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Chapter Text

When Mary Bennet opened her eyes, she discovered that the world was at once entirely familiar and entirely new. The nursery, with its low hearth trimmed in Delft tiles, was all pale spring light with a temper of its own. A ribbon, pink and somewhat crushed, lay like a sigh across the dressing table. The dollhouse, fine in its pretensions and weak in its joints, leaned an inch out of place. Gathered in front of the dollhouse stood a regiment of wooden soldiers, an officer with one arm missing and standing proudly at attention. The window was uncurtained- Nurse despised gloom- and beyond it a square of tender sky promised a fine day for Hertfordshire.

Mary drew a breath as one who returns from a long journey, slow and steadying. Her hands were small. She examined them without alarm: plump, inkless, the nails bitten as only a child’s may be. Memory- another life’s weight- sat quietly in her mind and did not bruise. It rather stirred in her a sense of purpose, dearer than any she had ever known.

The scent of beeswax and lavender hung in the air, a nod to both Mama and Nurse’s favorite scent- “For I’ve found it calms busy young minds and fussy tempers,” Nurse would declare. Mary lay in a simple but cozy bedstead. A quilt lay warm and weighty over her small frame, tucked lovingly up to her chin.

The first sound that greeted her was the clacking of a pewter spoon, wielded by a ferocious three year old. Lydia, all round eyes and resolute cheeks, gestured animatedly at the soldiers. “Ha!” Cried Lydia. Kitty, at four, sniffed with pouty lips and wobbly eyes as her ribbon defeated her efforts once again. Jane- composure itself and the very shape of gentleness at the age of nine- sat beside Kitty and coaxed a knot from that pink ribbon as though it were a vexed heart. Elizabeth “Lizzy”, at seven and lively as a cricket, had mounted the window seat with the air of a captain climbing his quarterdeck.

“Mary,” cried Lizzy, rapping the window pane with excitement. “come see the carriage! Perhaps it brings something from London!”

Mary pushed back the quilt and swung her feet to the braided mat. The boards were cool, the morning bright. She crossed to the window, setting a hand to the sill with a gravity that was more than five years old. Mary considered the lane, the slowly advancing wheels accompanied by a dusty haze, and the splay of pale hay in the cart’s belly.

“It is Farmer Hill’s cart, Lizzy,” she said, careful and mild. “One may tell by the hay.”

Jane looked up from her task, smiling, and her smile had that fond mildness which never condescends. “How clever you are! I should not have seen it so quickly.”

Elizabeth twisted about and laughed. “How can you tell Mary? I wish to be as quick witted as you!”

“By the hay,” Mary repeated, and could not resist the small smile that rose to her mouth. “It dusts the road.”

She pointed, and so it did: the thin, golden drift that a hay cart leaves behind upon a dry morning, visible if one has learned to look for such small signs. Where had she learned it? From a summer lost to any calendar she could name, echoes that she could feel present though not quite picture with clarity. That life fell away like mist as Jane came to them, Kitty following, a ribbon in hand.

Kitty, comforted and calmed by Jane’s earlier aid, thrust the ribbon at Mary. “It will not be tied. It hates me.”

“Ribbons are a little vain,” Mary replied, and drew the ends neat. “They always wish to be admired, and not handled.”

Nurse, who had been laying out pinafores by the fire, shook her head with indulgent amusement. “Miss Kitty you shall not cry for ribbons, as soon you will know how to keep them. Miss Lydia, if you flail about with that spoon you will hit one of your sisters, and then where shall you be?”

Lydia pounded her spoon on the rug. “Boom!” She cried. “Boom! I am a soldier!”

Lizzy laughed, turning about and skipping to Lydia’s side. “Better a soldier than a goose, but even a goose must have a sense of rhythm!” Lizzy plucked the spoon from Lydia’s fist and turned it into a drum major’s baton, Lydia clapping joyfully along.

Nurse bade Mary come closer “Miss Mary, your stockings are not yet on; there is no wisdom in cold legs.”

Mary submitted at once; she did not mean to acquire a reputation for obstinancy at five years old. She sat, and Nurse slipped on the stockings and tied the garters with a brisk tenderness that smelt of starch and hearth-smoke. Mary murmured her thanks, but her thoughts had turned to the dressing table and the pink ribbon atop it.

