Rosings thereafter hosted a steady stream of bishops, missionaries, deans, rural deans, rectors, vicars, and aspiring curates, together with their wives and offspring. All this was not to Mr. Collins’s liking. He felt continually over-watched, his sermons criticized, and his habits weighed in the balance.
But Mr. Bennet was dead at last, and his estate, entailed as it was (to Mrs. Bennet’s oft-voiced disgust), passed to Mr. Collins.
Mr. Bennet had died quietly of heart failure, one summer evening, alone in the library he loved.When he was found, his fingers were still caught between the pages of a book. While his heir gloated, Mrs. Bennet indulged in strong hysterics, and his daughters mourned.
Mr. Collins was agog to make the move to Longbourn. Now he could escape from the Anglican backbiting and religious infighting of his Rosings neighbors, give up his parish duties, and live the life of a country gentleman, for which he felt eminently suited. He began to talk casually of huntin’, shootin’, and fishin’. He considered for at least a week buying a sporting dog, though dogs of all kinds brought on violent attacks of sneezing; he would never have one in the house, though Jonathan and Eliza begged. Charlotte, with a tact born of her affection for Elizabeth Darcy, curbed her husband’s impatience to move to Longbourn.
“My dear Mr. Collins, this will not do. Think of Mrs. Bennet’s distress if we descend upon her with her husband barely in his grave. You, with your natural kindness and condescension, will be the first to understand her feelings and I know, in your generosity, you will give her time to plan her future life.”
Her method of dealing with Mr. Collins was always to ascribe to him the principles and virtues she wished he possessed. By tactics such as this, she could often persuade and guide him to a high standard of public behavior.
How was Mrs. Bennet to be settled? That was the question. Mary and Kitty, who had lived together in Meryton since the death of Kitty’s clergyman husband, Theodore Philpott, only two years after their marriage, conferred over their teacups with Mrs. Philips, who was also now a widow and in very comfortable circumstances. Mr. Philips’s business affairs had prospered (his specialty was conveyancing) and, when he died, of apoplexy, he was a warm man. Mary Bennet had married her Uncle Philips’s senior clerk, a kind but homely man of the name of Shrubsole, and Mr. Shrubsole had taken over much of Mr. Phillips’s clientele on his death and was making a comfortable living.
Letters circulated between the Meryton contingent and the sisters whose homes were farther away. Mrs. Bennet had always planned to live with her favorite daughter, Lydia, but this was not to be.
“La, Mama,” said Lydia, shrugging a plump and careless shoulder, “That would not be at all the thing. You know my dear Wickham and me are always on the move. You would find it prodigious unpleasant.”
Captain Wickham was at that time stationed in Bristol. Mrs. Bennet was reluctant to accept this dictum, but a short visit to Lydia in her latest Bristol lodgings with her six children (one teething), her constantly changing servants and nursery maids, the visits from the bailiff, and her often-absent husband, changed her mind. Jane Bingley and Elizabeth Darcy conferred anxiously with Aunt Gardiner on the degree of their duty to their mother, but luckily Mrs. Philips came to her sister’s rescue, inviting Mrs. Bennet to share her home in Meryton.
The partnership throve. The two widows (their caps a miracle of black lace) gave whist and loo parties for their numerous acquaintance (a goodly number of widowers and rackety retired army officers among them) and enjoyed themselves hugely. Mrs. Bennet found her new way of life so much to her liking that she almost forgot to resent the Collinses. Mary and Kitty were within easy reach and were frequent visitors, Lydia and Wickham came when no one else would have them, and Jane and Elizabeth sometimes broke a journey in order to spend a night. The only time Mrs. Bennet became conscious of her nerves was when her grandchildren stayed too long.
Once this move was made, the way was open for Mr. and Mrs. Collins and their family to move to Longbourn. It was a fateful day. Despite a light drizzle,Mr. Collins paced his new possession foot by foot, outdoors and indoors, rejoicing in every shrub and tree in the grounds, and every handsome piece of furniture and elegant drapery in the house. He had, in the past, enjoyed criticizing Mrs. Bennet for her extravagance and love of show; now he felt there was nothing that was not due to his own consequence. The one fly in his ointment was the marked absence of books in the library, which had been established by Mr. Bennet; the books had been his own to do with as he willed, and he had chosen to leave them to his favorite daughter, Elizabeth. They now rounded out the already splendid library at Pemberley. Mr. Collins seldom read and had no interest in literature, but this did not prevent him from feeling disgruntled every time he eyed the empty shelves.
