Cousin Emma

by Perpetua Langley

  Emma caught Elizabeth’s eye from across the table. She nodded knowingly, as if she had witnessed a thing that did not surprise her. Could Emma have been right? Could Mr. Bingley have feigned interest in Jane all along?

  No. It could not be. As dear as Emma Woodhouse was to her, Elizabeth had become convinced that Emma had no more skill at matchmaking than a small child faced with a chessboard.

  And yet, how to account for Mr. Bingley’s very much changed attitude? It was not, as Emma claimed, that Mr. Bingley had secretly harbored an attachment to Elizabeth Bennet. She felt no such undercurrent. She did notice, however, that Mr. Bingley had seemed uncomfortable in speaking with her. What had been easy was now awkward.

  Elizabeth could not account for it at all.

  Darcy, the Colonel and Georgiana had a quiet dinner, hastily thrown together by a cook who’d been under the impression that they’d dine elsewhere that evening. Darcy had comforted his sister through her initial shock at apprehending George Wickham in the Bennet’s drawing room. She had been silent and shaken in the carriage, but now seemed to have recovered some of her usual spirit.

  It was his plan that they depart for London in the morning. He would install Georgiana in his house in town and she might shop and visit those acquaintances she did not see often enough. He would work to ensure that her days were filled with amusements, lest she have too much time to brood on the encounter.

  They would leave this neighborhood and all its unpleasantness behind. And truthfully, he had never been anywhere more unpleasant.

  “We might leave directly after breakfast,” Darcy said. “I will tell Bingley I prefer to have my London man examine you to ensure that there is nothing seriously amiss. He will not question it.”

  “Brother,” Georgiana said, “I am not ill and there is no reason we should say that I am. We need not go anywhere, to my mind. I do not like to be driven from a place on account of…”

  Georgiana did not finish her sentence. Darcy stared at her in some amazement. He had thought she would be eager to depart once he had presented the idea. Six months ago, she would have looked to him for direction and not questioned whatever he thought right. He supposed she was growing into a woman and gaining confidence in her own opinions. Though, this particular opinion he could not agree with.

  “I’m of a mind to agree with Georgiana,” the Colonel said. “I do not like to think of us running off, tail between legs, as if we are the guilty party. Wickham will not be admitted to this house, and we will not go anywhere he is admitted. Certainly, we might make inquiries into any invitation we receive and proceed accordingly.”

  Darcy tented his fingers. “Bingley has already accepted two other invitations on our behalf—Lucas Lodge and the Mallorys. Were we to stay, we would have to discover who they have invited if we are to think of attending either of those dinners.”

  “There will be no practical way of avoiding Wickham unless you put it about that it is he you wish to avoid,” the Colonel said. “There would be no reason to tell the whole of it, it will be enough to say that he was known to your family and there was an estrangement. Wickham will not say the truth of the matter—it would do his reputation no good and he knows you would shoot him at dawn if he did.”

  “And there would be no future funds,” Darcy said drily. “As it happens, there will not be, but I suspect he does not believe that. I told him, after purchasing his commission, that he need not return for more, but he is so reckless that I suspect he might try it. He will want to keep that option open.”

  “I say, we stand tall in the face of that scoundrel,” the Colonel said. “If Georgiana had been more affected, I might assent to leaving. But Darcy, regard your sister. She is grown and no longer a child. She has a woman’s courage about her.”

  Georgiana beamed at this assessment. “It is true, brother. I am not the china doll I once was. George ought to make it his business to avoid us, not the other way round.”

  “If you are both resolute on the matter, I will acquiesce,” Darcy said. He suddenly set his cup down. “I know what I shall do. There is no reason to investigate every invitation and make it known that there has been something between our family and Wickham, it will only lead to ridiculous speculation. I shall visit Wickham and make him see that it is he that needs to absent himself from any invitation that might include us. He will do it, as if he does not he will not see his way clear to approaching me for money at some future date.”

  “There now,” Georgiana said, “I knew it could be settled some way. Here we are, in this pleasant countryside, and I should like to enjoy it. You do not suppose Charles would consent to giving a ball? Remember, both of you agreed that I might attend a ball if it were held in a respectable country house by people well known to us.”

