The Society meeting provided welcome distraction, with Jackson proudly passing on his knowledge of Miss Hayter to the others.
“Will it help, do you think?” said Fielding.
“It is certainly more than we knew before. I imagine John will now abandon all thrift, rush to London, and waste many a day walking the streets outside the bookstores and circulating libraries.” My comment provoked plenty of laughter, though my own was constrained. After all, I had once walked up and down Milsom Street in Bath some fifty times in the hope of just such an accidental meeting. My only reward had been a sixpence from a passing admiral, who assumed I suffered from some kind of mental affliction. He was not far wrong.
My friends, though, convinced themselves we had marked the trail to Miss Hayter and so played our role in forging a likely engagement. They forgot she was not a bird waiting to be flushed from some copse, shot and carried home in triumph. But I embraced their enthusiasm and the reassurance of their comradeship.
Fielding and I were, as almost always, the last to leave. He caught my arm as I made to go. “You know your friend still has little chance of success? We have discussed this.”
“Of course. I would not even give his chances the privilege of being little. His hope is a forlorn one, but it is still a hope. Who am I to take even that away from him? Life may do it for me soon enough. Until then, let this hope keep him warm in the chill of London.”
“By all accounts from Jackson, she is a woman of intelligence. Even if they can become acquainted, he will have to earn her affection. And that of her family. Few of us have such luck, as you know.” His eyes never left mine as he spoke.
“Fielding, you may pick at my scars all day long, but I will not talk about those times.”
“I worry for my friend, for the hurt he still carries. That is all. I am unsure if your interest in Mr Barton is for his sake or for yours.”
I began to lift myself off the seat.
He placed a hand on me again, the back still mottled from when he pulled me from a burning farmhouse. “I am sorry, I did not wish to pry. It is not my right.”
I sank back in my chair and was silent for a few moments. “On the contrary, you have earned the right to speak to me as you will. Perhaps my interest in John Barton is for his sake and mine.” His grip tightened on my arm. In the distance, I could hear Tincton scolding some kitchen maid. “Most days, it is all buried; I am taking your advice, allowing only happier memories to surface. We fought together, Fielding. Our survival is blessing enough for a lifetime. So I am at peace and grateful. But some days—”
“You wonder what might have been?”
“I wonder how different my life might be in a marriage built on more than just convenience.”
~ ~ ~
A letter from John the next day contained little news of note, though my own news of Miss Hayter’s love of books and London bookstores had naturally met with enthusiasm. His work at the estate was done, but he had no wish to attempt the arduous trip back to Vienna until the spring. As predicted, he wanted to spend the rest of November in London, though he claimed this was to “attend galleries and improve my mind and painting.” He would have no time for art; London was full of bookstores and long streets. I resolved to write to our relations in the capital to see whether they might have some local knowledge that would aid my lovelorn friend.
I was musing on John’s words, when Mrs Bennet flew into my study.
“Oh, Mr Bennet. It is as I hoped. Jane is grievously ill.”
I stared at her a while, trying to reconcile her words with her excitement. “I know our five daughters can be considered burdensome at times, but should we really find pleasure at the prospect of losing one to a fever? Explain yourself, my dear.”
“She fell ill while visiting Netherfield and now must stay until her health returns. I will not approve of a journey home until she is quite recovered.”
“And when will that be?”
“I have not decided yet.”
Before I could reply, Lizzy joined us, face flushed. “Mama? Papa? There is news of Jane? She is ill?”
“Quite ill, Lizzy, far too ill to think of coming home,” said her mother.
Lizzy held a hand to her mouth, then began to untie her apron. “I must go immediately—”
“You may do what you like, dear Lizzy, but do not fret. My concern would be great, too, were your sister very unwell. However, I suspect the severity of her affliction is a political judgement and not a medical one. It suits your mother for Jane to stay longer at Netherfield. There she will remain until Mr Bingley falls sick, too…with love.”
“Mama?”
My wife’s self-satisfied look was enough to answer Lizzy’s question.
