific. Not one."

Fanny's head snapped up. "You cannot mean it!"

"I do mean it, and as the town solicitor, I am in a position to know. I see most of the wills; I write most of the contracts; I broker many of the large purchases. Nobody living in Meryton proper makes 500 pounds a year; I will stake my reputation on it. And I am only slightly less certain that none of the estates within five miles of Meryton, other than Longbourn and Netherfield, make over 500 pounds a year."

Fanny could still not believe it. "But what about you? You live in Meryton!"

"Indeed I do, and I do quite well for a small-town solicitor. I average nearly 200 pounds per year. I believe that is more than anyone else in Meryton."

"But… the merchants…"

Mr. Gardiner cut her off. "Yes, the merchants. The butcher, the baker, the milliner, the pub owner - I believe those four make the most. I daresay none of them clears over 100 pounds, and they are the only ones who have the slightest chance of doing so."

Mrs. Gardiner joined in. "Fanny, when I married your father, he was making around 150 pounds. My dowry was a thousand pounds, and we never touched it; we immediately put it in the four percents. My pin money for the first few years of our marriage was 15 pounds. We scrimped and saved for dowries, usually having only 20 or 30 pounds per year available to save. But by the time you married, we had been married for 25 years, and we had nearly four thousand pounds saved. Your father had to borrow the rest to make your dowry an even four thousand."

It was one blow after another for Fanny. Her own pin money before she was married had been 10 pounds, and she had always thought it woefully inadequate. The idea of her mother raising babies with only five pounds more was astonishing.

But something bothered her about that last bit, about her father having to borrow money. Then she had it. "But why did you not simply use some of Alice's dowry, and replace it later?"

Again her parents exchanged a look, and after glancing at the door to verify it was firmly shut, Mr. Gardiner said quietly, "We used all of Alice's dowry, Fanny. We had saved nearly four thousand pounds in total, not four thousand for each of you. We would have divided it evenly if one of you had married a local boy. Instead, we gave it all to you."

"But why?"

"BECAUSE THOMAS BENNET FELL OUT OF THE SKY!" her mother cried. "It was a chance in a million! Instead of being the butcher's wife, you could be the mistress of Longbourn! We would have been fools not to do everything we could to promote a marriage between you, once we saw that you were attracted to each other. Now that you are mistress of Longbourn, you can easily take care of Alice should anything happen to us. An opportunity like that must be seized!"

Mrs. Gardiner rose and started pacing in excitement. "And your father is so clever! When he saw how besotted Thomas was with you, he wrote the marriage articles in such a way that you not only kept your entire dowry as a jointure, but Thomas contributed another thousand pounds! That is why you have 200 pounds a year, which Thomas cannot touch without your permission. Because the world can be cruel to women, Fanny. We could not know whether your pin money would truly be pin money."

Fanny shook her head. "I do not understand."

Mr. Gardiner took over. "Fanny, while you were living with us, you had all your needs taken care of. We did not have a carriage or a French cook or a maid for each room, but you were well fed and well clothed and warm at night. So you did not need to spend a farthing to be comfortable. Your pin money was for you to spend on whatever luxuries you liked, whether it be lace or sweets."

Fanny interrupted, "But that is what it is now, only I have more. Now I can buy whole gowns instead of lace, but it is the same principle, is it not?"

Her mother took her turn, "Yes, Fanny, but you are very fortunate. It could have been quite different. Despite what you may think of him at this instant, Thomas is a good man, and he provides all of your needs, just as we did. So yes, your pin money now is for luxuries, just as it was before you married.

"But we could not know how it would be. We did not know Thomas well. Why, we did not even know Thomas Bennet existed until three months before you were married! He seemed to be a good man, but then, so did his brother, at least upon first glance. It is not difficult to pretend to be a decent man for an hour or two a day for a month or two. We could not be certain that he would be kind to you. We could not be certain even that he would provide you enough to be comfortable. A husband has total control over what his wife possesses - unless there is a settlement to the contrary. So your father wrote your marriage settlement in such a way that you are guaranteed to have an income sufficient to see to your comfort, and even to support Alice if necessary, both during your marriage and after, should your husband die. Everyone is happy that our gamble paid off, and that Thomas is a good man, and that you don't need to use your pin money for anything but pin money. But things might have turned out differently, and then you would need your pin money to live on. That is why it is so generous."

