The nearby village of Longbourn was buzzing with excitement lately, the Bennet family’s eldest daughter Jane and second daughter Elizabeth had both gotten engaged.
Now, without Mrs. Bennet having to say a word about it every day, the whole of Longbourn, even all of Meryton, knew that her eldest daughter’s future husband, Mr. Bingley, had an annual income of 5,000 pounds. Her second daughter’s intended was even more impressive, Mr. Darcy had a full 10,000 pounds a year!
Hearing this, Mary Richman, who lived on the other side of Longbourn, simply kept stirring the soap liquid that was gradually turning white in the wooden tub.
What was it like to be transported into the world of a famous novel? To be honest, it was fine. Everyone lived in Longbourn, but there was very little actual contact between them. Even the several balls at Netherfield Park last year, Mary hadn’t gone to any of them.
She would have liked to go and watch the male and female leads meet, but the household was too busy. Making money came first.
The Richman family didn’t have the nearly thousand acres of land the Bennets had, but over the years Mary had managed her 200 acres quite well. If the Bennet family, with their 2,000-pound annual income, counted as gentry, then the Richman family, with 800 pounds a year, could barely be called minor gentry.
Unfortunately, the head of this minor gentry family, Mr. Richman, had no interest in managing the land. Soon after marrying, he’d gone off to London to work at Baring’s Bank. Six years ago, he’d gone even further and opened his own small private bank.
In the early years, Mrs. Richman had split her time between the two places. But once Mary turned ten, she practically moved to London full-time, obsessed with the idea of having a son.
So many years had passed, if she couldn’t have one, she couldn’t have one. When the time came, Mary could just marry a man into the family, and he could inherit the 200 acres all the same, without wasting all her years of effort.
Unfortunately, Mr. and Mrs. Richman just couldn’t see it that way.
Watching the soap liquid in the tubs finish mixing, Mary began pouring it into the wooden grid molds she’d already prepared. After years of doing this, it was all second nature to her now. Soon, the 48-cell mold was filled.
Once all ten trays of molds were full, Mary didn’t waste what was left over. What remained she used herself, or donated to the church, there was always somewhere for it to go.
She scraped the surface of each mold flat, then set them on the rack. In a month, they’d be ready to ship out.
These had all been ordered by shops in London, at a wholesale price of three pence a bar. A full rack of 480 bars came to six pounds in income. When the time came, she’d arrange to meet in Meryton, cash in one hand, goods in the other.
Handmade soap obviously couldn’t compete with imported Marseille soap or Castile soap, but those were expensive, two shillings a bar! At the same price, even if a London merchant bought Mary’s soap at three pence and resold it at six pence, that was still enough to buy four bars of Mary’s milk soap!
So her soap had sold steadily for years without a break.
Because of that, a few years back Mary had spent five pounds getting all the necessary licenses sorted out. After that, she just had to pay 7% of her annual turnover in tax.
At six pounds a week, that came to 312 pounds a year. Annual tax of 22 pounds, annual costs of 52 pounds, the soap alone brought in a clean profit of 238 pounds a year.
Mary checked the racks over once more, and once she was satisfied nothing was wrong, locked the door. Turning around, she caught sight of the household’s two maids, Betsy and Molly, coming back from the henhouse.
“How was the harvest today?” she asked warmly.
“208 eggs, Mary!” Both maids held up the buckets in their hands to show her.
“Wonderful. We’ll bake a cake tonight. Oh, and how are the potatoes? Ready to harvest?” Mary walked with them toward the kitchen, asking about the potatoes along the way.
“John says another week should do it.” John was the household’s farmhand, he and Tom were in charge of growing wheat, potatoes, turnips, pasture grass, and so on.
“Then in a week we’ll be busy again.” Mary watched the two women set down their buckets, then went quickly back to her own room.
