A House of Daughters - Chapter 7

A Pride and Prejudice Variation

The last couple of weeks have been a whirlwind as I prepared Letter to Georgiana for publication on Amazon. Now, a week after its release, I’m thrilled with how it’s been received, thank you for the kind comments and reviews! I also want to welcome the many new readers who joined us here; going from 50 to 100 subscribers in just a week has been incredibly encouraging. I truly appreciate your support.

With that done, I’m back to writing A House of Daughters (though I’m considering a title change, as the story has become more focused on the sisters than the family as a whole, but more on that another day).

My goal is to post two to three chapters a week until the story is complete, so expect more updates soon!

As for A Council of Darcys, I’m still working on it, though at a slower pace, about one chapter a week for now. It’s a project that’s turned out to be more complex than I first anticipated, and I want to give it the attention it deserves.

With all that said, enjoy the newest chapter of A House of Daughters!

---

Chapter 7: Just You and Me

The carriage waited in the drive, bright and impatient. Lydia stood at the front step in her best morning gown, curls freshly set, smile just shy of too wide.

“Oh, you must write,” she told Mrs. Forster once more, her voice light and gleaming. “And tell me absolutely everything. Especially if it is scandalous.”

Mrs. Forster laughed. “You know I shall. I expect your letters too, though I fear Brighton will seem terribly dull by comparison.”

Lydia caught the implication in her tone, the pity, and answered with a practiced brightness, her hands twitching at the seams. “Dull! I cannot imagine anything in Brighton being dull. I should think even the pebbles are more exciting than Meryton.”

Colonel Forster came down the steps, tucking on his gloves. “Thank you again,” he said to Mr. and Mrs. Bennet, with a courteous bow. “For your kindness during our stay. It has been very pleasant.”

“We’ve so enjoyed your company,” said Mrs. Bennet, attempting a smile. “Do come again soon.”

“I do hope Miss Lydia will enjoy the summer at home,” he added, with a kind glance in her direction.

“Oh, but I had quite hoped… well…” she laughed too brightly, then looked away, smoothing a wrinkle that did not exist.

“Perhaps there is still time for someone to change their mind?” Lydia turned, half-joking, toward her parents. “I should be ever so helpful in Brighton. You know I would be no trouble, truly. I have done ever so well lately. You must admit it.”

Her voice rang a touch too loud, cheerful at the edges, but fraying beneath.

“That is enough, Lydia,” said Mr. Bennet. He did not raise his voice. He only looked at her.

An awkward stillness crept in and made itself at home.

Lydia flushed. “I only meant—”

“I know what you meant,” her father said. “Now go upstairs.”

Mrs. Forster touched Lydia’s arm briefly. “We shall think of you,” she said kindly.

Lydia said nothing. She dipped into a curtsy—too quick, too shallow—and turned away before anyone could see her face.

She did not run up the stairs, but her shoulders betrayed the effort it took to walk.

When her door closed behind her, the silence that followed downstairs was absolute.

She heard the carriage pull away a few minutes later, wheels crunching over gravel, then fading into the distance. She did not look out the window to watch it go.

With it went the laughter, the attention, and any last, slender chance of escaping the stillness of Longbourn.

Lydia sat at the edge of her bed for what felt like a very long time, staring at the small worn patch in the rug where her heel had once caught as a child. She did not cry. It would have been a relief to cry, but nothing came.

Outside, the sound of hooves faded down the lane. The house settled into its ordinary hush, more final now, more complete.

Eventually, she climbed onto the bed and lay still, the shawl drawn over her like a child pretending not to be seen.

She was still there, still unmoving, when the knock came.

Lydia did not answer.

A pause. Then the latch turned, slow and deliberate.

Elizabeth stepped inside, hesitating just past the threshold. Her eyes adjusted to the half-drawn curtains. Lydia lay curled on her side atop the counterpane, her back to the door.

“I thought you might want company,” Elizabeth said, not quite entering. After a pause, she added, quieter, “Or at least the choice.”

Lydia’s shoulders tensed. “I do not.”

Elizabeth nodded, unsurprised. “Then I will not stay.”

She lingered, anyway. Lydia did not move.