Once Nurse was done, Mary approached the dressing table, smoothing the ribbon with a tiny but firm hand, and tucked it into the second drawer. In a day or two there would be a proper label on it, neat and organized. Her eyes then turned to the dollhouse. Though it leaned, she would not scold it; rather she would slide a booklet of folded paper or a bundle of rags under its frail foot. For though she was only five, her soul knew that comfort is sometimes only a matter of finding the right wedge.

The door opened to admit Mrs. Hill, the housekeeper, who always managed to make a curtsey appear an act of benevolence rather than duty.

“Good morning to you young ladies! Breakfast is in the parlour for when you all have washed. Farmer Maggot sends up fresh eggs and there will be muffins, I am told. Miss Jane, your mama hopes you will wear the blue, for she says it is vastly becoming; Miss Elizabeth, you are to keep your sleeves clean for any company we may yet receive today; Miss Mary-” Here Mrs. Hill paused, her expression softening almost imperceptibly as she looked at the small, composed figure at the dressing table. “Miss Mary is to do exactly as she pleases, provided it is sensible.”

“Then Miss Mary will please to be sensible,” Elizabeth said, and made a face at Mary that moved her to both laughter and much fondness.

Mrs. Hill continued “Miss Mary, I have dedicated a small drawer in the sideboard that shall be yours- if you promise not to conceal cake in it.”

Mary felt herself colour with happiness. “Only paper, Mrs. Hill,” she replied. “And a slate if Nurse allows.”

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Thus the morning unfolded with the pleasantness of habit. Nurse ensured all were clothed and tidied, the older girls assisting and learning from her the art of making order hand in hand with affection. Jane tied Kitty’s hair with her favorite yellow ribbon. Elizabeth helped Nurse with Lydia’s shoes and told a story of a goose that had mistaken herself for a swan and had fallen in love with a general. Lydia giggled, waving her clenched fist in the air, the one armed wooden soldier a stoic captive in her grip.

Mary did not bustle, for bustle is only another kind of noise; but she moved here and there with a little list composing itself in her mind. This shelf wanted dusting, that drawer needed a label, and the poor soldier required a new arm or at least a sling. She knew- how she knew she could not have told- that systems comfort children as surely as songs do. If a ribbon lived in the second drawer, ribbons would cease to be cause for tears. If wooden captains had slings, battles would be easier borne with kindness and care shown.

At last the girls were readied and went downstairs in a cluster, the small ones tumbling and the elders contriving to look as if they were not tumbling also. In the parlour there was a second scent of lavender, finer than the scent in the nursery- this was Mrs. Bennet’s perfume, which usually arrived a heartbeat before she did. She sat already at a table, bright-eyed and handsomely dressed for a morning without guests, which only meant that guests were likely to appear once calls could commence for the day. She had a manner of anticipating company that often summoned it into being.

“My dears!” she cried, and held out her arms as one who would embrace all five at once if only they would stand still long enough for her to manage it. “Jane, I have said blue, and I mean blue. Lizzy, you will not run; I saw you last week and have not yet done lamenting the grass upon your frock. Kitty, you will not cry, or at least you will do it prettily. Lydia- oh, Lydia, that spoon again!- and Mary- my dear Mary, how you look this morning! Positively thoughtful. I suppose you will read to your papa after breakfast; it always puts him into such spirits that he forgets to scold me for ordering an extra haunch of pork.”

“Does he scold, Mama?” Elizabeth asked, pouring herself milk with a seriousness that did not in the least suit her.

“Not properly,” Mrs. Bennet admitted, “which is a great pity, for I should make an excellent penitent if only anyone would insist upon it.”

Mary, who had never seen her mother as others sometimes saw her- only as a cascade of anxious love, badly directed at times but generous without measure- took her seat with a new tenderness. She had known other mornings in other cities, breakfasts endured in solitude and sometimes silence, the sour taste of regret for company lost. Here were muffins and eggs and a small Lydia who chewed with all her heart, and Kitty who leaned against Jane as if her sister had been made to be leaned upon, and Elizabeth who sparred with her mother for teasing sport without malice; and at the head of the table, a man with a handsomely thin, intelligent face and a look of habitual amusement, as if he had once stumbled upon a very good joke and meant to keep it for life.

