Elizabeth began to feel that Mr. Collins was really becoming a burden to poor Emma. The lady had wished to help Mr. Collins to his end, not to be put upon in such a manner. Mary was sullen and finally got up and left. They’d heard the pianoforte pounded on shortly thereafter.
If anything were to be done about headaches, Mary’s playing was not the remedy. Mr. Collins might effect a real cure for his trusted advisor if he would only follow Mary into the drawing room and propose. Elizabeth presumed her sister would pause her playing to hear him.
Kitty and Lydia had gone off to town as soon as they could get away, and now Elizabeth, Jane and Emma sat together in the drawing room. Mr. Collins had thought to follow them in, but Elizabeth had hinted that they would converse on subjects only suitable for female ears. He’d not appeared to have the faintest idea of what that meant but seemed suitably frightened by it and went on his way. Elizabeth had then wrested Mary from her instrument and sent her off with a book. With any luck, they would encounter each other in the garden and Mr. Collins would find the courage to speak.
“I am afraid this is an inconvenient house in which to experience a headache, Emma,” Elizabeth said.
“Oh, I am quite recovered, cousin,” Emma said.
Though she claimed recovery, Elizabeth thought Emma seemed rather pale. Her demeanor seemed rather subdued as well.
“I shan’t go to the Mallory’s tonight if you are unwell. I promise you I will not miss going,” Elizabeth said. “I’d rather stay here in front of the fire and have a quiet evening.”
“I will stay with you also,” Jane said.
“Certainly not,” Emma said, recovering some of her spirits. “It is a dinner! A dinner is the most genial thing in the world for conversation and one never knows where a conversation may lead.”
Elizabeth nodded, though she could not claim she was not disappointed. She would rather stay away from the Mallory’s dinner. What good could come from it? Mr. Darcy would be there in all his superior rank, Mr. Bingley had so materially changed, and it would be altogether uncomfortable.
Though, perhaps the inhabitants of Netherfield would not attend. Mr. Darcy would not countenance dining with Mr. Wickham and Elizabeth knew Mr. Wickham had been asked. Perhaps it would be a more pleasant evening than she had been imagining.
They went on quietly for some hours, talking of this or that and attending to their sewing. Quietly, that was, until Kitty and Lydia broke into the room.
Lydia threw herself on a sofa. “They are not coming!”
Elizabeth often found herself wondering what Lydia spoke of, though this statement was particularly cryptic. “Who is not coming?”
“Wickham and Denny,” Kitty cried.
“Were they to visit us this afternoon?” Jane asked.
“Not here,” Lydia said in that tone that made clear she’d just heard a very ridiculous thing spoken. “You know papa has said no officers may come here unless invited by himself. Wickham and Denny are not coming to the Mallory’s dinner.”
“You can guess why,” Kitty said.
“Stupid Mr. Darcy,” Lydia said, in case anybody had failed to guess it.
“If they do not come,” Jane said, “you cannot know the reason. You ought not speculate in such a manner. It is not right to do damage to another’s reputation on account of your own frustration.”
“I do know why, Jane,” Lydia said. “We heard it from Denny and Wickham themselves not an hour ago. Mr. Darcy went to Colonel Forster and made Wickham swear that he wouldn’t go anywhere the Darcys might go. Do you see, Jane? He’s made Wickham an outcast.”
“An outcast,” Kitty said, nodding. “Can you imagine? Poor Mr. Wickham.”
“Wickham said he would not for the world put the Mallorys or anybody else in an uncomfortable position and so he has written excusing himself,” Lydia went on. “Wickham says everybody will find out soon enough what Mr. Darcy is really like and in the meantime, he would acquiesce to his ridiculous demands.”
“It does seem ridiculous,” Kitty said.
“And Denny said he would not go to the dinner in solidarity with his friend and he has written Mrs. Mallory, too. So you see how it is?” Lydia asked. “Mr. Darcy will drive away anybody interesting. Denny and Wickham are throwing their own party in town and we will be fainting with boredom at Stag Hill.”
“I really do not care to faint of boredom,” Kitty said. “I cannot like the idea.”