The Richman estate covered one acre (≈4,000 square meters), spread across three floors. The ground floor held the parlor, kitchen, maids’ room, farmhands’ room, storage room, and cellar. The second floor held the master and mistress’s rooms, Mary’s room, two unused children’s rooms, and a few guest rooms. The third floor had originally been empty, and was now used entirely for drying soap.
Mary opened her account book. At the start of the month, when the good news about the Bennet family had spread, she’d been busy harvesting the household’s 50 acres of wheat. This year’s harvest had been good, a full 1,250 bushels!
At seven shillings a bushel, selling it all would bring in over 430 pounds! Of course, in reality it wouldn’t come to nearly that much.
Once the wheat was harvested, it had to be taken to the mill, where the mill would deduct its milling tax, the church would take its share, and the king’s tax couldn’t be avoided either. Add in natural loss, and getting back 1,000 bushels would already count as good.
In the end, a trip to the mill cost 86 pounds.
In practice, Mary wouldn’t bring all 1,000 bushels of flour home either. She’d keep 200 bushels for household use, and let the army take the remaining 800 bushels directly. The army only paid six shillings a bushel, but there was no tax to pay and no extra risk, and it converted straight into 240 pounds!
The 50 acres needed 75 bushels of seed wheat, and good seed wheat cost seven shillings a bushel, coming to just over 26 pounds. Add the farmhands’ wages of 15 pounds a year each, and the total cost here was 56 pounds.
240 pounds minus 56 pounds, this year’s wheat brought the household 184 pounds in income.
Mary had to keep every one of these accounts scrupulously clear, especially the ones involving tax already paid, kept absolutely spotless, so the tax officers wouldn’t come looking for trouble!
So far, the 50 acres of wheat had been harvested, and the 50 acres of potatoes were about to come in too. By year’s end, 50 pigs would be ready for market, and the 200 chickens would keep being kept.
Mary did the math, this year the household’s annual income might reach 1,000 pounds, provided Mr. Richman’s private bank didn’t lose money again.
“Ugh, before the potatoes come in, let’s go to London the day after tomorrow.” She was honestly afraid that couple would starve!
On the third day, Mary heard that the Bennet family’s youngest daughter, who had run off, had come back. It must have been that Mr. Darcy had settled the scandal, which was why she dared to return.
“All right, you all carry on, I’m off to Cheapside.” Mr. Richman’s private bank was located there, right next to London’s great brewer Whitbread. Not that there was any comparison, that family made hundreds of thousands of pounds a year, while Mr. Richman probably didn’t even manage a fraction of that!
Three hours later, the light two-wheeled carriage stopped, and a plainly dressed Mary walked into Richman’s Private Bank.
“Oh, dear, has the flour all been sold?” Mrs. Richman was only 42 this year, and word had it she’d once been a beauty of Meryton herself. But after so long in London, the first thing out of her mouth these days was always about money.
“Sold. Where’s Father?” Mary took out the check, the 240 pounds the army quartermaster had given her.
“Oh, Mary, you’re so much more capable than your father! I always knew leaving the household to you was the right call. If only you were a boy.” Once she had the check in hand, Mrs. Richman’s tone eased up noticeably, though she still regretted that Mary wasn’t a son.
“Where’s Father?” Mary looked at the empty bank, feeling that something was off.
“He’s busy, dealing with clients.” Mrs. Richman waved the check, eyeing her overly shrewd daughter. “You’re nearly nineteen now. You skipped the ball at Netherfield last year, but you really ought to go to that wedding in Derbyshire this year.”
“Mary, that’s the wedding of Mr. Darcy, who makes 10,000 pounds a year, everyone there is bound to be wealthy! Listen to your mother, go find yourself a good husband.”
“Mother, I’m not as pretty as Jane, and I don’t talk as well as Elizabeth. I haven’t read as many books as the other Mary, and I can’t charm people the way Lydia can. Mother, I’m just an ordinary person, so I’ll just find an ordinary man.” And eventually that ordinary man would become a Richman too, so she could go on looking after these 200 acres.