“Mr. Bennet,” said Mrs. Bennet, with an air of one who is both pleased and vexed, “your daughters are quite lively today! See how well Kitty’s ribbon is, how pretty Jane is even if she has not worn blue as I wished!”

“I had suspected as much,” Mr. Bennet returned, raising his cup. His gaze, which missed very little when it chose to look, slipped over them all and came to rest, unexpectedly and with interest, on Mary. “And this solemn magistrate is our Mary? Your eyes, child, inform me that the bacon is overdone, the weather unseasonable, and your father a hopeless case!”

“The bacon is very good, sir.” Mary said, and felt an odd sense of clarity in the saying of it. He was a man who could be amused into better behaviour, perhaps; she would try.

“Do not encourage him, Mary,” Mrs. Bennet begged. “When he begins to make speeches, we are lost for the morning.”

“Then I shall be brief,” Mr. Bennet replied. “It is a fine thing to see a philosopher at breakfast. There is vast promise in a person who can attend to bacon and truth at once.”

They ate; Mrs. Hill and the housemaids came and went, the butler- Armstrong, who had a soldier’s steadiness and a butler’s gravity- poured coffee with the air of a man presenting arms. Mary’s mind, so quiet a pool a few months ago, now held reflections that did not belong to a child. She observed the quick economy with which Mrs. Hill had contrived an extra dish from what must have been a small supply; the way Nurse saved her own bread-crust for Lydia, who liked the crunch; the little draft beneath the parlour window that spoke of a glass ill-seated in its frame. The house was sound; it could be better. The family was happy; it could be safer. The future, which in most houses is a cloud one cannot touch, here lay about the table in pinafores and ribbons and waistcoats. It made a vow rise in her like a tide, a tender weight she would keep close.

After breakfast, Kitty’s ribbon misbehaved again and was subdued with firm fingers; Lydia escaped to the kitchen and was retrieved by Elizabeth; Jane accompanied Mrs. Bennett upstairs on a matter of muslin and propriety; and Mr. Bennet, coffee in hand, paused at the door of his library and looked back.

“Mary,” he called. “If you have a mind to read to me, you may come. I find sermons tolerable in small doses as they do not insist upon logic.”

“I will fetch Pilgrim’s Progress, sir.” Mary answered, because she knew he would like the irony of it, and because it would place them in the same chair for half an hour, which is a very good way to begin the business of being a family.

In the library- a green, comfortable room with a window that took the morning in kind portions- Mr. Bennet settled and indicated the second best chair with a movement that passed for ceremony. The shelves, crowded and self satisfied, leaned companionably over their volumes. Mary opened the book upon her knees. She read carefully, so that the delivery was dry and witty. Every now and then Mr. Bennet made a noise that might have been approval here, and might have been the stifling of a jest there.

At one such pause he remarked with relish, “There is profit in journeys taken on paper, Mary! They are apt to require fewer pairs of shoes.”

“Yet one must still learn to walk, sir.” Mary said, and thought of lights and faceless people and a hand resting on ivory keys, of things she knew and would know again. Albeit in a wholly different manner.

Her father glanced at her with that fine, narrow look that suggested he observed more than he chose to advertise. “So one must.”

Before the hour was out, Lydia burst in to display a recently rescued officer, Kitty to announce that her ribbon had finally done as she wished, and Elizabeth to declare that the cart had indeed been Farmer Hill’s for he had brought two new lambs that were all knees and astonishment. Jane, coming last and calm, added that Mama had decided blue was in fact too fine for a morning without company, and that the white muslin would answer very well.

The girls dispersed again as quickly as they had entered; the garden called like a bell, what with the sunshine creeping decidedly into the room. Mr. Bennet smiled warmly at Mary, father and daughter content in the companionable silence that falls among people who are dear to one another and need no noise to fill the air. Mary smoothed the page of the book and closed it, slipping off her Papa’s lap. Her father sighed “Well my dear, much as I would wish to continue our literary adventures I fear I must make the acquaintance of my accounts.”

With a hug and a kiss, Mary walked out of the library to join her sisters. In the hall she paused by the little window that looked on the kitchen yard. Mrs. Hill was directing a maid with a basket of eggs; Armstrong was speaking to a footman, his head inclined like a colonel giving quiet orders. Everything in its place. Everything with a place to be better.