“I cannot help but feel your mother has arranged all this herself. It is a shame government policy is to defeat Napoleon rather than marry him. If the latter, Mrs Bennet would assure us of victory.”
~ ~ ~
Lizzy soon left to visit Jane and no doubt enliven the Netherfield conversation at the expense of ours.
I could not help but chuckle at the prospect of her bundled together with Mr Darcy and Bingley’s sisters, with no polite means of escape for any of them. The skirmish of words would be worthy of a gladiatorial arena. Perhaps Mr Bingley would ask his cook to prepare baked dormice and a lark’s tongue or two to accompany breakfast.
Lizzy was joined for one day by Mrs Bennet and the younger girls. They returned in the early evening, happy to leave Jane in the tender care of her sister and her future husband.
My wife’s mood was both triumphant and distressed. Jane remained close to Mr Bingley, but also to Mr Darcy, who had attracted a special kind of opprobrium from Mrs Bennet ever sine he had slighted Lizzy at the Meryton dance.
“I was perfectly civil to the man,” she said, removing her bonnet.
“Ah, the poor fellow. And Mr Darcy did not return this civility?” I knew the answer, but also that my dear wife would enjoy giving it.
“He did not! He spent most of the time with his back turned to us. It was most rude. I wish him the very worst for a wife, one who talks constantly and has no wit about her at all.”
“Do not be too harsh, my dear. I would not wish such a fate on any other man.”
Kitty now spoke up. “Mr Bingley is to hold a ball, Papa!”
“Is he? How wonderful.”
This was naturally all that Kitty and Lydia could then care and talk about. The promise of dancing and young gentlemen left no room for concern for their sister’s health.
“You are full of such nonsense,” I said. “I would fear for your futures, but I daresay every parent finds fault in youth. Fathers in Rome likely sat with their wine, declaring that heads full of centurions and chariots would never amount to anything. Mind you, we all know what became of the Roman Empire.”
“How can talk of balls be nonsense? You do say some strange things, Mr Bennet,” said my wife.
“And are we to be invited to this great occasion?” It was the hope of a condemned man that there might be some unexpected reprieve.
“Of course we are.” My wife tightened the hangman’s noose. “Mr Bingley will want to dance with Jane and he cannot do so unless we are all invited.”
“And who else is to join us at this occasion of joy?”
“The Lucases will be there. I am sure Lady Lucas has not yet given up hope for her Charlotte. She cannot see how plain she is. It would take a miracle for her to marry before one of our girls. All the local families. And the regiment of course. Oh Lydia, Kitty, there will be so many officers! You must look your best, for they will all want to dance with you! And I do hope we will see Mr Murden.”
“You should take care, my dear. With so many officers, there may be one who takes a fancy to you. I should not like to have to duel for your honour.”
My wife then handed over a note for me from Lizzy.
I read it quickly, smiling as I did so.
“Does she write of Mr Bingley?
” said Mrs Bennet.
“Not of Mr Bingley, but from Mr Bingley.” Our kind neighbour had made his promised enquiries and discovered the details of John’s relatives in Yorkshire. I resolved to pass them on in my next letter. Jane’s admirer seemed set to continually erode my natural reluctance to think well of a man. Yet much as I admired Mrs Bennet’s Machiavellian navigation of the marital path, I feared Jane’s hopes might eventually founder on the jagged rocks of his sisters’ disapproval.
~ ~ ~
The next days were a burden without Lizzy and Jane. But they finally returned, bringing with them good sense and better conversation. It was safe to attend breakfast again. Jane looked most recovered, though I wondered whether the bloom in her cheeks was more to do with fond memories of a certain gentleman than with Mr Jones’s medications.
I found Lizzy in the afternoon, tucked up in her favourite armchair in the library. She was deep in a book, her fingers playing with her hair just as she always did when a child.
“Did you have no time for books at Netherfield, Lizzy? I hear it has a grand library.”
