A House of Daughters - Chapter 1
A Pride and Prejudice Variation
With my first novella, Letter to Georgiana, now available for pre-order on Amazon, I’m excited to begin sharing a brand-new project.
A House of Daughters is a Pride and Prejudice variation that asks: what if Elizabeth Bennet, just after returning from Hunsford, didn’t simply accept her family’s flaws in silence? What if, in a moment of frustration, she spoke her mind in front of everyone?
This story begins with that outburst—and traces its ripple effects. The Bennet sisters are forced to reckon with how they’re perceived, both within and beyond Longbourn, and what that perception might cost them.
What to Expect
Multiple POVs – Follow Lydia, Kitty, Mary, and Jane as they navigate change, reflection, and responsibility.
Romance – Darcy and Elizabeth’s story unfolds in the background, witnessed (and sometimes misinterpreted) by the people around them.
Emotional depth – Introspection, character growth, and sisterly bonds take center stage.
I’ll be publishing two chapters per week, right here.
These posts will remain available until one month after the final chapter is released, at which point the complete and edited version will be published on Kindle and enrolled in Kindle Unlimited. (Expect a few refinements in the final draft.)
Thank you for reading, I hope this story brings something new and a little surprising to your love of Jane Austen.
Chapter 1: Unavoidable Evils
“With this answer Elizabeth was forced to be content; but her own opinion continued the same, and she left him disappointed and sorry. It was not in her nature, however, to increase her vexations by dwelling on them. She was confident of having performed her duty, and to fret over unavoidable evils, or augment them by anxiety, was no part of her disposition. - CHAPTER XVIII”
Elizabeth’s resolve, barely restored after her conversation with Mr. Darcy, splintered entirely at her family’s dinner table.
Only a few hours later, she found her vexation growing past endurance.
Lydia and their mother chattered loudly and incessantly about the upcoming trip to Brighton, extolling the delights of dances, flirtations, and officers in bright red coats.
No one else seemed to mind the impropriety, no one but Elizabeth.
Mr. Darcy’s words returned to her like a persistent echo: a total want of propriety... frequently, by your mother and younger sisters. Each laugh, each foolish comment from her family seemed to confirm the accuracy of his accusations. And Jane—dear, gentle Jane—sat quietly, her expression bright but her eyes dull, her sadness barely concealed.
“Oh, Mama, I might be the first of us sisters to be married!” Lydia cried, grinning as she helped herself to another serving.
Elizabeth looked at her youngest sister, barely sixteen, still half a child, speaking of marriage as if it were a game.
“Yes, my dear girl,” Mrs. Bennet beamed, “I’m sure you shall have your pick of the officers. Perhaps even a colonel!”
Elizabeth’s fork halted midway to her mouth. This will not do. Lydia is going to ruin us all.
She rose to her feet with a suddenness that made the entire table jolt. Her hand struck the edge of the table with a sharp crack.
“Elizabeth Bennet, what is the matter with you?” her mother demanded, startled.
Mary and Kitty exchanged wary glances, and even Jane turned to her in alarm. It had been years since Elizabeth’s temper had escaped her. They all remembered how fierce it could be, fiercer, even, than Lydia’s, though better controlled.
Mr. Bennet leaned back in his chair, a hint of amusement playing at his lips, as if awaiting an evening’s entertainment.
“What is the matter with me?” Elizabeth repeated, her voice rising. “What is the matter with all of you?”
She looked around the table, breath quickening.
“Lydia speaks of Brighton as if it were Bath, nothing but dancing and flirtations and dreams of marriage. She is too young, too wild to be let loose in society unguarded. Do none of you see how reckless this is? She will make herself—and all of us—ridiculous at best. At worst, she will ruin us entirely.”
“You’re just jealous that I get to go,” Lydia muttered, though her usual bounce faltered under Elizabeth’s furious gaze.
Mrs. Bennet clicked her tongue. “Ruin? Nonsense. Lydia will be much admired, I’ve no doubt. She is lively and charming. Perhaps she’ll catch a young colonel with five thousand a year!”
Elizabeth stared at her mother, astonished.
“A colonel with five thousand a year?” she repeated. “Can you truly hear what you are saying? While at Rosings, I met such a man, Lady Catherine’s nephew, Colonel Fitzwilliam. He is the second son of an earl and a colonel in the regulars. Do you know what he told me? He cannot afford to marry anyone who is not an heiress.”
Silence settled over the table.
“Let us speak plainly,” Elizabeth continued, her voice more composed but no less firm. “Tell me, Lydia, would you wish to marry someone like Colonel Forster? Nearly fifty, with barely enough income for two servants?”
“Nonsense,” Mrs. Bennet snapped. “There are rich and handsome officers aplenty. I’m sure one of them will be quite taken with Lydia.”
Elizabeth exhaled. Delusion, she thought bitterly.
She looked at Jane, then at each of her sisters. In that instant, her mind was made up, harsh though it might be, the truth had to be spoken.
“Mama,” she said softly, “I mean no disrespect, but even Jane, with all her beauty and goodness, has not received a proposal. Do you wonder why?”