“Nonsense, you may not be as pretty as Jane and Lydia, but you’re not bad-looking either! Mary, have some confidence, say what you will, I was once one of the prettiest girls in Meryton.”
“Just look at that thick, dark braid of yours, style it up properly and you’d make a lovely young lady. All right, you’re a bit tanned, but that’s just healthy.”
“And those bright, dark eyes of yours, even the tax men don’t dare overcharge our family!”
“Mary, wealthy families love a wife like you, someone who can help bear an heir and also help run the business.” Having finished listing Mary’s good points, Mrs. Richman didn’t forget to add a reminder. “Of course, don’t just stare at the land at home all the time. Get out and socialize more, so you can meet more people.”
“You must go to the wedding in Derbyshire, and you shouldn’t miss Mr. Bingley’s wedding either.” If time allowed, Mrs. Richman would go with her in person.
“I know, I know.” Mary quickly had someone fetch things from the carriage, soap, flour, eggs, pork, and lard brought from home, all safe to eat and use.
“I knew you were a good child. Even though you’re not a son, your father and I love you just the same.” Seeing the goods, Mrs. Richman still didn’t let up.
“Since your father isn’t here, this check will stay with you. Here, sign it.” That way, if the tax men came asking, there’d be a clear account of where the money had gone.
“Those tax men really are—” Mrs. Richman muttered as she signed, complaining quietly. Her daughter was clearly so good at making money, yet every year some of it ended up in the tax men’s pockets! And it wasn’t only the official amounts, sometimes there were bribes on top of it.
“All right, I’ll head back now. You two should come visit Longbourn sometime too. If you don’t go back soon, people there will barely recognize you.” Account book in hand, Mary got ready to leave.
“Yes, yes, we’ll go when we have time.” Mrs. Richman saw her daughter to the door, and stood there watching until the carriage was out of sight.
“All right, come in already.” Mr. Richman, who had been hiding out of sight the whole time, put away the newly acquired check. “You’ve seen it yourself, she can manage perfectly well on her own. So, what’s your decision?”
“What choice do I have? Of course I’m going with you! But Mary, she’ll be torn apart if she’s left alone.” Oh, her poor daughter!
“I only mortgaged the bank, not the Longbourn estate. They won’t touch her.” Mr. Richman could only comfort himself this way. “Come on, now that we have the check and a few things packed, we need to go quickly!” The ship out of London wouldn’t wait.
Unable to withstand the pressure, Mrs. Richman packed a few more things and quietly followed her husband. Their good life hadn’t lasted many years, now the bank had gone under, and the two of them had to flee.
Mary, on her way home at that very moment, knew nothing of this at all.
She didn’t come to London often, and every time she did, she liked watching the people coming and going outside. The social season had ended, and the only people left in the city now were those still hustling to make a living.
“Catch him! That thief who stole the bread!”
As she watched, a tall man came running toward the front of the carriage. He was holding a loaf of bread, glancing back over his shoulder as he ran!
“Watch out—” Mary quickly braced herself so as not to be startled by the man who’d suddenly darted out. Fine, run if you must, but couldn’t he watch where he was going? If he’d crashed into the carriage and damaged it, who would be responsible?
The carriage stopped, and the man was forced to stop as well. The people chasing him caught up.
“Pay up!” The baker’s man grabbed hold of him.
“Let’s go.” Seeing the commotion, Mary had no desire whatsoever to stay there. What a waste, grown that tall, and still stealing a loaf of bread.
While the two of them were still tangled up, the carriage tried to move off to the side. But before it could get past the pair, the baker’s man blocked the way again.
“He said you told him to buy the bread and never paid!” The plump baker’s tone was fierce, and his flour-dusted hand slapped down on the carriage, leaving marks all over it.
Mary took a deep breath. She looked up just in time to see the tall man crudely bite off a chunk of the bread, and then spit it right out on the ground in disgust!