Eliza Collins was four years old when the move to Longbourn was made, and she grew up on terms of friendly intimacy with the families of Mary Shrubsole, née Bennet, and such of Charlotte’s brothers and sisters, now married, who lived nearby. By the time she was seventeen, she was lively, loving, imaginative, and amusing. She would never be a beauty, but only strangers commented on her lack of inches and pointed little face. Her father was uncomfortable with her; he preferred his eldest son, recently made Vicar of Highbury and married to a Miss Eugenia Elton, and his elder daughters, who were prim, plump, and self-righteous.
But Charlotte rejoiced in her changeling.
Chapter Two
Longbourn
“But he is, beyond all comparison, the most agreeable man I
ever saw...”
“He is just what a young man ought to be... sensible, good-humoured,
lively, and I never saw such happy manners.”
Jane Austen
It was about this time that Henry Darcy, Elizabeth Darcy’s second son, came down from Oxford.
Mr. and Mrs. Darcy had been blessed with three children: a son and heir, Fitzwilliam, known in the family as Fitz, now twenty-five; a second son, Henry de Bourgh Darcy, twenty-two; and a daughter, Elizabeth Juliet, at eighteen one of the recognized beauties in the County of Derbyshire (rivaled only by her cousin, Amabel Bingley). Fitzwilliam was a stalwart young man, in appearance resembling his father, concerned with the management of the estate, with horse breeding, and the excitement of the hunt. Ever since he had reached his majority he had been in love with his cousin, Amabel Bingley. The younger son, Henry, was quite different. He was studious, literary, thoughtful, of a slighter build than his brother but strong and active and a skillful wrestler. He was a notable horseman. Juliet, the only girl, loved dancing, parties, and admiration (not necessarily in that order).
Elizabeth’s marriage had prospered. Secure in Mr. Darcy’s love and support, her courage had risen with every attempt by County society to intimidate her. His pride in his “dearest, loveliest Elizabeth” had fortified her against such snobberies and attempted put-downs as came her way, and Mr. Darcy had his own ways of letting such impertinent people know that if they wished to be invited to Pemberley, their behavior towards its mistress must be impeccable. Her own intelligence and sense of humor had helped her to make a success of her life as chatelaine of Pemberley. She loved her husband, her children, and the estate, in that order, and blossomed with the years. She had kept her slender figure, to the envy of Jane, who was beautiful still but, after five children, much fuller in body.
Henry Darcy’s father presented him with a splendid thoroughbred gelding for his twenty-second birthday, celebrated at Oxford, and Henry chose to make his way home on horseback. Riding across country to reach Pemberley, he decided to break his journey and visit his mother’s old home and his Longbourn relations, whom he did not know. He had been only eight when he last stayed there with his grandfather, a crusty old man with an odd sense of humor. Fitz, the high stickler, already at Eton, had thought him eccentric, but young Henry had enjoyed the old man’s company, and spent hours with him in the library, Henry on his stomach on the rug, picking his way through a book of myths, map
s, and monsters, and Mr. Bennet reading Addison, Swift, or John Donne. Henry was sorry when his grandfather died.
Since then the question of visiting Longbourn had never arisen. Henry knew the house had been inherited by a Mr. Collins, a distant relative, whose wife was a dear friend of his mother’s. Mrs. Collins had visited Pemberley on one occasion, without her husband. But this, he thought, was while the Collinses still lived near Cousin Anne at Rosings. Henry vaguely remembered a quiet pleasant woman, dressed in black (had she lost a child? he did not quite remember), not fashionable, with a manner that expected obedience from the young. But no one suggested paying a return visit to Cousin Collins.