She stood a moment longer, a small figure with her hands folded, and considered the future as if it were a piece of music- there and variation, tension and rest. There would be time enough for greater resolves. For now, she would begin with stockings worn, a ribbon tied, a chapter well read, and a father amused into attentiveness. There have been empires begun upon less.

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“The lanes are uncommonly bracing today. I must see whether the puddle by the south gate has drowned the ant-hill or whether the ants have made a raft!” Elizabeth declared gaily, her cheeks flushed with all the excitement a young girl can muster.

“We shall take our shawls,” said Jane, because Jane always made comfort into a condition of any adventure. Kitty agreed to any plan that promised sunshine. Lydia beat her spoon rapidly, her childish giggles and nonsense babbling filling the air with cheer.

Mary went last, which allowed her to observe the company and the morning together. The lawn was well maintained with a crispness of having recently been attended to. The glories of nature announced themselves modestly yet with great satisfaction, the surrounding shrubs and flora verdant. A breeze from the east persuaded the ribbon in Kitty's hair to dance merrily.

At the turn of the path, Mr. Pritchard, the gardener, touched his hat and nodded toward the south hedge. “Morning to you, Miss Bennets. Your papa has set Armstrong to the pump; we think she’ll give better water now her throat is cleared. And I’ve just finished trimming the verge there. Never forget Miss Mary- A hedge that works with the wind also works for the purse.”

Mary liked this saying at once and borrowed it in her mind for her own uses. “And for our throats, Mr. Pritchard,” she said, “for fewer coughs.”

“Bless me, Miss,” he returned, looking very impressed. “How clever you are.”

Elizabeth, her patience at last run thin, hurried on toward the ant-hill. Jane serenely took Kitty’s hand and followed, Kitty skipping along with Lydia marching behind her.

After a pleasant hour the girls were returned and respectable again, which is to say they had washed without complaint and worn their pinafores with little mischief. They once again found themselves in the nursery. Their mother floated in, a whirl of lace and fragrance, to ask whether any visitors had been seen from the road and if her daughters had a pleasant time.

“A wonderful time, Mama,” Lizzy declared, “though no carriages excepting Farmer Hill. And he had only hay and the lambs, which are more obliging than gossip.”

“Quite as useful, if not as engaging,” said Mrs. Bennet. Her eyes were soft as she gazed at her daughters. Though she could be easily vexed and quite silly, Mrs. Bennet loved her family wholly and quite dearly. Her nerves did not easily lend to domestic peace, though she did make a conscious (if hardly successful) attempt. Her eyes landed on her middle child. “Mary, my love, what are you about with that drawer?”

“Only arranging, Mama,” said Mary. “If Kitty’s ribbons have a home, our mornings will not be so noisy.”

Mrs. Bennet admired her initiative, content to see an example of a daughter growing well. “There now! Do you hear, girls? Mary is to be your secretary of ribbons.”

Jane said gently “I can think of none better than Mary, for she will be mild and not disobliging.”

“I am to be neither,” replied Mary, rather prim but with a smile on her face and in her voice. “But rather I am to be useful.”

It was an odd feeling, she reflected, being confronted with a sense of already knowing something of the world and yet loving it the more for being simultaneously new. When Nurse called them to copy letters at the table, Mary took up her slate. M-A-R-Y, her hand wrote. The chalk squeaked, the line wavered. She corrected it with a patience that, even now, surprised her. In another life she had written endless reams- notes as quick as thought, bars as easy as breath. Here she would begin again and be content to make a straight line a victory.

Her mouth curved, and she thought of a thousand small things at once: the pump’s throat and the hedge’s prudence; Nurse’s apron and Mrs. Hill’s keys; reading in the study and playing in the nursery- a future she could not name but which might, with care and attendance, be persuaded into good behaviour.

When the sun’s light moved an inch upon the floor, Mary closed her slate and tucked it into the sideboard drawer Mrs. Hill reserved. She put there also a slip of paper and wrote in her neatest hand, Ribbons: second drawer. Then she added below it, because good rules ought to be kind, Borrow and return- or ask Jane.

