Chapter Text
It is a truth not universally acknowledged, though quite apparent to the good people of Hertfordshire, that a widower in possession of five daughters must be in want of assistance. Such, at least, was the conclusion drawn by every lady who crossed the threshold of Longbourn following the melancholy demise of Mrs. Bennet, whose spirits, long unequal to her nerves, finally gave way in the exertions of childbirth.
The mourners, as is often the case, were most attentive in the first week of calamity. Neighbours poured forth condolences in such abundance that poor Mr. Bennet scarcely had leisure to withdraw to his library. Every carriage that approached the house seemed to bring either tears, cakes, or advice; and as soon as the first melancholy duties were performed, the world—having discharged its obligations to sympathy—began once more to concern itself with the infinitely more pleasant business of its own affairs.
Among those whose attentions were marked by genuine feeling were Sir William and Lady Lucas of Lucas Lodge. The loss of Mrs. Bennet, though not deeply felt by many, was sincerely regretted by Mrs. Lucas, whose long acquaintance with the family, and whose daughter’s frequent intimacy with the Miss Bennets, gave her every reason for interest and concern. In the first weeks of sorrow, no hands were so ready as Charlotte’s to assist where help was needed. She managed the nursery, soothed the younger girls, and brought some degree of order to a household that had never been remarkable for it.
But even kindness must, in time, give way to convenience. The Miss Bennets’ aunts needed to return to their homes and households: Mrs. Gardiner, now expecting her first child; and Mrs. Phillips, though affectionate, was unused to children, having none of her own, and soon found herself longing for the peace and quiet of her Meryton townhouse. It was on the morning of their departure that the gentlemen, Mr. Gardiner and Mr. Phillips, called at Longbourn to collect their wives.
Mr. Bennet received them in his study, where his habitual air of dry composure had begun, in recent weeks, to take on an edge of visible weariness. After a few polite inquiries after his health, Mr. Gardiner, who was a man of real feeling and discernment, said gently, “Bennet, you must allow me to speak plainly. The girls are much upon my wife’s heart—particularly Jane and Elizabeth. They are young, sensible, and affectionate, but they are motherless now, and they will need more guidance than they have yet received.”
Mr. Bennet raised an eyebrow. “And you believe I am the man to give it?”
“I believe,” replied Gardiner, “that you are the only man who can. Their comfort depends upon your steadiness, not your wit. It may not be pleasant to hear, but you cannot go on as before. You must have help—a woman of sense in the house.”
Mr. Phillips, less refined but equally forthright, added, “Indeed, brother Bennet, my wife and I have discussed it. You have five daughters and no son. It will not do to delay—the house needs a mistress again.”
Mr. Bennet sighed, leaning back in his chair with an expression of resigned amusement. “My dear brothers, I had not imagined that two such men of business would conspire to discuss my domestic arrangements. You will have me married off before I have quite dried my mourning cravat.”
Mr. Gardiner smiled. “You may jest, Bennet, but I trust you know we speak from affection. As much as we might wish to remain and continue our assistance, my business is undergoing uncertain changes. Although I hope they may lead to growth, I cannot predict the outcome. In addition, our family is growing—as you know, Maria is expecting. That being said, the girls need a mother, and you—if I may say it—need someone to remind you that life does not consist entirely of irony.”
“On the contrary,” said Mr. Bennet, “it consists chiefly of irony. But perhaps you are right that I might benefit from someone less inclined to point it out.”
The conversation ended as most good advice does—with the receiver acknowledging its sense while resolving to ignore it. Yet Mr. Bennet’s thoughts were not entirely unmoved. He watched as the carriages bore his sisters and their husbands away, and for the first time since his wife’s death, he felt the weight of the silence that followed. The girls’ laughter—subdued though it had been—echoed faintly through the halls. For all his aversion to fuss and female chatter, the emptiness of Longbourn without it was strangely oppressive.
It was Lady Lucas who continued to give shape to the general sentiment that Mr. Bennet must remarry. The idea was no sooner conceived than it was quietly cultivated, for she was not a woman to allow fortune to drift ungoverned when her daughter’s welfare might be improved by its direction. Charlotte, at eighteen, possessed a sensible mind and a plain countenance, a combination not always rewarded by the world. Though Sir William’s knighthood lent the family a certain distinction, their fortune was small; and Lady Lucas was fully aware that a good marriage must be the result of prudence rather than romance.
When, therefore, the topic of Mr. Bennet’s future was discussed among his relations, Lady Lucas contrived to let her daughter’s name be mentioned—modestly at first, then with increasing confidence. “Charlotte has always had a steady influence with the girls,” she observed, “and Longbourn must soon need a mistress again. Five young ladies without a mother! It would be the charity of the age.” The remark, delivered with perfect propriety, was soon repeated in Meryton until it reached Mr. Bennet’s own ears.
