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be
left all alone, nothing to do except to await the inevitable, being cast out
into the gutter like so much rubbish.”
    “Oh, Mama!”
cried Jane in distress. “You must not say such things.”
    “Particularly
since not a word of it is true,” declared Elizabeth. “Kitty will be with you,
Mama, and Mary every Sunday. If any crisis should occur, the rest of us can be
here in three or four days’ time. As for having nothing to do, that is hardly
the case either.” She softened her tone, and laid a hand on Mrs. Bennet’s arm.
“Life goes on, and as soon as you can bear to, you really must begin collecting
your things – that is to say, packing up whatever possessions you wish to take
with you when the time comes.”
    This, not
surprisingly, brought forth a new torrent of emotion from the ailing widow, who
needed to be calmed and cajoled into tolerable order before her daughters could
in good conscience finally depart. She was then assigned over to Mrs. Hill’s
patient ministrations, and Jane and Elizabeth made their way downstairs.
    Mary then took
this, her last chance, to correct a perceived wrong. Her conscience had been
niggling at her the last two days, telling her that she should have taken more
of an interest in her elder sisters’ concerns. Instead of bowing out of the
conversation whenever it turned to domestic matters, she might have asked the
customary questions and listened with solicitude to their talk about their
offspring. Good manners called for this much, and her own sense of what was due
her sisters demanded it. Moreover, how could she hope to maintain those family
ties, which she valued more than she cared to admit, if she herself were
unwilling to make an effort?
    She had paid
her penance with Jane at an opportune moment the day before, asking, “Am I
right in thinking that the twins are five years of age now?”
    “Nearly six,”
said Jane, proudly. “I daresay you would get on famously with little Charles,
Mary, for he is grown into a great lover of books, like yourself. I am afraid
Frances Jane is a bit of a tomboy instead, preferring to take her play out of
doors or in the stables. Mrs. Grayling is forever scolding her for muddying her
frocks.”
    “Perhaps the
girl will grow out of it,” Mary suggested. “And the other two children?”
    “Oh, Phoebe is
a proper lady already, though she is only four! And John, the baby, has not yet
revealed to us much of his future character. They are, every one of them, so
very dear.” Jane daubed at her eyes with the back of her hand. “And now it
seems that God may see fit to bless me with at least one more.”
    “Naturally you
miss them, being away so long… all except this new one, of course… whom you
carry with you…” Mary trailed off awkwardly.
    “Yes.” Jane
smiled and reached out to squeeze her sister’s hand. “How kind you are to ask
after them, Mary. I wish you all could become better acquainted, but then, even
in your present circumstances, you are not left without children to love. You
must by now have formed quite a fond attachment to the Netherfield family.”
    It had been
simpler to go along with that assumption than to attempt correcting it. There
was at least a little truth in what Jane said, after all. One could not spend
more than three years with a family without developing some kind of feeling for
them. So what purpose could it possibly serve to describe the true state of
affairs, the intricacies of which she did not fully understand herself? No
doubt in Jane’s world children were always both dear and dearly loved; their
parents were always kind, patient, and benignly indulgent. In such a household,
a governess’s job must be simple indeed – no divided loyalties, no competing
priorities, no complications. “Yes, of course,” Mary had agreed, “I am quite
attached.”
    Now, with one
more act of reparation, her conscience would be satisfied. Though the Bingleys’
smart carriage had just started off, the