  Darcy and Fitzwilliam looked at each other ruefully. “We did say that, did we not?” the Colonel said.

  “We did,” Darcy said reluctantly. As much as he wished to keep his sister a child and safely tucked away at Pemberley under the watchful eye of Mrs. Annesley, it seemed she would insist on growing up.

  “I will ask him about it,” Georgiana said cheerfully. “And, on the morrow, I will call on the Bennets to express my regret over leaving so precipitously this evening. I am quite looking forward to speaking with ladies near my own age.”

  “On the morrow,” Darcy said, “I will make a visit to the regiment.”

  “I will accompany you, Darcy,” the Colonel said, “if you wish it.”

  “No, let me go alone. No offense, Fitz, but officers strike me as a gossiping sort of group. The visit will be reported and I do not wish it to be said that we descended upon him in force.”

  The Colonel laughed at this description but did not dispute it. “Very well,” he said, “then I have a mind to accompany Georgiana to the Bennets. Though I was not long in that drawing room, I did spy a very pretty brunette that I hope belongs to that house.”

  Despite the fact that the Darcy family had not stayed to dine, the dinner had come off to Mrs. Bennet’s satisfaction. She had rearranged the seating into something creditable, at least more so than she had seen at Netherfield, and her peas were universally acknowledged as a triumph. Universally a triumph, that was, if one were to discount any thundering looks from Lady Lucas.

  In the drawing room, Emma served tea to Mr. Collins. Mary, who would usually be found attacking the pianoforte, had given it over to Elizabeth and sat demurely across the room, cup in hand.

  Emma had maneuvered the little scene and now she was prepared to start Mr. Collins rolling down the hill toward Mary Bennet.

  “Mr. Collins,” Emma said, “I have been informed that you wish to marry.”

  Mr. Collins nodded gravely, as if Miss Woodhouse had been informed that he wished to throw himself over the Dover cliffs.

  “It is a fine thing, marriage,” Emma said.

  “You view it so, Miss Woodhouse?” Mr. Collins asked with a look of sudden interest.

  “Oh, of course,” Emma said. “There can be no higher a satisfaction than marital felicity. Except, perhaps, marital felicity when one’s partner guides a flock according to the word of God.”

  Emma could not claim to believe much of that statement, as she was quite happy to remain the unmarried mistress of Hartfield, and her local man of God, Mr. Elton, was not exactly in her good books. However, whatever small fibs she said now were in service to the greater good of securing a husband for Mary Bennet.

  “Indeed!” Mr. Collins said with real enthusiasm. “I have often had those precise thoughts myself.”

  “To my mind,” Emma said, “there can be no higher calling than the clergy and a gentleman who has dedicated his life to such must be dearly valued.”

  “Dearly valued,” Mr. Collins said softly.

  “Of course, that clergyman’s marriage must be to the right lady,” Emma said, glancing at Mary.

  “Naturally it must be the right lady!” Mr. Collins said nodding.

  “As to who that
lady might be,” Emma said enigmatically. “Well, I am sure I should not say…”

  Emma sat back, satisfied that Mr. Collins would shortly press her on who that lady might be. It would be the work of a moment to begin him thinking of Mary.

  Mr. Collins had reddened to such a degree that Emma found him very like a fall apple.

  “Say no more, Miss Woodhouse,” Mr. Collins said, wiping his brow with a handkerchief. “Say no more. I understand you perfectly.”

  Emma looked with some confusion on Mr. Collins. Why did he not press her to reveal the name? What did he think he understood?

  “Emma,” Lydia called from the grouping of chairs near the fire. “Come and join us, Wickham has just told us a very good joke.”

  Mr. Collins nodded indulgently. “Go, my good lady. All has been understood.”

  Emma rose reluctantly. She could not fathom what Mr. Collins understood, but she did not think he understood that he ought to marry Mary Bennet. She supposed she should not be daunted by the setback; she had always thought the disposition of Mary Bennet would not be easy.