“I only meant to say you have changed,” Elizabeth said after a moment. “And that we noticed. I noticed.”

Lydia sat up with sudden force. “Do not pretend you were ever pleased with me. Not even for a moment.”

Elizabeth blinked but stood her ground. “That is not fair.”

“No?” Lydia’s voice sharpened. “You have never liked me. Never respected me. I was just the joke you apologized for before I had even opened my mouth.”

“I was not just embarrassed for you. I was embarrassed for all of us. You gave people reasons to laugh at our family, and I hated you for that more than I care to admit.”

The words hung between them, heavier than either of them expected. Elizabeth looked away first, jaw tightening, not in anger, but in regret.

“I should not have said that,” she added quietly. “Or at least… not like that.”

Lydia did not answer. But the silence now felt charged, not cold.

“You are glad I did not go,” Lydia said, her voice lower now, but no less sharp. “Admit it. You think I belong here. Tucked away where I cannot embarrass anyone. Out of sight.”

Elizabeth did not flinch this time, but something in her expression flickered. She met Lydia’s gaze.

“No,” she said. “I do not think you are ready. And I do not want to see you get hurt trying to prove you are.”

Lydia gave a short laugh, bitter and quiet. “So it is for my own good. How generous.”

Elizabeth stayed still, her voice measured. “You think it is condescension. It is not. It is fear. Mine… for you.”

Lydia looked at her, startled. The bitterness in her face faltered for a breath.

“Fear?” she repeated. “Of what I might do?”

Elizabeth’s voice was quiet, but steady. “Of what others might do to you. Of how easily someone could take advantage, if you keep chasing fun without stopping to ask where it might lead.”

Lydia’s jaw tightened. “So I am foolish and reckless and cannot be trusted in the world.”

“No,” Elizabeth said. “You are young. And impulsive. And determined to be admired at any cost. But it can make you vulnerable.”

Lydia’s gaze flickered. She looked down at her lap, then back at Elizabeth, uncertain now, the sharpness giving way to something more fragile.

“And what if I do not want to be careful?” she said, not quite a whisper. “What if I just want to be… happy?”

Elizabeth hesitated, then stepped just inside the room. Her voice, when it came again, was quieter. “I did not come to win an argument, Lydia. I came because I hoped—” She stopped. Corrected herself. “Because I still hope.”

Then she turned and stepped back toward the door, her steps quiet on the worn floorboards. The door stayed ajar behind her.

Lydia did not move to close it. She sat on the bed for a while, unmoving, her gaze fixed on a knot in the wood floor as though it might come loose and swallow her whole.

At length, she slid to the rug and folded herself inward, knees drawn up, arms wrapped tight. Her fingers found the handkerchief on the bedside table and began folding it, slowly. Once. Again. Unfolded. Folded smaller. The cloth grew softer, more creased with each repetition, though no comfort came from the motion.

No one came.

Still, she could not shake the sense that someone might. That someone should.

When the knock came, softer this time, as if whoever stood behind it had heard what came earlier.

Before she could answer, the door creaked open, and Jane stepped through, a tray balanced carefully in her hands.

“I brought tea,” she said, her voice low and unassuming. “And toast.”

Lydia turned her head slightly but did not speak.

Mary followed a moment later, hands clasped at her waist. “I told her not to bring toast,” she remarked. “You never take toast when you are cross.”

Lydia exhaled through her nose. “Then you ought to have brought cake.”

“There was none,” Jane said, setting the tray down. “But we shall make do.”

Lydia did not reply. She remained curled on the rug, fingers idle now in her lap.

“We thought you might not wish to be alone,” Jane added.

“I rather do.”

Mary sat on the edge of the hearth chair. “Then we will be quiet. But we will not go.”

They were not entirely silent, of course. Jane poured the tea and fetched a shawl from the back of the chair, draping it over Lydia’s shoulders with the gentlest touch. Mary did not fuss, but her presence was solid, her stillness intentional. The room was quiet, but it was not the kind that meant you were alone.

Jane said after a long pause, “You had been changing. It was not just in our heads. Papa noticed. Even Mama did, in her way.”