Mrs. Bennet blinked. “I... I do not understand. There is no reason. Jane is so beautiful.”
Jane shook her head, silently pleading, her eyes full of quiet desperation. But Elizabeth pressed on.
“I know the reason,” she said. “But I warn you, it will not be pleasant to hear.”
Her mother hesitated, then gave a reluctant nod.
Elizabeth turned to the whole room, her gaze sharp.
“I ask only that you all remain silent until I have finished. I will speak once, and only once.”
The room stilled.
“While at Rosings Park, I met Colonel Fitzwilliam and his cousin, Mr. Darcy.”
Jane stiffened, her face growing pale. "Lizzy, please," she quietly murmured.
“We spoke. Initially of little things, casual topics, but soon, in a moment of anger, I demanded to know why Mr. Bingley had abandoned Jane so suddenly. Mr. Darcy told me.”
Mrs. Bennet gasped, and Jane gave a tiny shake of her head, a silent plea.
But Elizabeth pressed on. “Mr. Bingley’s sisters and Mr. Darcy conspired to pull him away. I believed they considered us too poor. But Mr. Darcy said, and these are his exact words, the situation of your mother’s family, though objectionable, was nothing in comparison of that total want of propriety so frequently, so almost uniformly betrayed by herself, by your three younger sisters, and occasionally even by your father.”
There was a collective intake of breath around the table.
“At first, I was furious,” Elizabeth admitted, “but the more I reflected, the more I saw the truth in his words. I remembered the Netherfield Ball, Mama, you loudly boasted of Jane’s coming marriage before she had even received a proposal. Papa, you mocked Mary in front of everyone, as if her desire to perform were a jest.”
She turned to Mary gently.
“You rushed to the pianoforte and chose a dirge unsuited to a ball and insisted on a second song when the first was barely tolerated. And yet yours was the least objectionable behavior that evening.”
Mary flushed and lowered her eyes.
Elizabeth’s voice grew colder.
“Kitty and Lydia, you both became drunk, shouting and laughing with the officers, flirtatious to the point of scandal. And Lydia, I remember you running through the ballroom, swinging a stolen officer’s sword over your head.”
Lydia opened her mouth, then thought better of it as Mr. Bennet’s expression darkened.
Elizabeth’s hands trembled slightly as she continued.
“How do you imagine such behavior reflects upon our family? Who would wish to be connected to us? This is not just idle gossip, this is the kind of thing people speak of behind fans and closed doors. And believe me, it has been spoken of.”
She turned back to her mother.
“And Mama,” she said quietly, “do you not recall my warning at the ball? That Mr. Darcy could hear you?”
Mrs. Bennet’s lips parted, but no sound came.
“Your response—if I remember correctly—was something like, what is Mr. Darcy to me, pray, that I should be afraid of him? I am sure we owe him no such particular civility as to be obliged to say nothing he may not like to hear. Well, perhaps we all should have been. He took Mr. Bingley away from Jane after all, and can you blame him?”
Elizabeth faltered as Jane pressed a hand to her mouth, tears threatening to spill.
“I hate that it has come to this,” Elizabeth whispered. “But the truth must be said. Dear Jane lost Mr. Bingley because of all of us. And yes, I include myself. I danced with Mr. Darcy only to argue, and what must that have looked like?”
She turned back to her father, her voice now a quiet plea.
“Do you truly believe, Papa, that sending Lydia to Brighton, chaperoned only by Mrs. Forster, a girl barely older than Mary and sillier than Kitty is a good idea?”
Mr. Bennet’s brows drew together.
“What do you mean, Lizzy?”
“I mean,” she said carefully, “that Mr. Wickham is not what he seems. Colonel Fitzwilliam and Mr. Darcy both warned me, Mr. Wickham is no gentleman. He is a libertine, a deceiver, and a gamester. He leaves behind debts and ruined reputations. I kept silent because I believed the militia would soon leave. But if Lydia goes with them, I must speak.”
“You’re lying!” Lydia cried. “Wickham is handsome and kind! He’s paid me special attention, you’re only jealous!”
Mr. Bennet sat straighter, the color draining from his face.
“I implore you, Papa,” Elizabeth said. “Ask the shopkeepers in Meryton. Speak to Colonel Forster if you must. You will find it all true.”
She paused, then took a steadying breath.
“I beg your forgiveness for speaking so harshly, but I am weary and in need of rest.”
Without another word, she turned and left the room, Jane quickly rising to follow her.
Jane caught up with her at the stair. “Lizzy—thank you,” she said softly. “Even if it hurt.”
Mr. Bennet looked around the table. Mary and Kitty were shrinking into their chairs, trying to vanish. Lydia was loudly declaring, “Lizzy’s only jealous!” while Mrs. Bennet stared at her youngest with an odd, flickering expression.
He sighed.
Lizzy had struck a blow not just to their pride, but to his—a quiet, private wound. Since the death of his mother, no one had ever truly made him look in the mirror. But now, thanks to his second daughter, he saw the reflection clearly. And he didn’t like what stared back.