  As some of the guests conversed and some were at cards, Elizabeth played the pianoforte softly, having chosen a quiet piece of music suited for conversation, rather than dancing. Jane sat with her, turning the pages.

  Elizabeth did not know what to say to her sister. She had been so encouraging about Mr. Bingley in the face of Emma’s discouragement. But then, Mr. Bingley seemed to have changed and she could not account for it. It was not only his remark at dinner, but even now he’d made no effort to speak with Jane.

  While in Netherfield’s drawing room, Mr. Bingley had doggedly paid her attention to the exclusion of all others. Now, he sat with Mr. Bennet discussing coveys. Jane could not fail to note it.

  “Lizzy,” Jane said, “Mr. Wickham went out of his way to discuss Mr. Darcy over dinner. I am sorry to say it struck me as somehow false.”

  Elizabeth was surprised by the direction of the conversation, but vastly relieved that Mr. Bingley was not to be the subject of it.

  “False?” she said. “Mr. Wickham?”

  “Yes,” she said. “He was so determined to paint Mr. Darcy in such a light that it did not seem credible. Not to my ears, anyway.”

  “And what did he say, in particular?” Elizabeth asked, eager to hear the story.

  “He said Mr. Darcy’s father was exceedingly fond of him and promised him a living. A very good parish, I was made to understand. And then, upon old Mr. Darcy’s death, Mr. Darcy refused to give it to him. Mr. Wickham even said that Mr. Darcy found joy in disappointing him.”

  “And that was how Mr. Wickham’s life was irrevocably altered,” Elizabeth said softly.

  “Lizzy, it is a serious charge against Mr. Darcy’s character. I know you do not like him, but even you will admit it is not likely that a gentleman would do such a thing.”

  “I might agree with you,” Elizabeth said, “were it not what we witnessed with our own eyes. It was not Mr. Wickham who fled from Mr. Darcy. It was Mr. Darcy who fled from Mr. Wickham. What other cause could there be, other than Mr. Darcy knew himself to be in the wrong?”

  “I am sure I do not know,” Jane admitted. “Though I would only caution you about Mr. Wickham. There was something lacking veracity in his words. Some over eagerness to convince and revealing too much to a new acquaintance, perhaps.”

  “I will heed you, Jane,” Elizabeth said, “if only because you do so rarely question another’s sincerity. I suspect you will find yourself mistaken, but you have put me on my guard.”

  Mr. Collins sat alone with his teacup, grateful to be left to his thoughts. Conversations swirled around him, including raucous laughing from the corner where the officers of the regiment held court. As he watched Miss Lydia Bennet and Miss Katherine Bennet join in on the joking, he could only shudder at the idea of presenting one of those ladies to Lady Catherine’s scrutiny. Never had such loud carrying on occurred in Rosings’ drawing room.

  But Miss Woodhouse! Now that was another matter. Never in his dreams had he imagined a lady such as Miss Woodhouse would bestow her favor upon him.

  She was an heiress! And pretty! Only think what her fortune and his inheritance could amount to. Perhaps that is what she saw herself. Having Longbourn, they would be among the leading figures of the neighborhood. And, until such time that Mr. Bennet were to join his heavenly father, Miss Woodhouse would make a fine clergyman’s wife.

  He paused. It was true that what had been discussed with Lady Catherine, and the Bennets themselves, was that he would consider marrying one of the Bennet daughters.

  Well, he had considered it. He was certain Lady Catherine would approve of his amending the plan in favor of Miss Woodhouse.

  How extraordinary that the lady had seen fit to alert him to her interest. He’d no idea such things were done. He reminded himself that, learned as he was, what went on in females’ minds remained somewhat of a mystery. He was grateful to discover that such hints were a done thing, else he’d not have dreamed of having a chance in that direction.

  As it was, the lady had practically spelled out her wishes. She esteemed him, dearly valued was the phrase she’d used. What a ninny he was, failing to notice how often she would speak to him. The dear lady would use Mary Bennet as a ruse to invent conversation. In hindsight, he could almost laugh at his lack of perception in the matter. How charming that Miss Woodhouse would find herself so awkwardly approaching him with the excuse of Mary Bennet’s hair!