“I had the time, Papa, but not always the inclination.” Her lips narrowed. “Miss Bingley professed a love of books, but she held them in such high regard that she dared not open them. Reading might also have distracted her from attempting to win the affections of Mr Darcy.”
“And is she succeeding in that endeavour?”
“That depends on whether you ask Miss Bingley or Mr Darcy.” She marked her place and closed the book. “She still has hope, but he can barely disguise his disgust.”
“A man of taste, then, after all?” Her laughter at my quip brightened the room. “It is good to have you back, Lizzy.” I rested my hand on her shoulder and felt the warmth of her cheek. “I worried you might suffer so. Your mother speaks very ill of Netherfield society and I would hate to have you even half as vexed as she is.”
“Half as vexed as Mama would be very vexed indeed!”
“But do not let me disturb your reading. By the way, I have not yet told the others, but my cousin Mr Collins arrives tomorrow. If I am any judge of character, you may end up wishing for the company of Miss Bingley and Mr Darcy before the visit is over.”
“If that is the case, then Mr Collins must be quite horrifying.”
An unwelcome guest
My jesting with Lizzy proved more accurate than I believed possible.
Within minutes of his arrival, Mr Collins described himself as a tool of God. I could well believe it. The good Lord had clearly sent him to test our fortitude.
He had the distinction of being both fat and thin at the same time. Long, spindly legs supported a broad chest and a broader stomach, his eyes small, his head nodding continually in approval of almost everything, but particularly of his own opinions. The latter he gave freely on all subjects, whether praising the height of our door frames or extolling the virtues of the cabbage.
Unprepared to bear the burden of his conversation alone, I gave in to the darker side of my nature by inviting our guest to read to the girls.
“It would be my pleasure, Mr Bennet,” he said, eyes glistening. “Perhaps I might choose a suitable tome from among your own magnificent collection of books?”
“Of course. I have many volumes of sermons I keep handy for just such an occasion.”
“Wonderful, wonderful.” He clapped his hands vigorously. It was not a sound I expected to hear very often that evening.
It took me a few minutes to find the mentioned volumes of sermons in the library.
I brushed away the dust and the fresh corpse of a spider who had lived under the strict morals of Anderson’s On the diversity of God’s creation. When pulled out of a forgotten corner, said book had, unfortunately, brought an abrupt end to the spider’s enlightened existence. God’s creation was a little less diverse than before.
One or two tomes smelled of freshly-turned soil, but I was sure Mr Collins would see past a little mustiness in the interest of bringing wisdom to the girls.
“Such a fine collection, Mr Bennet. It puts me in mind of—”
“The library at Rosings, perhaps?” The words tumbled from me before I could stop them. I had learnt many things of Mr Collins already. One was that the room or furniture had yet to be created that could not put him in mind of Rosings Park, the home of his beloved patron, Lady Catherine de Bourgh.
“Why, yes, you are perceptive indeed, sir. No doubt you have heard of the impressive nature of its clerical works?”
“Regrettably, no, but we should not discuss such things now. The girls will be waiting. We must not keep them from spiritual improvement.”
He pressed a finger to his lips and I silently wished it might stay there. It did not. “Diversity of Creation…Memoriae Ecclesiasticae…The Birds of the Welsh Marches.” He looked up briefly. “Fordyce’s Sermons to Young Women!” He waved the book in front of my face like a crusader brandishing the severed head of a heathen. “It will be most instructive for your daughters.”
~ ~ ~
I felt the accusing stares of the girls even before Mr Collins had finished the first page. Fortunately for them, he made it no further than page three thanks to a most ill-mannered interruption by Lydia. I could not find the heart to chastise her.
~ ~ ~
Though I rose early, it was still not early enough to miss Mr Collins at breakfast. The coffee had barely touched my lips when Rosings was once more a topic of conversation. Apparently, one chimney piece had cost 800 pounds.
“800 pounds you say? That is quite a sum,” I said, not knowing how best to react to such information.
“Indeed, sir, yet wisely invested. For it has produced a most elegant piece of architecture. As I told Lady Catherine herself, I have never seen smoke so cleverly and swiftly removed from a room.”