Thomas Bennet had never intended to be master of Longbourn. As the third son, he had imagined a quiet life in academia. Oxford suited him—books, ideas, and conversation unmarred by practical burdens.
Then, he met Francine Gardiner.
She was lovely, lively, and hopelessly romantic. He had married her in joy, taken her to their modest home, and delighted in the births of Jane, Elizabeth, and Mary.
But fate has little regard for careful men.
First his father passed away suddenly, then his elder brother perished in a carriage accident. The second son, a soldier, was unreachable in the colonies.
Thomas had no choice but to return to Longbourn, to a crumbling estate, a grieving mother, and tenants beginning to suffer under mismanagement.
The steward had been robbing them blind, and by the time Mr. Bennet discovered it, the estate’s income had dwindled from £3,500 to less than £2,000. What savings he might have set aside for his daughters were lost to repairs and restitution.
By the time the books were balanced again, Fanny was no longer the cheerful girl he had wed. Longbourn had changed her too. The strain of an entail, five daughters and no heir, had turned her anxiety into a constant companion.
When their last pregnancy yielded twins, Lydia and the long-hoped-for son—Thomas dared to hope. But the boy died within the month, and the midwife warned Mrs. Bennet could not risk another child.
That loss, more than any other, undid him.
After that, he retreated. Into his books. Into sarcasm. Into silence. He could no longer bear to fight for land he would lose to a stranger, nor for a legacy he could not secure.
Only Lizzy, clever and curious, kept a thread of light in his life. With her, he shared what he had once hoped to pass on to a son.
And now—now—his daughter had stood before them all and spoken the truth he had long ignored.
Lydia, unchecked, would destroy them. All of them.
He pushed back his chair.
“Mrs. Bennet,” he said quietly, “please join me in the library. We must speak.”
His wife blinked at him, confused. But she stood and followed, her skirts whispering across the floor.
Once the door closed behind them, she burst out, “Oh, Mr. Bennet! What are we to do about Lizzy? She cannot be allowed to speak to us like that—”
He raised a hand, gentle but firm. “My dear… do you truly believe what she said was untrue?”
Mrs. Bennet faltered. Her mouth opened, then closed again. Tears welled in her eyes, her lip trembling like a young girl’s.
“Is it true?” she whispered. “Did I… did I drive Mr. Bingley away from Jane?”
He stepped forward and took her hands. “Fanny… It was not only you. We are all at fault.”
She began to cry then—quiet, broken sobs—and he drew her into an embrace he hadn’t offered in years.
“I have failed you,” he murmured, holding her close.
They talked long into the night. Of the past, the mistakes. Of the future, and their daughters, and what might yet be done. Somewhere in the hours between dusk and dawn, they found a sliver of what they once were, a husband and wife who had loved one another.
✦ ✦ ✦
The next morning, Mr. Bennet rose early. He called on Sir William Lucas, who, ever agreeable, listened with interest as Bennet shared his concerns.
Together they visited the merchants of Meryton. Mr. Bennet inquired after debts, specifically those left by officers soon departing for Brighton.
What they uncovered was appalling. Mr. Wickham alone had accumulated over four hundred pounds in unpaid accounts. Other officers had not fared much better.
They gathered receipts and presented them to Colonel Forster, whose face darkened with each new revelation. He assured them the matter would be addressed. What happened next to the offending officers was not spoken of in polite company, but Wickham bore the worst of it.
Given the scandal, Mr. Bennet informed Colonel Forster that his youngest daughter would no longer be joining the regiment in Brighton. The colonel, embarrassed by his men's conduct, offered no resistance.
Mr. Bennet returned to Longbourn just as Elizabeth stepped out of the house, bonnet in hand.
“My dear girl,” he said, stopping her. “I owe you an apology.”
He looked different this morning, his posture firmer, his gaze clearer, like a man newly awake.
“I went to Meryton with Sir William,” he explained. “We asked about the officers’ debts. What we uncovered was far more damning than I feared. Wickham is—was—every inch the scoundrel you warned us of.”
Elizabeth stared at him, astonishment giving way to relief.
“What about Lydia?” she asked softly.
“She will not be going to Brighton,” he said wearily. “I’ve already spoken with your mother. Lydia is no longer out. And Kitty, well, I believe some time in London with the Gardiners will do her good. I’ll write to your uncle today.”
“But… my trip to the Peaks…”
He smiled. “You will still go. I shall ask your uncle to include Kitty. I’ll cover the expenses. It may do your younger sisters good to be separated.”
Her eyes brightened. “Thank you, Papa.”
He touched her cheek, a rare gesture. “Go on your walk. Stay out a few hours. I expect the house will be loud with complaints soon enough, and I’d rather not have you blamed for the echoes of my own failings.”
She kissed his cheek and turned toward the lane, her step light, her heart lighter still.
As she disappeared over the rise, Mr. Bennet looked back at the house and squared his shoulders.
The reckoning had begun. But perhaps, at last, so had the repairs.
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Great premise! I can't wait to read more!
I love how you explore the invisible threads that tie women together across time. It made me think about what gets passed down—not just through blood, but through presence.