“I hate him, Lizzy. I really do,” Lydia said.
Elizabeth thought hate a strong word, but how was it that Mr. Darcy, not satisfied that he had damaged Wickham enough, saw fit to drive him from their society? Jane did not entirely trust Mr. Wickham’s account of what had occurred, and Elizabeth had questioned his description of Miss Darcy and the Colonel. But for all that, Mr. Wickham must have been injured by Mr. Darcy. It was a fact that he’d lived at Pemberley and it was a fact that he was now an officer of the regiment and it was a fact that Mr. Darcy avoided him and not the other way round.
It was a most perverse person who could see their way clear to banish one they had wronged. Mr. Darcy should be humiliated to come face to face with his victim. He ought to pack his bags and go, not insist on his superior right to stay.
“I would caution you,” Jane said to Lydia and Kitty, “that you have only heard one side of the situation. Mr. Darcy may well have a different account.”
Emma was pensive. “It is most unaccountable,” she said. “I like both gentlemen exceedingly and cannot imagine either doing wrong. Though, if I were pressed to a judgment, I must come down on the side of Mr. Darcy. He is so like Mr. Knightley that I cannot see how he would have done wrong.”
“Two cold fish, more like,” Lydia said.
“Cold fish?” Emma said in surprise. “Mr. Knightley? A cold fish?”
“Come cousin,” Lydia said, “he is not exactly known for his joking.”
“A failure to be ever joking is no defect of character, Lydia,” Elizabeth said sternly.
Lydia shrugged, as she so often did when she knew she’d taken a thing too far.
The door to the drawing room slammed open for a second time. Mr. Collins marched in with a look of fierce determination. Elizabeth thought his look so full of resolve that she began to hope he’d done it. He’d finally asked Mary. Mrs. Bennet would be delighted, as would they all.
“Miss Woodhouse,” Mr. Collins said.
Emma appeared as a startled deer. “Mr. Collins,” she said hurriedly, “there is no reason to address only me. We are quite a party here.”
“Miss Woodhouse,” Mr. Collins went on, oblivious. “It was my good fortune to recall, having read a novel that outlined it so well, that when a lady rejects a proposal, it is a signal to the gentleman to propose again. In that way, the lady can be assured of the gentleman’s fervor in the matter. I am all fervor, Miss Woodhouse.”
“Mary has rejected you?” Elizabeth said. The words leapt from her before she could stop them. She should not have said it, as it would only cause embarrassment. A proposal rejected was a proposal best left undiscussed. Though, could it be true? Mary had rejected Mr. Collins? Elizabeth would not have predicted it.
She paused. But then, if it were such an embarrassing subject, why was Mr. Collins speaking of it? Could he be so determined in the matter that he sought further advice from Emma? It was a wonder to think of Mary inspiring such fortitude in the clergyman.
Elizabeth did not think Emma up to the task, as her cousin had grown very pale. She very much looked as if her headache had come back.
“I lay my heart before you, Miss Woodhouse,” Mr. Collins said with an elaborate bow. “Should you wish to trample it to dust again, I can assure you, good lady, I will not be turned from my purpose. I will suffer any amount of refusals to call Miss Woodhouse my own.”
Elizabeth dropped her sewing. Mr. Collins had proposed to Emma? Emma Woodhouse and Mr. Collins?
She looked at Jane, whose eyes had gone wide. Then to Emma, who sat
still as a statue.
Kitty and Lydia fell into helpless giggles. Lydia said, “Lordy, Mr. Collins, you’re supposed to marry Mary. You know, the one who bangs on the pianoforte.”
“Why does everybody keep saying that?” Mr. Collins cried.
Emma rose. “Mr. Collins, I informed you of your mistake yesterday. No amount of repetitions of this unfortunate conversation will change the outcome.”
“Naturally,” Mr. Collins said, appearing not quite as decisive as he had when he’d entered the room, “any elegant lady must say so.”
“No,” Emma said slowly, “there is not the slightest reason that any lady must say so unless she means so. And I mean so, Mr. Collins. I mean so, very decidedly. I’ll thank you not to speak to me on this subject again.”