“And this is but one of many fine examples, I presume?”
“One of very many. I do believe as many as…” He began counting on his fingers. “Yes, very many indeed, very many indeed.”
I opened my newspaper, hopeful he might be too exhausted by his mathematical efforts to continue with conversation.
“And the fireplaces themselves. Such a size. I could not begin to describe their magnificence.” Unfortunately, he then spent a good many minutes contradicting this very statement.
“I am curious as to their dimensions, Mr Collins. Would one be wide enough to fit a man inside?”
“Without a doubt, my dear Mr Bennet. Certainly the fireplace in the main drawing room. Though I cannot imagine a circumstance where that would be required.”
“I can think of at least one.” A glare from Lizzy persuaded me to change the topic of conversation. The girls had joined us and it gave me a rather splendid idea. “Mr Collins, is it not the duty of a clergyman to apply his wisdom and pastoral care to as many people as possible?”
“Indeed, as Lady Catherine often—”
“I wonder, then, if you might like to walk into Meryton with the girls?” To her credit, Kitty managed to conceal her cry of despair with some timely coughing. “The good folk of Meryton should not be left in ignorance just so I might have your company all day.” I had not lived among a household of women without mastering a little of the dark arts of manipulation, even if it earned me another reproachful look from Lizzy.
“My good Mr Bennet, your selflessness does you much credit…much credit. It is also the wish of Lady Catherine that I should share words of comfort and conversation with as many people as possible. I would be remiss if I were not to travel to Meryton. Such elegant company will make the duty all the more pleasant.” At this, he seemed to glance meaningfully toward the girls. Perhaps he thought some shared understanding had passed between us.
“The girls will not be happy, Mr Bennet,” whispered my wife as we watched them all leave.
“Given a choice between my children’s resentment and a day of Mr Collins, I will always favour daughterly damnation. It was fortunate for Job he never faced an obsequious
clergyman with such an extraordinary affection for vegetables.”
After returning, and despite the lateness of the hour, Mr Collins managed to find time to divulge further details of four more of Rosings’ fireplaces. It would have been five had I not persuaded him to sample the Madmaidens. I left him sound asleep in an armchair.
In search of refuge
Another day of Mr Collins proved too much. I was in grave danger of inserting all three volumes of Goedart’s Metamorphosis Naturalis up his most humble nether regions. All it would take is one more mention of the affability and condescension of Lady Catherine de Bourgh. Respect for Mr Collins’s personal safety and my peace of mind forced me to flee to London. I claimed urgent business, intending to return in time for the next Society meeting and the ball at Netherfield. My decision also opened the possibility of meeting John and helping him search for Miss Hayter.
I could never become used to the cacophony that seeped through the walls of the coach whenever I entered England’s greatest city. My ears and nose alerted me to shops, stalls, and stables, not to mention the people, rushing around like ants on a midden heap. I was exhausted on arrival, with bruises to tell a tale of every stray cobblestone between Meryton and Cheapside.
Gracious as ever, Mr Gardiner did not hesitate to extend the hand of hospitality on the unexpected arrival of his brother-in-law. Their townhouse was a keep whose stone walls refused to be breached by the clamour and chaos outside. It became even quieter once the children had retreated upstairs like crows departing to roost.
“You look tired. Is it only the journey?” said my host after dinner. Mrs Gardiner had left us, busy as she was planning a family trip to the north. I thought of joining them on it, of exchanging the shades of Longbourn for the shale of Derbyshire.
“I am recovering from a difficult house guest. My cousin, Mr Collins. He turns all conversation into a reminder of the inestimable qualities of his patron and the glory and grandeur of that great lady’s residence. Not to mention her propensity to dispense advice on household matters and furniture. Were she not already one of the richest ladies in England, she might make her fortune as a carpenter. The only pleasure gained from his visit is to soundly thrash him at backgammon.”
Cake and Courtship (Mr Bennet's Memoirs #1) Page 8