Fanny's head was spinning so as she was forced to consider new perspectives on things she thought she had known all about, even including her own childhood, that she could scarcely take it all in. But she was still angry at her husband, and none of these revelations changed the fact that he was squandering money that should be saved for dowries.

"Very well," she said, "but if Thomas giving me 300 pounds is so generous, then what can be said of him keeping 1700 pounds? For that is what Thomas has for his 'pin money.'"

"Ah yes, that needs to be addressed as well," said her father. "You believe that Thomas has 2000 pounds to spend as he likes each year, and he gives you only 300."

"I may not be as clever as Edward," Fanny said, referring to her brother who was doing well in a London import firm, "but I know how much Thomas gives me."

"Yes," said her father, "that is what I do not doubt. But I believe you may be mistaken about how much he has to give."

Fanny frowned. "You are saying Longbourn does not make 2000 pounds?"

"I am not sure what Longbourn makes. Though I have often heard 2000, it seems a bit low for an estate that large. But that is beside the point. The point is that you do not seem to realize that it costs a great deal of money to run a house the size of yours. Who do you think pays for your food, your coal, your candles, your servants, your carriage?"

Fanny felt that sinking feeling she often got when it became clear to her that she had exposed her ignorance of some subject, but all she could do was say, "But I thought that when they say an estate makes 2000 a year, they mean after expenses."

Her father nodded. "That is true, but they mean after estate expenses. Buying seed, maintenance of tenants' houses and fences and private roads and the like, hiring extra hands for the harvest, and so on. But that does not include household expenses. Those are paid for from the estate profits. I would imagine a house the size of Longbourn must cost at least a thousand to run with so many servants, and perhaps even 1200." He paused, frowned in thought, and then smiled. "I think I see. If the estate indeed makes two thousand, and the house costs 1200 to run, then Thomas has 800 pounds left over. If he gives you 300, then he has 500 left for himself, and you have 500 with your jointure interest. So he is being eminently fair; you each have 500 pounds to spend as you will."

Mrs. Gardiner smiled and nodded in agreement.

Fanny was flabbergasted. She had been so sure that her husband had been miserly toward her, when it now appeared that he had been rather generous, for he was not obligated to give her a pound more than the 200 her settlement specified. And looking around at the rather spartan furnishings of her mother's parlor as if for the first time, she had to admit that her husband indeed provided her every comfort, in addition to the pin money.

"Fanny," her father said. "If you have 500 pounds a year in pin money, there is no reason that you should not be saving for your daughters yourself. It may be that is why Thomas gives you so much - he may expect you to take care of such things. Your mother's pin money is now 20 pounds, and she still manages to put a pound or two into our savings. If you cut your luxuries to 50 pounds a year, and put the rest of your pin money in the four percents, you would have ten thousand pounds for Lydia's dowry when she is 18.

This left Fanny completely speechless.

There was a soft knock on the parlor door, and Mr. Gardiner rose and opened it. His footman said quietly, "Mr. Bennet is here, asking for a moment of your time."

With each party feeling guilty, and Mr. Bennet apologizing profusely, Fanny eventually agreed to accompany her husband back to Longbourn. In time, the wounds healed. Almost.

But ever since, Fanny had not been able to talk to her husband about money or dowries. She had never seen him so angry as he had been that day in his study, and she did not dare do anything that might make it happen again. When he came to her a month or so later and said that he was going to institute a new program of saving for their future, and very nervously asked if she would be willing to contribute to it by foregoing the extra pin money he had been giving her - but, he rapidly assured her, still retaining the 200 pounds from her jointure - her automatic reaction was to protest. But before she could speak, she was assailed by such a wave of nausea that she had to clamp her mouth shut. She turned away from him as if to think, but in reality to hide her distress from him. As she fought down her nausea, she also recalled that her mother had only twenty pounds for pin money. Surely I can get by with ten times that amount!