Lydia let out a dry breath, not quite a laugh. “I wore fewer ribbons. That is not exactly a transformation.”

Mary shook her head. “It was not the ribbons. It was how you spoke. Less often, maybe. But when you did, it felt… honest. Like you were not just speaking to be heard.”

Lydia looked at her sideways. “I did not know you were paying attention.”

Jane nodded. “We were. All of us. And we saw it.”

Mary added, steady and quiet, “You were not trying so hard to be noticed. But somehow… you stood out more.”

Lydia’s eyes dropped to the folds of her gown. Her fingers found a loose thread and worked it loose.

Jane spoke again, gentler now. “You do not need to turn into someone else.”

Mary finished it without softness, but not unkindly. “But you do have to be someone people can actually connect with.”

For a moment, Lydia said nothing. Her gaze remained low, fixed on the thread between her fingers.

Then, very softly, “I only wanted to go.”

Jane nodded. “We know. But wanting and deserving are not always the same thing.”

The silence that followed felt less like absence, more like waiting.

Mary rose, smoothing her skirt. “We should let you rest.”

Jane reached down and took Lydia’s hand. Her touch was warm, and her expression held no judgment. “We shall be downstairs, if you decide you want company.”

When the door closed behind them, Lydia did not move. The tea on the tray cooled. The grey beyond the window deepened into dusk.

She crossed to the other side of the room and sat on Kitty’s bed. It had been made days ago and had not been touched since. Everything on that side felt quieter. Tidier. But not in a comforting way.

Kitty’s letter lay folded on the bedside table, right where Lydia had left it.

She reached for it without quite meaning to and held it in her lap for a long time.

Later, she moved to the dressing table and rested her arms on its surface, cheek pressed against the crook of her elbow.

The letter lay beside her.

She had read it before—twice, maybe more—but only with half her attention. Tonight, she read it differently. Slower. Line by line, as if something in it might shift if she paid enough attention.

When she reached the postscript, she stopped.

I want to try and be better.

I do not know how yet. But I have started listening to Aunt Gardiner.

Write and tell me something honest.

Just you and me.

Lydia touched the edge of the paper, then pulled open the top drawer and took out a sheet of her own.

She stared at it for a long time. The blankness looked at her.

Then, without fuss or flourish, she began.

Dear Kitty,

I made a mess of things today. The kind that is loud at the time and worse in the silence after.

The Forsters came to say goodbye, and I… well. I asked again about Brighton. I asked in front of everyone. I tried to be charming, almost begged to go.

Mama looked as though she might speak, then thought better of it. Papa said very little, but it was the kind of silence that leaves no room for argument.

Lizzy came to speak to me. I told her it was her fault. It was not. I just wanted someone else to feel awful too.

Jane and Mary came after. They brought tea I did not drink, and toast I did not want. They said I had been different, lately. Better. I had not realized anyone saw it.

I thought being better meant keeping quiet. Or wearing fewer ribbons. Or laughing less. But maybe it means saying what is true, even when it stings.

So here is something true: I miss you. And I did not like who I was this morning.

I do not know what comes next. But I am thinking about it. More than I ever have before.

If you still wish to write, I would like to hear something real.

Just you and me.

Yours,

Lydia

She read it through once, folded it carefully, and tucked it beneath Kitty’s.

She would copy it properly in the morning. Or maybe she would not. Not everything had to be tidy to be true.

---

← Previous — TOC — Next →

Author’s Note:
I have to admit, this story began as a personal challenge. A lot of the feedback I received on Letter to Georgiana praised the way I wrote the male characters, and I agree. As a man, it naturally comes easier to write from a male perspective.

So, with A House of Daughters, I decided to step outside that comfort zone and write primarily from a female point of view, to see if I could do it, and how well.

Let me tell you, it’s been challenging. There are moments when I genuinely wonder if it’s working. But after stepping away from the draft for a few days and coming back with fresh eyes, I think I’m doing a decent job capturing the voices and dynamics of the Bennet sisters.

What do you think? I’d love to hear your thoughts.

New chapters will arrive every few days. If you’d like them delivered straight to your inbox, hit subscribe—and feel free to share your thoughts below!