“So you mean to say,” Mr. Collins stuttered, “that you are resolute in the matter? Definitely resolute?”
“Most definitely,” Emma said.
Mr. Collins stood silent and Elizabeth felt that he would wish to extricate himself from the situation but did not see how to do it. Especially not with Kitty and Lydia laughing so hard they had tears in their eyes. She rose.
“Mr. Collins,” Elizabeth said, “perhaps this subject may be closed as I think that all that need be spoken has been spoken. A turn in the garden might be just the thing to recover your equanimity.”
Mr. Collins took one last look at Emma Woodhouse and lumbered from the room. Elizabeth turned to Lydia and Kitty. “Stop this nonsense at once and take yourselves elsewhere,” she said.
Both sisters rose, still laughing. “You might well talk of nonsense in regard to what we just witnessed, Lizzy,” Lydia said. They skipped out of the room together, no doubt heading toward one of their own rooms to laugh the afternoon away.
Elizabeth closed the drawing room door and turned. “Emma?” she asked.
Emma sighed. “You can see for yourself what’s happened. Once again, a gentleman pretends interest in one direction and proposes in another. I really do not know why they go on with such subterfuge, it can benefit nobody.”
Elizabeth crossed the room and led Emma to the sofa. “But cousin, how is it that two gentlemen have proposed without you having the least idea that it would occur?”
“I have pondered that question myself, Lizzy,” Emma said. “Mr. Elton was unaccountable. He made himself appear exceedingly admiring of Harriet and then very suddenly turned his attention. I could not have predicted it.”
“And Mr. Collins?” Jane said softly.
“I was encouraging of Mary, not myself. We spoke of marriage and the necessity of it being the right lady.”
“Did you actually say Mary’s name?” Elizabeth said.
There was a long pause. “I thought I must have, but for the last conversation. He did not give me the time to do so then.” Emma gazed out the window as if the answer to this conundrum might lurk on the drive. Then she said, “Yesterday, he did mention that when I spoke of Mary, he presumed I spoke of myself.”
“Oh, Emma,” Elizabeth said.
“But is that not unaccountable of him?” Emma asked. “Other than that conversation, he could not have mistaken any real interest from me. Only think of all the times I sent Mary in his way! How could he fail to perceive my true interest in the case?”
Elizabeth thought she could very well see how Mr. Collins had deluded himself into thinking that Emma Woodhouse would agree to become his wife. Emma had sought him out so many times, whether with Mary in tow or not. Elizabeth had long ago become convinced that Emma’s matchmaking was not particularly effective, but now she began to wonder if it were not worse than that.
Mr. Collins stormed down the road. He had been humiliated! Worse, he had in his pocket a letter from Lady Catherine, specifically inquiring as to how he got on. He had delayed his answer, assuming he would write the happy news that he was engaged to Miss Woodhouse. Now what was he to say?
He had no intention of proposing to Mary Bennet. He was incredulous over the idea that anybody thought he would. As for Katherine and Lydia Bennet, they were both of them out of the question. The same could be said for Jane and Elizabeth Bennet, though for different reasons. He was rather terrified of Jane Bennet’s beauty and equally terrified that he should never be regarded as the superior person when it came to Elizabeth Bennet—she was too clever by half.
That was all of them! He was charged to marry one of them but none of them would do. The circumstance had not bothered him in the least when he thought he would engage himself to Miss Woodhouse.
What should he do? How could he return to Rosings without the welcome news that Lady Catherine sought from him?
Just then, he came upon the lane that led to Lucas Lodge. Miss Lucas was a welcoming sort of person. Had she not been so kind to him on his arrival? Had she not expressed interest in his opinions? She was the sort of lady that his benefactress would like—quiet and unassuming. As well, she would no doubt look to him for advice and counsel once they were married. She did not put herself forward as overly clever or beautiful. Further, she did not come with a large dowry, which some might find distressing, though he rather thought that fact helped his case. And wouldn’t she wish to be the mistress of Longbourn, able to return to her own neighborhood when the time came?