And, she reluctantly realized, there was no need for more. It was past time to admit defeat in her efforts to become the first lady of Meryton. She had spent years hosting more frequent and lavish dinner parties than anyone else in the area, and wearing the most expensive gowns and jewels at the assemblies, and all it had done was put her, at best, in a distant second place in Meryton's social hierarchy.

Lady Rutherford never hosted dinners except for her relations from town, and rarely accepted invitations to one. She did not attend parties or assemblies, except for an occasional charity event, and never danced when she did attend. In fact, she rarely even left Netherfield. She dressed impeccably, but not extravagantly. Not much lace, and no ostrich feathers. But for all that, she was still, far and away, the most important woman in the area. She was a marchioness, and would one day be a duchess. That trumped everything, and would continue to trump everything until the sun was a cold, shriveled cinder. Fanny was wasting her time trying to supplant her as Meryton's first lady, for the contest was lost the day she had been born to a solicitor, rather than to a duke.

And if she were honest, it was getting tiresome to host extravagant dinners for the same four-and-twenty families month after month. It was getting tiresome to keep being fitted for new gowns, when her closets were overflowing with once- or even never-worn gowns. She had jewelry she had not looked at in years; she didn't need more. No, it would be no hardship to have 'only' 200 pounds of pin money. Her father had been right, she should contribute some of her pin money to her daughters' dowries. And it would be far easier to do if she never saw it to begin with.

Fanny turned back to her husband. She still did not trust herself to speak, but she nodded, and then left the room.

Bennet had watched Fanny tremble as she stood with her back to him. He thought that she must be trembling with rage, and was about to say, "Never mind," when she turned back toward him, nodded, and left the room. He felt fortunate that she had not thrown a vase at him, but resolved to never talk to her about money again if it could be avoided.

Longbourn, Hertfordshire, October 7, 1811

Fanny came back to herself and saw that Elizabeth was watching her closely, and looking worried. She smiled weakly, and said, "It is all right, Lizzy, I was just thinking about something in the past. What were you saying?"

It must have been something dreadful, thought Lizzy, so I dare not pursue it. Instead, she said, "I was just saying that I believe you are mistaken about papa not saving for my sisters," Lizzy said, not understanding why her father had kept her mother in the dark, but not wanting to contradict him in case he had a good reason. Though she could not think what it might be, she resolved to ask him as soon as she left this room. But she was still not sure exactly what her mother believed, so she again asked, "You are certain that papa never told you that he was putting money aside?"

Mrs. Bennet again thought back to that terrible day and its aftermath, but managed to stay in the present this time, and said, "Once, shortly before Lydia's first birthday, he told me that he was starting a new scheme to save money. But shortly after that, something happened, I know not what, perhaps a bad harvest, and Longbourn's income dropped drastically. He did not tell me, but I knew."

Now I am getting somewhere, Lizzy thought. She continued probing gently, "How did you know if he did not tell you, mama?"

Her mother began twisting a lock of her hair, and Lizzy knew what that meant. She is hiding something.

Mrs. Bennet took a moment to compose herself, and then said, "Well, for one thing, he stopped buying so many books and so much wine… "

"But mama, would he not do that if he were putting money aside?"

"Perhaps," snapped her mother, slightly annoyed at the interruption. "But books are one thing. The steward is another. Your father let him go around the same time. You would have been too young to remember, but we used to have a steward. I believe that all large estates do. Why would he let him go if he were not out of money?"

So, Lizzy thought. Papa did not tell her that the steward had been embezzling, and was dismissed for that reason. Surely at this late date, it could do no harm to tell my mother that.

"Mama," said Lizzy, "I do remember our steward, and I remember when papa dismissed him. He did so because he was stealing from us."*

*Lizzy remembers because she was the one who caught the steward stealing. See Chapter 4.