It was late afternoon when Henry rode up the driveway at Longbourn. The day was fine, the sun shone low in the sky, a blackbird sang in the shrubbery. As he dismounted at the front door, and looked about for a groom, his eye was caught by the slight figure of a girl in a flounced muslin dress, seated on a swing beneath an oak tree. The dress was of white muslin with blue dots, the full skirt spreading gracefully round her. A book and a tabby cat rested on her knees, but her attention was on him.
A groom arrived and took the reins. Henry walked toward the girl, and bowed.
“Hallo,” she said, looking up at him and smiling. She saw before her a young man, handsome, eager. He was tall and dark, his face thin, his eyes very alive; his mouth, with something sweet in its curve, seemed ready to laugh. He reminded her of one of the miniatures on the wall in her father’s study. Yes, of course. It must be. “You have the look of my cousins, the Darcys. I am Eliza Collins.”
Her voice was clear and musical. Henry met her eyes and found himself unable to look away. He, the Oxford graduate, the self-possessed son of a notable country estate, stumbled in his response to this slip of a girl with laughing gray eyes. How astonishing, he thought, the very great pleasure a pair of fine eyes in the face of a pretty woman can bestow. Henry, in the past year at Oxford, had begun to write poetry; at this moment phrases, luminous phrases, began to stir in his mind.
“I am Henry Darcy,” he admitted. “But we have never met,” he said. “I should surely remember. How can—how do you know the way we look?”
“My father has copies of the miniatures at Rosings of all Lady Catherine de Bourgh’s relatives. They hang in his study.”
A green and yellow caterpillar descended on a silken thread from the oak leaves above. It settled on a muslin sleeve and began to crawl earnestly towards a fair and slender neck. Henry knew exactly how his sister, Juliet, would react to such a visitant. He bent forward.
“Forgive me,” he said. “An intruder.” He carefully picked the caterpillar from Eliza’s sleeve; he wished it were a dragon. She looked quickly down and his hand brushed her cheek. At once he was scarlet.
“Oh, just a caterpillar—an oak moth, I expect. Perhaps we should save it to frighten Catty.”
“C-C-Catty?” stammered Henry.
“My sister,” said Eliza gravely. “They terrify her.”
“They terrify mine, too.”
He pulled himself together, and offered her his arm as she pushed the reluctant cat from her knees, slid from the swing, and stood by his side. The cat wound itself round their legs in a figure of eight, mewed pitifully, and bounded suddenly away across the grass.
“Oh, what a beautiful horse,” said Eliza, as they walked down the drive, and he felt for a brief moment jealous that her attention should wander so easily from him.
“Do you ride? Should you like to try his paces? He is very gentle.”
“Oh yes, please! I should like it of all things. I have a mare, rather old, very quiet. A true lady’s horse, my father says. I have always wished to ride a horse... that was not.”
A small hand clutched his arm, and the gray eyes danced.
“That was not?” Henry was puzzled.
“Not suitable for a lady,” said Eliza.
“My saddle!” Henry was dismayed. “I fear that too is not suitable for a lady!”
“I expect we shall manage very well.”
The groom was still standing at the horse’s head. Henry bent his knee and offered his cupped hand to Eliza as a mounting block. For one giddy moment he felt the pressure of her small foot and the pleasing weight of her form as he tossed her into the saddle. The groom moved away, and Henry walked by Eliza’s side, somewhat gingerly holding her in his saddle (not, of course, a side-saddle), as she rode down the drive. He looked up at her and her eyes (those wide-set gray eyes), alight with pleasure, met his. He wished the moment might never end.
Only now, he thought, had he begun to understand the meaning of life.
Chapter Three
Pemberley
She began to comprehend that he was exactly the man, who,
in disposition and talents, would most suit her.
“But the wife of Mr. Darcy must have such extraordinary
sources of happiness...”
Jane Austen
“My dearest Jane,” said Elizabeth Darcy to her favorite sister. “Love has broken out like the pox!”
“Lizzie! My dear! Such an expression,” said Jane.
Elizabeth blushed. “I blame it all on Fitz. He will use these cant sayings. I am always shocking Mr. Darcy. But in this case I can think of no other way to express it. The romantic attachments of one’s children are a constant distraction. Do not, I beg you, be surprised to hear me exclaim ‘Oh, my poor nerves—have you no compassion for my poor nerves?’”
