Chapter Text
The business of Mrs Bennet’s life had, indeed, been to get her daughters married, and she managed to accomplish it five times, most remarkably, in the final instance, from her sick bed. Thus, it was with little surprise that, barely two months after the last Miss Bennet, now Mrs Mary Hamilton, delivered her first child, Mrs Bennet breathed her last, and departed this world for the next.
Mr Bennet mourned her as any husband whose regard had sunk into indifference might: he wore his black armband, and refrained from speaking poorly of her. As he had never been much for society, his absence at country dances and dinners was largely unremarkable, and the denizens of Meryton could choose to ascribe it to grief or mere habit as they saw fit.
The Bennets had lived in their own particular version of amicable disharmony for nearly thirty years, although in the last two, their estrangement was more pronounced than ever before. Mr Bennet was, to the last, unlikely to leave his library and his port for very many hours to sit beside his sick and ever-nervous wife, and she was unable to leave her bed or her rooms. It must be said that Mr Bennet was not overly upset to miss the company of his neighbours for that of a book, even in the year that constituted his mourning. So it was that, once his grief had likely passed, the callers began to come round. After a few months of social visits, Mr Bennet noticed a disturbing change.
It seemed that, at least in the opinion of the Meryton matrons, a landed gentleman without an heir was an eligible prospect for their single daughters, no matter his age.
Each morning, just as he had finished the estate business and opened his book, Hill announced a new pair of callers. At first he dismissed it as simple courtesy; Longbourn had long been on the circuit of village gossip, even when Mrs Bennet had been ill. Perhaps these well-meaning women felt it their duty to bring him the news that Mrs Bennet was no longer there to share with him.
Later, when the same women started bringing their daughters and nieces to these visits, attired in their finest morning wear, he began to grow more suspicious.
Finally, when Miss King—who had not, he thought uncharitably, grown into her freckles or managed to leverage her inheritance against them—came to call with her uncle on an extremely trifling matter of business, Mr Bennet realized that he had been marked.
It was all a very good joke, he supposed, and would have laughed, if he had not been so shocked. For a moment, he considered writing to one of his sons-in-law regarding the matter, but Darcy would be horrified, Bingley would tell Jane, and Mr Morland would not understand. Hamilton, he presumed, was already well-aware of the machinations of the town; living so proximate to Mrs Phillips ought to take care of that. Wickham would likely advise him to marry money.
He had to admit, for a moment, at least, he was flattered.
After all, Mr Bennet thought one morning, while his man worked on tying his cravat and sorting out his appearance, he had never been an ugly man. His daughters had not gotten their beauty solely from their mother, whose chin, it had to be said, was a bit too pointed.
His nose, now that he inspected it, was a bit larger these days and his eyebrows a bit unwieldy. But they gave his face character, and he had never been so much of a dandy as to worry over it before.
Besides, if these women were truly going to fight over him, they ought to get a good look at the object of their pursuit. They might choose to show themselves to advantage, hiding unsightly bulges and blemishes, but he certainly would not.
After all, if he did choose to marry again, there was no cause to go about anything differently than he had on the first round. Things had turned out well enough.
As one of the principal landowners in the neighborhood, Mr Bennet thought that he was perfectly well acquainted with the follies and inconsistencies of the surrounding families. Following two weeks of simpering female callers, however, he was forced to reconsider.
“All the neighborhood knows, Mr Bennet, that you are a great reader,” Mrs Goulding said on a Tuesday in August. “But were you aware that Martha is as well?” The lady beamed at her youngest niece, who made a show of staring demurely at the carpet.
“I was not aware. Tell me, child, what do you read?”
Mrs Goulding’s face pinched a bit at that, but she did not reply.
“Well,” Miss Hanson said. “I am very fond of Miss Stanhope’s novels.”
“Novels,” said Mr Bennet, “are the kind of books I find particularly trying. No, my dear, a girl of your age should be reading improving books, or the classics. They are so much steadier. Girls of your age need that.” He had conveniently omitted that Elizabeth had just sent him Mrs Radcliffe’s latest and he had been about to crack the spine when Hill had appeared.
The look on the girl’s face! He was tempted to ask if she’d enjoyed Milton but thought he would save that for next week.
“Well, if we cannot speak of books,” Miss Hanson said. “Perhaps you would tell me what you think of the new styles of dresses.”
“Oh! Not finery!” Mr Bennet chuckled. “I managed to see five daughters married without understanding the difference between satin and silk, and I certainly do not intend to learn it now.”
Mrs Goulding managed to talk of nothing else in particular for another fifteen minutes before they took their leave.
The following day, Mr Bennet ordered his things packed and set off for Pemberley.