  Miss Woodhouse could not have made herself more clear. She wished to receive a proposal.

  Never fear, Miss Woodhouse. William Collins will not leave you waiting long.

  As was his usual habit, Darcy had poured himself a brandy in his bedchamber. Perhaps what was not his usual habit was he’d drained it and poured himself a second. He would not admit it to Fitzwilliam or Georgiana, but he’d been shaken to see Wickham standing in the Bennet’s drawing room. Standing there, as if he were to be welcome anywhere polite society gathered.

  Wickham, who should be on a convict ship to Australia if there was any justice in the world. How had the scoundrel managed to ingratiate himself to the Bennets?

  Darcy paused. He knew perfectly well how. The officers of the regiment had been accepted everywhere in the neighborhood, no doubt due to the respectability of Colonel Forster. Wickham would have made himself agreeable to the younger sisters. And, it appeared, even Elizabeth Bennet.

  He wondered if Miss Bennet knew there was any connection between himself and Wickham. If she did, it would be nothing to his benefit. The lady already thought poorly of him, Wickham would only seize on that opinion and harden it.

  Though, truly, why should he care for the good opinion of Elizabeth Bennet? Why did it continue to bother him? She was a thorn in his side. Could it really be that it simply bothered him when anybody at all, even those of little consequence to him, should think badly of him?

  He paused. In truth, there had been others who had not thought much of him. There had been that silly Miss Welton, who he’d not given another thought to until Fitzwilliam had mentioned her. It hadn’t caused him a moment of distress to understand that Miss Welton held him in such low esteem.

  There had even been the lady he’d taken to supper the year before at Mrs. Melbourne’s ball. The woman had dropped such heavy hints about marriage that he’d feigned an emergency and left. She’d spoken of his rudeness all over London and he couldn’t even remember her name.

  So what was it about Elizabeth Bennet? It struck him that hers was a name he would not soon forget. Hers was a condemnation he could not dismiss.

  He could not deny that he had not liked to hear Fitzwilliam speak of the pretty brunette he’d noticed in the Bennet’s drawing room. He had been certain his cousin spoke of Elizabeth Bennet. Who else could he have spoken of? Both Miss Jane Bennet and Miss Woodhouse had light hair. The only other brunette would be unlikely to attract his cousin’s notice, Miss Mallory was too silly. Miss Ben
net, though, had that liveliness that must strike any man.

  Darcy supposed Fitzwilliam would make a good impression on Miss Bennet, as he made a good impression everywhere. He had those easy manners the ladies were so fond of. Those easy manners that he, himself, did not possess. Those easy manners that Wickham seemed to have been born with.

  Darcy had a very sudden wish that he might arrive at Netherfield anew. That he might begin again. That he might not have said certain things, and that he might have replaced them with other more pleasant things. That Miss Elizabeth Bennet might think more highly of him than she ever would.

  He finished his brandy and set down the glass. He was being very stupid, and he ought to go to bed.

  After their guests had departed and the family gone above stairs, Elizabeth and Jane sat together in front of the fire in Jane’s bedchamber. Emma had taken herself off to continue, as she called it, ‘managing Mary.’ The sisters sat together in silence for some time, Elizabeth stealing glances at her sister.

  Finally, Jane said, “Lizzy, there is no cause for looking at me as if I am an injured fawn found alone in a wood.”

  They had been so in tune with each other all their lives that there was no need to state the subject of the conversation. They both knew they must speak of Mr. Bingley.

  “Are you not injured, though?” Elizabeth said. “I cannot account for his behavior, I really cannot.”

  “I can account for it very well,” Jane said. “Emma was right in her thinking. Mr. Bingley felt comfortable speaking to me as he had no real interest. I suspect that he began to worry that perhaps he led me to think more of it. Or even perhaps he was warned by his friends that he did so.”

  “I do not think that can be the case, though I am not certain what it is I do think,” Elizabeth said. “Mr. Bingley expressed real interest in you, Jane. I cannot account for his sudden turn. And it is not only to you that he has changed. Our conversation over dinner was stilted and short—not at all what it had been.”