Lydia, who had over the course of the afternoon grown surprisingly quiet, offered Mary the wooden soldier with the missing arm. “Fix, please.” Lydia asked, her ever present spoon for once still in her grasp.

Mary considered the soldier gravely. “We will make him a sling,” she decided, “for courage and loyalty walks with bandages and honor. Remember we must always care for those who would defend us.” Lydia, who could not yet fully understand her sister’s words, still giggled and nodded, her spoon once again waving in the air.

Longbourn breathed, the house alive with the sound of industry and girlish chatter. The day marched forward steadily, with a familiar beat and cadence to all. When evening brought lamplight and stories read aloud, Mary sat cuddled with her sisters. For all the memories swimming in her mind she was yet still a five year old girl, firmly Mary rather than Marilyn, and felt herself exactly where she was meant to be.

That night, tucked again in her bedstead, Mary drew her little journal from beneath her pillow. A gift from Mrs. Hill after the girls had come in from the garden.

I am five years old and yet not. My sisters are dearer to me than breath, for I know how easily a family may falter. My mind is heavy, full of a life with its pages already read.

Jane is a balm. Elizabeth a spark. Kitty a sweetness that calls for protection. Lydia a liveliness and high spirit. My mother loves like weather, ever changing but always present. My father loves like a well made chair, without noise and steadfast. If there is music to be had of us, I will find it. Let ribbons live in a dedicated home, let soldiers have slings, let lists be written. If I must nudge the world, I shall do it with a steady hand.

Chapter Text

In the course of that spring the nursery became the small republic by which Mary learned a larger world. Its laws- such as they were- arose from a lively people and a few durable constitutions: Nurse’s apron, which ruled without appeal; Mrs. Hill’s keys, which opened every difficulty; and the immutable tendency of sisters to quarrel and reconcile with every tick and tock of the clock.

The nursery had a temper of its own; mornings it inclined to briskness, afternoons to benevolence, and evenings to a sociable drowsiness that won Nurse’s approval as much as any sermon. This particular morning began as most English days begin- crisp with a fire reluctant to be cheerful. The sun laid a gold ruler across the floorboards and measured dust with an impartial eye.

“Up you get young misses,” said Nurse with the kind of cheerfulness that admits no appeal. “A washing apiece, and no complaint, for the water is warm and the day finer than one would expect.”

Elizabeth, standing on tiptoe at the washstand to see if the soap would float, grinned and dashed a droplet at Lydia who received it with animated challenge as she squealed. “Boom!” she cried, brandishing her pewter spoon like a baton. “March, Lizzy, march!” Lizzy laughed and applied a towel to Lydia’s damp curls with the briskness of a field-officer issuing orders. “Come, general, the army marches best when it is dry.”

“You shall march without the spoon,” Nurse replied, separating commander from instrument with a practiced pinch. “And you shall not boom downstairs for your father’s sake; he keeps a delicate ear for quiet in the morning.”

Jane took Kitty in hand, smoothing her hair with the gentle gravity she brought to every task. Kitty’s hair, ever inclined to tangle if neglected for a single heartbeat, submitted at once to Jane’s patient brush; and when the ribbon was produced, Kitty’s lips- primed to tremble at the mention of ribbons- merely curled in an anticipatory smile. “There,” murmured Jane, “hold quite still and we shall have it neat in two turns and a bow.”

Once done Kitty examined the bow, brightening by degrees. “Thank you, Jane. Perhaps the ribbon does not hate me, but only wished to be asked very kindly.”

“Indeed,” Jane agreed kindly. ‘I will show you how the ribbons wish to be handled. Do not be discouraged, for with practice you will one day tie the prettiest bows of us all.”

Mary, who had been watching unobtrusively, broke in. “Yes Kitty. Our dear Jane is correct, as is usual.” In the privacy of her own mind she added that there were many things in the world- ribbons, tempers, and people- that yielded best to the same kindly persistent approach.

Mary observed the room with her usual economy of movement. Her washing already done she set to her work: straightening the dollhouse with a folded paper wedge, deftly setting the one armed officer to rights with a sling made of out of an old handkerchief, and lastly opening the second drawer of the dressing table with the gravity of a clerk. Within lay the newest order of her commonwealth- three card slips, cut square and labelled carefully with Mrs. Hill’s tidy hand: Ribbons, clear; Ribbons, Mended; Ribbons, Unruly.