Mrs. Bennet looked astonished, then doubtful, but then she frowned. "No, Lizzy, you were too young. You might think you remember it happening, but you are probably only remembering what your father told you." She paused, and Lizzy was about to speak, but then her mother continued, "And how do you explain that the steward was never replaced? Theft would explain the old steward's dismissal, but it does not explain why we wouldn't hire a new one!"

Lizzy said, "I believe that Lady Rutherford lent papa her steward for a while, and then later papa decided that he did not need one."

Mrs. Bennet was becoming frustrated. Lizzy had an answer for everything, as she always did. She did not want to tell Lizzy all the reasons she knew that Longbourn had lost income, because it would force her to admit that she had eavesdropped on her husband, and even sometimes sneaked into his study to peek at his ledger. But… she knew that Lizzy was clever, and that she knew much about estate business. And Lizzy seemed so sure about the steward. Perhaps she could settle this one way or the other.

She took a breath and said, "No, Lizzy, there is more. Around the same time, I saw my father coming up the drive one day, and when he did not come into the parlor to greet me, I went to your father's study to say hello and see whether they wanted tea. The door was not fully closed, and as I approached, I accidentally heard them… not exactly arguing, but disagreeing. My father said something like, 'A thousand pounds? Surely you can do better!' and your father said, 'You can't get blood from a stone'. Then it sounded like my father was going to leave, so I hurried away."

Even though Mrs. Bennet had made it seem as if the eavesdropping was accidental when it was not, she still braced for Lizzy to express her distaste. But Lizzy did not care about the transparent fib, except that it cleared up the mystery of what her mother was hiding. All she said was, "And you think that they were talking about Longbourn's income?"

"What else could it have been?" her mother asked.

"You say this was around the same time that papa dismissed the steward?"

Mrs. Bennet closed her eyes in concentration for a moment, then said, "Yes, I am sure it was."

"Then I believe it is more likely that they were discussing the steward's reparations, rather than Longbourn's income."

An answer for everything, Mrs. Bennet thought again. Well, in for a penny, in for a pound.

"No, Lizzy, I saw the book."

"What book, mama?"

Mrs. Bennet took another breath. "Your father's ledger. He sometimes leaves it out on his desk when he goes for his walks. I looked at previous years, and the total profits at the end of the year were always around 2000 pounds. But the next year, it was only 1000 pounds."

Lizzy started to speak, but her mother cut her off. "No, Lizzy, I know what you will say, but it was not just that one year. I have looked at it from time to time since then, and the total profits were around a thousand pounds each year for several years. It has risen to 1200 pounds only in the last few years."

Mrs. Bennet sighed. "I know I am not clever the way you and my brother are, but I can do my sums. And years ago, my father told me that the household expenses of Longbourn are a thousand pounds or more per year. Is that true?"

When Lizzy nodded, Mrs. Bennet relaxed, for she did not want to appear stupid to her daughter. "Well, I am sure I do not understand it, for I go over the grocery expenses with Hill, and unless we are having a large dinner party, they are scarcely five pounds per week, but I suppose it must be true. But if it is, then you must see that I am right. If the estate's profits are only a thousand pounds, and the household expenses are a thousand pounds, then there is no money left to save!"

Lizzy now understood, but just to make sure: "Mama, are you talking about the ledger with the red cover?"

Her mother nodded. "You have seen it? He keeps it in Greek or something, just to feel superior, I suppose. But the dates and numbers are in English, and at the end of every year, there are twelve entries which must stand for each month, and a total under them giving the profits for the year."

"Yes, mama, I have seen it." Not only had Lizzy seen it, but she had been the one making the entries in it for over ten years, so she knew that the totals her mother had thought were the estate profits were actually the household expenses. It was not her mother's fault that she did not understand the ledger, for although the numerals were Arabic, the letters were indeed in Greek. Back in his student days, her father had begun recording his journals and accounts in Greek so that his roommates could not read them, and he had maintained the habit as a personal foible. The estate profits were recorded in a different ledger, also by Lizzy, and thanks to her management were now around 3300 pounds per year, leaving some 2100 pounds to invest in savings each year. That ledger was kept in English and was never left lying around, for if anything happened to it, Bennet would be in trouble with the tax collector.