The sisters were sitting in the conservatory at Pemberley, admiring the gardenias blooming under glass and also, as it was late June and the garden door was open to the warm summer breeze, the riot of cream and yellow roses that cascaded over the outside of the conservatory. The scent was dizzying.
“Here is poor Fitz, head-over-heels in love with your beautiful Amabel, and that is charming; we shall all be so happy if it comes to a betrothal. And Juliet has returned from town quite wild about young Churchill—not the heir, of course, Francis, that would be too much to ask; that would be tame. No, this is Gerard, such a handsome young man, quite delightful in his cavalry uniform. But a younger son and sadly wild—he has no prospects and, so they say, a mountain of debts! I fear he gambles. Most unsuitable! (His mother is an invalid, and his father does nothing to check him.) And Juliet is just at the stage where she declares that first love is all; she can never love again. She swears she will go straight into a decline, if she cannot marry Mr. Churchill—or elope—though with whom I am not sure. And now—my poor Mr. Darcy is quite without words—here is my fledgling, Henry—oh, it seems but a week ago he fell out of an apple tree, stealing pippins, and tore his pantaloons—well, here he is, barely down from Oxford, not even a full London season at his back, declaring himself in love with Eliza Collins!”
“Eliza Collins?”
“Yes, my dear. Charlotte’s youngest daughter, which is pleasant but, oh Jane, also the daughter of Mr. Collins.What is to be done?
“I blame it on the Queen,” Elizabeth went on. “A young Queen on the throne, crowned at eighteen, courted and newly married in the full glare of the public’s eye within two years. It is too much to bear. All of England is aflutter. Blushes, swoons, heartbreak, and decline are all the rage—though perhaps tight-lacing must bear its share of blame!”
“Have you met Eliza Collins? Is she presentable?” Firmly, Jane Bingley brought her sister back to the subject in hand.
“No, not yet. Henry says she is a sprite, a wren, a moss rose. (Did I mention he sits up at night writing poetry? I wonder if he will make a name as a writer, like that poor young Mr. Keats? But not of course die young! But I digress.) From which I gather that she is small and pale.”
“He is not likely to meet her again, if she is not thrown in his way. I doubt if Mr. Collins will give his daughter a London season.”
Elizabeth stood up and stretched, and ran her hands down her body over her nipped-in waist to the gathering at her hips. “Oh, Jane, how I detest the corsets that are
inflicted on us these days! Remember how free we were as girls? To think fashion should demand such a shape from us!
“Henry insists we invite Eliza to Pemberley,” she went on. “Which means of course Charlotte too—I hope I am always glad to see her—but then there’s Mr. Collins! Mr. Darcy turns quite stiff and silent at the mere mention of his name. I hate to think of him exposed to all the parading and obsequious civility—and constant chatter—of Mr. Collins.”
“It would perhaps be as well for Henry to see her in his own surroundings. Perhaps she is gauche? Or pert? ‘Sprite’ can mean so many things. I know,” said Jane. “Why don’t you give a ball? Juliet will be nineteen in August, will she not? And now Henry is down from Oxford, he should be introduced formally to society. Nothing could be more suitable. A month or so’s delay may cool his ardor. And then Henry will see his Eliza among all his friends, and Mr. Collins will be diluted in a river of old acquaintance.”
“My dear Jane!” Elizabeth was impressed. “The very thing! I count on you to help me plan. Now, whom shall we invite? There are a number of young Collinses to be considered. The eldest son,William, is now the vicar of Highbury and is married, I believe, to a Miss Elton, Eugenia Elton. (Charlotte does not like her; she does not say so, but I can read between the lines.)
“And that is yet another reason why it is so important whom one’s children marry!” cried Jane. “It must be most trying for poor Charlotte for, as I recall, William is his father’s favorite and he must often be asking them to stay at Longbourn.”
“Well, at least we need not worry about them. And one of the older girls is engaged, if I remember rightly. How many will come?” This was a worrisome point. One Collins was more than enough for Mr. Darcy; a whole litter (as Elizabeth put it to herself ) might badly discompose him.
The Darcys Give a Ball Page 2