The notion, though at first absurd to him, became less so upon reflection. His sister-in-law Mrs. Phillips, in a letter of uncommon good sense, hinted that the arrangement might be beneficial. “Miss Lucas,” she wrote, “is a prudent, amiable young woman, whose affection for the children has already been proven. In such a union, comfort and utility might be found, if not passion.”
Mr. Bennet, though disinclined to any exertion that required emotional energy, was sufficiently indolent to appreciate convenience when it presented itself. Thus, after several weeks of vacillation, and with a good deal of ironic self-reproach, he called upon Charlotte to discuss what he termed, with characteristic levity, “a proposition of mutual relief.”
Charlotte, when approached, was sitting in the Lucas parlour with her needlework, her manner composed as ever. Mr. Bennet cleared his throat and began, “Miss Lucas, you are perhaps aware that I am lately bereaved—an event which, I am told, ought to render me a more serious and feeling man, though I confess I have yet to perceive the improvement. My relations, in their wisdom, assure me that my daughters are in need of a mother, and that I am in need of a wife. You, it seems, are recommended as being sufficiently steady to manage both.”
Charlotte looked up, her eyes steady on his face, but said nothing.
“I will be plain,” he continued. “I have no inclination to embark upon a romantic courtship—Heaven preserve us from such scenes at my age. But I do acknowledge that you have been of great service to my family, and that your presence at Longbourn would bring a degree of order to the chaos which my late wife left behind. If you should consent to become Mrs. Bennet, I can promise you a comfortable home, a tolerable library, and five daughters to exercise your patience.”
He stopped, faintly smiling at his own words, and added, “I cannot imagine a more irresistible offer.”
Charlotte, after a pause that seemed very long to him, replied with calm gravity. “Mr. Bennet, I am very sensible of the honour you intend me, and I do not deny that I have great affection for your daughters. But before I consent to such a union, there is much that must be spoken plainly.”
He raised an eyebrow, amused. “Plain speech, Miss Lucas, is not often the fashion with ladies. I am all attention.”
“Then I shall be plain indeed,” she said, her voice steady. “You have five daughters who have lately lost their mother. Jane and Elizabeth are good girls, but they are young and impressionable. The younger three are children still. They will require guidance, firmness, and affection—and from both of us, sir, not merely from me. It will not do for you to retreat to your library and leave me to manage what is, in truth, your chief responsibility.”
Mr. Bennet blinked, half amused and half affronted. “You speak as though you know me exceedingly well.”
“I know enough,” Charlotte returned, “to observe that you prefer your books to your children, and wit to duty. You speak lightly of matters that deserve seriousness, and though your humour may conceal your sensibility, it has also helped to create your present difficulties. Your late wife’s beauty may have first recommended her to you, but it was not her disposition that improved your family’s standing. You seem to have poked fun at her chaotic manner rather than offering correction which is your duty as a husband and father. The world tolerated her follies because she was your wife, and because Longbourn, being one of the principal estates of the neighbourhood, made her company unavoidable. Yet even now it is said you have done little to ensure your daughters’ futures. The estate is entailed, sir; without prudent management and suitable marriages, they will be left destitute. In the end the condition of your daughters and even your spouse is a reflection of your leadership sir.”
Her words, though delivered with perfect propriety, carried a gravity that silenced even Mr. Bennet’s inclination for sarcasm. Charlotte continued:
“I do not speak thus to insult you, but because I mean to be useful. If I am to become mistress of Longbourn, I must have your cooperation—your promise to attend to the estate, to provide for your daughters, and to act as the head of your family, not merely as its spectator. In return, I shall devote myself to the girls, manage the household with economy, and endeavour, God willing, to give you a son who may secure the estate for them all. What say you, Mr. Bennet?”
For a long moment he regarded her, uncertain whether to feel reproved, intrigued, or absurdly impressed. He had not been so earnestly spoken to in years. The sense and firmness of her manner stirred something long dormant—perhaps the recollection of what respect once felt like. Her words, though blunt, were just; he knew it. He had made a life’s habit of laughing at the follies of others to disguise his own neglect.
Good God, he thought, what a curious creature—to lecture me into matrimony and be perfectly right in every word of it.
At last, with something very like admiration, he replied:
“Miss Lucas, I believe you are the only woman in England who has ever dared to scold me into matrimony. I can think of no better qualification for a wife.”
And with that, the matter was settled—not, perhaps, with romance, but with sense, which in the end proves the firmer foundation.