Mrs. Bennet, not sure she had convinced Lizzy, persisted.

"He tells me I needn't worry, but that is the kind of thing men say to put off their wives," Mrs. Bennet huffed. "If he told you that he was putting money aside for you, I imagine it was only to make you stop asking questions, just as he does with me."

Lizzy took her mother's hands. "Mama, I am certain that there has been a misunderstanding." She hesitated. She wondered again why her father had not said more to his wife. Perhaps he did not want his wealth to become widely known. It was hard to imagine her mother not boasting about it, and especially with the militia about to come, this would be the worst possible time for some penniless scoundrel to learn that the Bennet daughters were well dowered. She recalled how avidly the Meryton gossips had discussed the incomes of Messrs. Darcy and Bingley.

But she could not leave her mother distraught. She had to tell her something.

"Mama," she began again, "for some years now, I have been keeping that ledger. It is not for estate profits; it is for household expenses."

Mrs. Bennet shook her head in confusion. "But Hill has the expenses ledger. It is green."

Lizzy said patiently, "Those are just the grocery expenses, mama. They are kept separately to make it more convenient for you to plan menus. Mrs. Hill has other ledgers for things like utensils and dishes and linens and maids' wages. Mr. Hill has ledgers for footmen and coal and such. Mr. Bailey has one for the carriage and horses. Papa has books for furniture and merchant accounts in Meryton. And so on. They are all added up, and the totals go in the red book."

She smiled. "I think I must get my ability to do sums from you, mama. Papa is not very clever at them, so he has me do them for him."

In fact, this system was unique to Longbourn, and would be almost unworkable without Lizzy to handle it. Lizzy had devised it to make it much easier for her mother to understand the grocery budget, and her father to understand the other budgets. It was only a little more work for the senior staff to do it her way, but consolidating all the ledgers would have been a nightmare without Lizzy, who didn't even need to collect them. She simply had to look at the latest pages in the separate ledgers for a few seconds, and they were committed to memory. She could then enter the totals into the master ledger as quickly as she could write a letter to her aunt Madeline. Indeed, with Lizzy around, her father seldom needed to consult his ledgers. Lizzy could instantly tell him how much they had spent on milk in March of 1803, should he need that information.

It suddenly occurred to Lizzy that the multiplicity of ledgers might come in very handy when Mr. Collins visited. But that was for later; her task for now was to soothe her mother.

"Mama, I swear to you, it is expenses, not profits. When the yearly totals you saw went down from 2000 to 1000, it was because papa cut his expenses from 2000 to 1000 pounds. I don't know why papa has not told you this before, but I will find out. Perhaps it is simply that he does not want to bore you with details. Let me talk to him, and see what is responsible for this misunderstanding."

Mrs. Bennet looked at her daughter. Could it be true?

Lizzy thought she detected a spark of hope in her mother's eyes when she nodded and said, "Very well, Lizzy. Talk to your father."

Lizzy kissed her mother on the forehead and went straight down to her father's study.

Her mother touched the spot on her forehead, and smiled.

*Dogberry was a character in Much Ado About Nothing, and Mrs. Malaprop in Richard Sheridan's The Rivals (1775). Both are best known for mangling the English language.

*From a 1603 poem by Thomas Dekker, slightly modified by Sir Paul McCartney for the Abbey Road album.

A/N: Please let me know if this chapter was too difficult to follow. Jumping back and forth in time, jumping back and forth between what Fanny believes and what actually happened, and just being too damn long is not a good combination, and I'm sure that I have enough assumptions in my head that I didn't make explicit in the story to make it very confusing. So feel free to tell me what didn't work for you; that's the only way I'll learn. Constructive criticism is always welcome.