Lizzy had stepped beside her sister and read the labels with relish. “Unruly?” she asked, arching a brow. “Do ribbons have characters, Mary?”

“They have habits,” Mary replied as she smoothed the cards. “And habits may be improved. If one keeps company with Clean and Mended, one ceases to be Unruly out of shame.”

Nurse, whose face could hold both sternness and amusement without confusion, said only “Miss Mary may make little laws so long as they do not contradict mine.” She bestowed a nod at Mary, who found her cheeks heating a little as she felt the implicit approval sent her direction.

Downstairs Mrs. Hill had set breakfast with her customary judicious abundance, as expected by Mrs. Bennet. Toast, honey, and a pot of chocolate that promised a good temper even to those who had not earned it. Mrs. Bennet was already present, sipping delicately from a teacup and exclaiming over the prettiness of mornings that included both sunshine and chocolate.

“Your father is in the library,” she added in high content. “He seems to be making friends with his ledgers at last! I do love a man who makes friends where it will shew to advantage. My dear Lydia, how proper you look today, not a curl out of order!”

“Proper is very convenient,” Lizzy observed, “especially if it comes with honey!”

“Proper,” said Mrs. Bennet, kissing her lively daughter’s brow, “comes best with good behaviour.” With that said, Mrs. Bennet promptly began pouring small cups of chocolate for all her daughters.

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After breakfast Nurse released them to the business of the morning and fresh air. While not loosed upon the lanes (for there had been a damp overnight), they were permitted the garden. Though not possessing a great love of the outdoors, Nurse did approve of the garden. In her philosophy, the garden was nature with manners- the lawn was careful not to overreach, dew fled before the sun's advance, and the shrubs ready to be counted.

“Observe,” said Elizabeth as she scurried over to the side of the garden. “The ants are rebuilding their city! They are very industrious people, but I do not think them witty.”

“Wit is not required of all citizens,” Jane countered, gently yet firmly. She had a manner of speaking that was surprisingly calm and soothing despite her tender age. “Industriousness will do very well for them.”

Mary had brought her slate and a piece of chalk. She did not yet write fast, but she was steady and diligent, enjoying the sight of thought becoming visible. On one side she listed the results of her observations- Ants rebuild after rain; Puddle near south gate recedes at noon; Ribbon tied with patience does not untie itself. On the other she attempted a modest drawing of the sunken hothouse frame with the intention of showing it to Mr. Pritchard later. Though she would not be able to produce the ‘pamphlet’ she would state she saw the drawing in, she was sure she could convince Mr. Pritchard to build a replica with time.

Kitty peered at the slate. “A house?” she asked, her small head tilted to the side in an adorable fashion.

“For plants, Kitty.” Mary replied, “so that even in the coldest winter we may still have green and growing things. Would it not be wonderful if we could have fresh peas in winter?”

Kitty nodded decisively. “Peas are better than ribbons,” She declared, “for ribbons cannot be eaten with butter!”

Mary startled into a laugh. “You have a talent for maxims, dear one! I shall write it down.”

And so the girls spent a pleasant morning in the garden, collecting curiosities and setting out on many adventures. As they all played and laughed Mary considered peas, ribbons, and habits. The notion slipped into her mind not with fanfare, but with the quiet satisfaction of a drawer that closed well- the thought of how much a little order could save them all, in time.

All too soon it was time for the girls to return to their lessons. As they walked back to the house Nurse allowed them to take the longer path, and as they passed by the stable they caught the smells of hay, leather, and clean horse. Lizzy, with Lydia perched on her hip, chattered about her earlier conversation with one of the stable boys.

“Billy says the harness must be kept oiled,” she informed them with much novelty. “If one does not, the straps grow sulky.” Nurse said in agreement. “Leather is like men. It does not thank you for neglect! And the best of men ensure the proper time and care for all.”

She nodded towards the kitchen garden, where old Mr. Pritchard was setting pea-sticks as if the fate of empires depended upon straight rows. “There is wisdom for you girls, one must simply learn to interpret the portents!”

