A House of Daughters - Chapter 2

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.

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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.

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Chapter 2: The House Without a Mirror

Lydia Bennet sat on the windowsill of the drawing room, her chin resting in her palm as she glared through the warped pane of glass. The morning sun was pale, the sky brushed with thin clouds, but all she saw was the carriage drawing away from Longbourn’s front gate.

Through the window, she glimpsed Kitty’s bonnet and the edge of Papa’s familiar coat. A pair of trunks had been strapped to the back, bouncing with every turn of the wheels as the carriage shrank into the distance.

The house was intolerably quiet. Lydia hated it.

The drawing room, once alive with chatter and rustling muslin, now lay silent. Mary was practicing scales in the parlor, a dull and repetitive exercise that Lydia thought could drive any sane person to distraction. Mama had not yet descended for breakfast. Lizzy, no doubt, was off on one of her solitary walks, free to wander the countryside like some noble heroine, while Lydia could not so much as step into Meryton.

She huffed and shifted in her seat, tapping her heel against the wooden panel beneath her. It was not fair. Nothing was fair. Everyone had become insufferable since Elizabeth's little speech, as if one night of high-and-mighty lectures could rearrange the order of things in the Bennet household.

Her arms folded tightly across her chest as she recalled the conversation from the day before. It had been, perhaps, the strangest moment of her life.

Her father had summoned her—summoned, like some errant servant—to the library. She had walked in with a flick of her fan and a saucy remark prepared, but the look on his face had frozen all humor on her tongue.

“Lydia,” he had said, not glancing up from the letter he was folding. “You are no longer out.”

She had blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“You heard me.” He had looked at her, eyes cool and sharp, his voice unhurried but firm. “Your behavior in Meryton has been, in every possible sense, unladylike. I will not have you gallivanting about, drawing attention to yourself in such a manner. You are no longer allowed to go into Meryton, nor to dine with neighbors. You will not attend any further assemblies. Not until I say otherwise.”

She had laughed, a short, incredulous sound. “You cannot mean that.”

At that moment, something cold curled in her stomach. She didn’t recognize it, not quite fear, but close enough to make her falter.

“I can. And I do.”

“But everyone goes to Meryton! How else are we to meet anyone? How else are we to be married?”

Her father had leaned back, steepling his fingers. “If your goal is marriage, then perhaps it is time you begin acting like someone a man of sense would actually marry.”

Her mouth had opened in outrage. “You have never said such things to Jane or Lizzy!”

“They never behaved as you have.”

His gaze had been unflinching, and she had stood there, speechless for once, her cheeks burning with a heat she had not expected. Her protests had dwindled into huffs and half-formed words.

Finally, she had turned on her heel and stormed out, only to find no comfort anywhere. Her mother, for once, had offered no sympathy. “Your father has spoken,” Mrs. Bennet had said, dabbing at her eyes, though Lydia was unsure if it was out of grief or sheer exhaustion.

That was yesterday.

Now Kitty was gone. Taken off to London.

She shifted again on the windowsill. The silence pressed in on her. No chatter, no laughter, no clatter of bonnets or slippers as she and Kitty raced to go into Meryton. Even her mother had been unusually still over breakfast, pale and quiet, as though she too were not quite sure how the world had changed so quickly.

The door creaked behind her, and Lydia turned her head sharply.

Elizabeth entered the room with a book under her arm, her boots a little muddy from her walk. Her cheeks were pink from the cold, and her eyes alighted briefly on Lydia before moving to the fireplace.

Lydia’s breath caught in her throat.

“This is all your fault,” she snapped.

Lizzy paused. “Good morning to you, too.”

Lydia stood from the window with a suddenness that nearly knocked over a nearby vase. “Do not pretend you do not know. Ever since you gave your precious little speech, like something out of a sermon, everything has changed.”

Lizzy placed her book gently on the side table. “Perhaps because everything needed to change.”

“You told them everything—every little stupid thing—like you had been keeping a list. You wanted them to be ashamed of me. You turned them against me… even Mama.”

Elizabeth turned fully now, her gaze calm. “Lydia, I told the truth. And the truth is not a weapon, though I suspect you believe it one when it does not flatter you.”

“I was happy,” Lydia cried. “I had friends, I had invitations, people liked me. You just could not stand it.”

“That is nonsense.”

“It is not!” Her voice cracked. “You always thought you were better than us. You never joined in the fun, not real fun. You were always watching, always judging. And now you have made everyone else dull and serious too. Even Mama refuses to talk of officers anymore!”

Elizabeth’s face softened a touch, but her tone remained firm. “I would never seek to make you unhappy, Lydia. Only to see you safe. And your behavior, the things you called ‘fun’, were reckless. I said as much, and Papa listened. You should not be angry at me for that.”

“Why should I not?” Lydia demanded. “You have taken everything from me.”

“I have not taken anything. You lost those privileges through your own conduct.”

Lydia’s lips quivered. Her chin lifted defiantly, but her eyes stung. “You are cruel.”

“No,” Elizabeth said gently. “I care for you far too much to be cruel. But I will not flatter you with lies.”

Lydia’s hands clenched at her sides. “I wish you had never come back from Rosings.”

And with that, she stormed out, her slippers scuffing loudly across the wooden floor, her petticoats swishing behind her like a storm cloud.

Upstairs, Lydia flung herself onto her bed, face buried in her pillow. The walls of her room seemed to close in—too familiar, too small. Kitty’s empty bed sat opposite hers, its coverlet perfectly smooth. She hated how tidy it looked. Lifeless.

She sat up after a moment, her heart still pounding. Her mind raced with arguments she might have made, clever retorts, cutting barbs that would have shown Lizzy up for the prig she was. But none of them sounded convincing, even in the privacy of her imagination.

Her door creaked open, and Mary’s face appeared in the gap. “May I come in?”

Lydia groaned. “If you are here to lecture me too, then no.”

“I am not.” Mary stepped inside anyway, holding a small stack of music sheets. “I merely wished to say, I am sorry Kitty is gone. I imagine it must be… strange for you, to be without her.”

Lydia blinked at her. Of all her sisters, she had expected Mary the least.

“I suppose it is,” she said grudgingly.

Mary nodded, not unkindly. “She will be back before too long, I am sure.”

Lydia did not answer. Mary lingered another moment, then offered a tentative smile.

“Perhaps, while she is away, we might learn a duet. You could sing. I could accompany.”

Lydia stared. “You want me to sing with you?”

Mary flushed slightly. “Only if you like. I think you have a pretty voice. And it would be good practice.”

Lydia looked down at her hands. “I suppose it is better than sitting here all day.”

Mary nodded again, pleased. “Then I will leave these here.” She placed the music on the desk and turned to go.

As the door clicked shut behind her, Lydia stared at the sheets, frowning.

She felt unsteady, as if the ground beneath her had shifted, and she was not quite sure where to place her feet.

She had shouted at Lizzy, railed against the unfairness of it all, but nothing had changed. No one had rushed to comfort her. The house was quieter than ever. And Kitty was still gone. She was still under restriction. And Lizzy had not even raised her voice in return.

It made Lydia’s anger felt… untidy, somehow. Misdirected. But she pushed the thought away.

Lydia scoffed softly to herself. “It is all nonsense,” she muttered.

But she glanced back at the music sheets once more before lying down, this time facing Kitty’s bed. She imagined her sister in some distant townhouse, far from Longbourn, in a world Lydia could no longer enter.

She shut her eyes against the ache, the kind that came not from boredom or anger, but from something worse: the feeling that she no longer mattered. That she was being… forgotten.

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