Mr. Collins stopped, turned, and headed down the lane. He was not the sort of man for whom one small setback amounted to defeat. Miss Lucas would make a fine wife.
Mr. Collins did not find Miss Lucas at home, as Charlotte was just then coming into the drawing room at Longbourn.
Elizabeth knew instantly that some news would be shared. She could not guess what it was, but her friend seemed nearly bursting with it.
Tea had been sent for and brought in, and pleasantries exchanged. Finally, Charlotte said, “I have something rather momentous to tell you.”
Elizabeth waited to hear, more and more wondering over it. Charlotte had reddened and Charlotte Lucas was not at all prone to blushes.
“Mr. Claymore has asked for my hand,” Charlotte said, “and I have accepted.”
Emma clapped her hands. “I knew it would be so!” she cried.
Elizabeth set her cup down. She had not at all known it would be so. The very last person she had envisioned Charlotte engaged to was Mr. Claymore.
“I know what you will say, Lizzy,” Charlotte said. “You will remind me of an earlier opinion of the gentleman that I may have expressed before I knew him well enough to truly have an opinion.”
“I did wonder…” Elizabeth trailed off.
“Emma, Jane,” Charlotte said, “You will be amused to hear that I named the gentleman as too flip by half and not having not enough substance.”
“And now he has enough?” Elizabeth asked. She greatly feared that Charlotte had given in to her own worry over never marrying, or that she had been pressured by Lady Lucas to accept one who could not make her happy.
“He does have enough substance, Lizzy,” Charlotte said, “as he ever has. It was only up to me to recognize it.”
“Tell us how you found it out,” Emma said. “I did think you were well-suited but that was only my own instincts and I had not known of your earlier opinion.”
Charlotte smiled. “Dear Emma made a comment regarding Mr. Claymore to my mother and father as we journeyed to Netherfield’s dinner. I feel silly now, but the following day when they wished to invite him to dine, I did attempt to dissuade them. I did not even think he would accept.”
“But he did accept,” Emma said.
“He did,” Charlotte said, “and has been at Lucas Lodge every day since. I began to think my opinion somewhat wrong during that very first dinner. Yes, he did joke with my father. But he did not keep going with it. He had much to say that was of a more philosophical nature, and I particularly admired his ideas on how to treat tenants. His estate is fully tenanted, him being away so much of the time.”
“How a gentleman treats those who have no power over him must speak to his character,” Jane sa
id.
“He believes that trust is paramount and mistakes are to be forgiven. He has helped out many a tenant who has fallen behind and says that it inspires loyalty, no different from a regiment. I find I agree with his mode of going on,” Charlotte said. “We do agree on most things, perhaps the only quarrel being what sort of dog is suitable to be placed in front of one’s fire—I prefer a dog small and white and he prefers a wolfhound. I suppose we will compromise and take in something of a medium size.”
“And how did Mr. Claymore realize that it must be Charlotte Lucas for him and no other?” Emma asked.
Charlotte blushed furiously. “As it happens, Mr. Claymore had admired me for some time, though he did not feel the return of it. He joked with me, more than most, out of nerves. He felt, and does feel, that my temperament complements his own. I am to be his steady hand, is what he says. When he received the invitation to dine, he thought perhaps there was a warming of regard. As of course, there eventually was.”
“I have wondered, though,” Emma said, “why he does have a commission? Could he not support himself on his estate?”
“He can now,” Charlotte said, “though he could not when he was commissioned. His father left him with a sizable debt to be paid and an uncle offered him the funds for a commission. In taking it, he’s been able to use the estate’s profit and his own salary to pay down the debt. He decided he might as well carry on with it until he was married, and so he will sell his commission and return the money to his uncle after we are wed.”
“Where are you to live?” Elizabeth said. “Where is the estate located? Please do not tell me you should go far away. While I would remain happy for your happiness, I should be very unhappy for myself.”
“The estate is in Kent, near a village called Hunsford,” Charlotte said. “So I am afraid I do go rather far. But Lizzy, you are welcome to come to me whenever you wish.”
Cousin Emma Page 14