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After dinner, Nurse shepherded her young charges back to the nursery. It was the appointed time for lessons and letters. Lydia consented to the form of learning, if not the content; she furnished O’s that looked like astonished biscuits and was applauded for their roundness. Kitty practiced K, which in its first attempts resembled a crab walking sideways. Lizzy, who had moved past letters and into words, wrote ‘puddle’ and illustrated it with a trail of dots leading to a blot that was deciphered to be an ant hill.

Mary and Jane were sitting together, slates out and chalk in hand. Mary had shared with Jane a new maxim, which Jane had thought charming and clever- ‘a ribbon in the second drawer comforts the first hour of the day.’ Jane was diligently writing this in her best hand, for she thought it would be wonderful to place in the ribbon drawer. Mary continued practicing her letters with a wobbly hand, intent upon correcting the unsteadiness that clashed with the innate sense of having spent a lifetime with pen in hand.

Toward evening Mrs. Bennet entered, a faint cloud of lavender and rosewater trailing behind. “We shall see Mrs. Lucas and Mrs. Phillips tomorrow as they have promised to call,” she announced. “As they have a desire to see you girls, please remember your best courtesy and wear your cleanest pinafores! There is nothing so fatiguing as appearing negligent to one’s neighbours.”

“Except being negligent,” said Lizzy.

“Except that,” Mrs. Bennet conceded, smiling. Her eyes drifted to the dressing table. Specifically, the second drawer as Nurse had mentioned to her Mary’s labors earlier in the day. She crossed the room and opened the drawer, her eyes lit with approval. “Mary, you are the very queen of order! I suppose you will rule us all when I am old.”

“But Mama I should prefer to be useful while you are young,” said Mary in complete seriousness. “For it is the better employment.”

Mr. Bennet’s step sounded in the corridor- a light, ironic tread not quite able to disguise a new purpose. He paused at the nursery door to look in on his girls, a rather new habit but one greatly appreciated. Mary, who had already conceived a plan to ally herself with his better habits against his indolence, looked up with a composed brightness that promised him very little rest and a great deal of mirth.

“Girls,” he said, “if you should meet a ledger wandering the house today, be kind to it. I rather lost my temper and am currently in exile before I make my intrepid way back to the study.”

“Papa,” Kitty exclaimed, her eyes lit with glee. “Lydia will protect you!” Lydia, for her part, waved her favorite pewter spoon in the air. “Boom! Follow drum Papa!”

Mr. Bennet laughed. “Mrs. Bennet,” he said, turning to his wife “We have a veritable army of soldiers intent on saving their Papa!” His eyes twinkled, Mrs. Bennet replying in her dulcet tone, surprisingly lacking any shrill. He determined he would stay a bit longer before returning to the books. After all, it was a father’s privilege to appreciate every moment spent with his wife and children.

Mrs. Bennet took her husband by the hand, leading him to the dressing table and proudly showing Mary’s organization. He too was impressed, but could not help but tease. “Drawers and labels have a way of encouraging tyranny. If you give each thing a place, it will require you to find it and shortly you will find yourself a slave of order!”

Mary merely turned to her father and blinked. “I am content to be a well kept slave.” Mary answered, to the startled hilarity of all.

Once able to control his mirth, Mr. Bennet embraced his girls. “I perceive, my dears, that the nursery has become a Habidashery of Virtue!”

“We do not sell virtue, sir,” Jane answered, her voice filled with giggles. “We only hope to keep it tidy.”

Mary, enjoying the embrace with a quiet grin, mused on the changes her family already displayed. Slow steps, she reminded herself, for it was still very early days. But in this moment, surrounded by warmth and her family, things seemed quite promising. Yes, quite promising indeed.

In the evening, Nurse read a little book of instructive fables in which good children were rewarded for not touching inkstands, and wicked ones came to sorrow in a manner too dramatic to be quite credible. Kitty went to sleep clutching a doll with a fetching blue ribbon in its hair. Lydia clutched both her spoon and her one armed officer, as if she, a general in embryo, meant to keep her men from straying. Jane breathed like a person who would always leave the air better than she found it. Elizabeth, eyes open in the dimness, whispered a promise to remember the lessons of the day.

Mary lay awake a while, warm and cool together, the day settling in her like tea. She thought of peas in their rows, of labels and habits. When she slept, she dreamed of ribbons that did not snarl, and of music whose theme returned again and again- soft at first, then stronger- binding small measures into a whole.