Chapter Eleven
In the startling seconds after she accepted him, Elizabeth hoped for a moment of intimacy with her betrothed—a longing look or perhaps the brush of his fingers against hers. But even that most romantic of occasions, the marriage proposal, could not withstand the dogged persistence of reality.
“Excuse me, Miss!” cried Cook, scrambling past them, red-faced and breathless as she chased a chicken across the front lawn. “Escaped the pen again!”
Biting her lip, Elizabeth glanced up at Darcy who, with a very grave mien, watched Cook launch herself onto the hapless livestock and wrestle it to the ground.
“I do not suppose,” Elizabeth ventured at the sight of his deepening frown, “that chickens escape their pens at Pemberley?”
This quip earned her a quirk of his lips—but nothing like the unabashed smiles she had received before their engagement.
“We should speak with your parents,” he said, glancing back at the house with—was it anxiety or regret?
Elizabeth grimaced at the turn of her thoughts; she refused to spend the rest of her life questioning this decision. He had proposed of his own will, had he not? She had given him ample opportunity to escape, had she not?
Still, she looked up at him for some sign of assurance. Instead, she saw only his back as he turned toward the front entrance. Sighing, she made to follow him but halted when Cook came running past again.
“Got him, Miss!” she declared, holding the chicken by its limp, broken neck.
Though she did not consider herself superstitious, Elizabeth could not help but think that this was an inauspicious beginning to her engagement.
Her mother’s appearance at the door only confirmed her growing sense of dread.
“As I am certain my daughter explained,” Mrs. Bennet said, arms crossed as she stood in the doorway, “Mr. Bennet cannot possibly speak with you now.”
“Mrs. Bennet…”
“Mother, please, you do not understand—”
“Did I not tell you to make certain that he did not interfere?” Mrs. Bennet whispered, as if Mr. Darcy were not standing next to her.
“Mrs. Bennet,” Darcy said again, his voice brusque, “let me be the first to congratulate you on the engagement of your eldest daughter to my good friend. I am certain they will be very happy together.”
Elizabeth thought he had succeeded in delivering the coldest congratulations she had ever been privileged to hear.
“Well,” said Mrs. Bennet, unable to say anything else. “Well…”
“Now may I speak with Mr. Bennet?”
“Well,” she said again, this time standing aside so that he could enter the house. “Sarah!”
Mr. Darcy folded his hands behind his back and stared straight ahead as the maid hurried into the entrance hall. Elizabeth tried to catch his eye, but he refused to look at her as he handed over his hat and followed Sarah to Mr. Bennet’s study.
“Well!” Mrs. Bennet exclaimed again, even before they had disappeared from sight. “I hardly know what that was about! What could he have to say to your father if he does not mean to separate Jane and Mr. Bingley? He is a very strange and rude young man.”
Taking a deep breath, Elizabeth began, “Mama, that is not fair. He is a very good—”
Her mother’s eyes narrowed. “Mr. Wickham has as good as called him a liar. Mr. Darcy did not mean a word of what he just said to me, did he? Oh, he is going to break apart Jane and—”
Elizabeth grabbed hold of her mother’s arm before she could race down the corridor. “Listen to me, Mother. You are not to say another word against him.”
Mrs. Bennet’s mouth fell open. “What do you mean by—”
“He is not a liar,” Elizabeth interjected quickly, “and he has no intentions of breaking apart Mr. Bingley and Jane, as if he had the power to do so in the first place!”
“Of course he has the power! He is a very wealthy man! He is likely telling your father, at this very moment, that Bingley is engaged to his sister, or some such nonsense. I have heard the way Miss Bingley talks about that scheming sister of his—”
“Mother! For goodness sake! He is asking Papa for permission to marry me!”
She waited for the shriek of exaltation, for the fierce embrace of a mother whose fondest wish—a rich son-in-law—had been fulfilled. But there was no embrace, no shriek—not even a whisper of “Ten thousand pounds!”
Instead, her mother’s lips trembled, and her eyes filled with tears.
If Elizabeth had any hope that these tears were the product of uncontrollable joy, that hope disappeared when her mother finally uttered, “This is all my fault!”
“But Mama—”
Taking her daughter by the shoulders, Mrs. Bennet declared, “There is still time to stop this!”
“What?”
“Mr. Collins may still have you. Yes, he may still have you. If I were you, I would go to him immediately and—”
“Mama! Perhaps you did not understand me. I have accepted Mr. Darcy!”
“Mr. Darcy—oh, what could he want with you? This must be a terrible joke that he means to play—”
“I thought you, of all people, would be happy!”
“Oh, this is all my fault!” Mrs. Bennet cried again. “When I said that I would not speak with you over Mr. Collins, I did not really mean it, child! You feel so guilty about your refusal of him that you have accepted this horrid man instead. Well, I forbid you to marry him, Lizzy! There, now you will be able to refuse him without shame.”
Elizabeth closed her eyes. Her mother was supposed to have been the easiest to convince.
“Why would I want you to marry Mr. Darcy?” her mother continued. “I am no mercenary! Mr. Collins is respectable and will treat you with kindness. Mr. Darcy has been nothing but cruel—oh, what could all of this mean? You have hardly spoken five words with him, and he is engaged to Miss de Bourgh!” Mrs. Bennet dabbed at her eyes before adding the worst of the accusations: “And he slighted you at the Meryton assembly!”
“Mother, I…” Love him. Simple enough words, and true words, too, but Elizabeth found herself unable to speak them. She had been so certain that her mother would accept any marriage (and particularly one to a wealthy gentleman) that she was wholly unprepared to explain herself.
“Oh, my poor Lizzy, come sit with me,” Mrs. Bennet said, steering her daughter toward the parlor, “and we will sort this mess out.”
The parlor, however, was already occupied. Elizabeth found her sisters attempting, with various degrees of success, to ignore Mr. Collins as he read to them from a book of sermons.
“The Lord,” he intoned without glancing at the newest members of his audience, “calls on each of us to be dutiful to our parents.”
Had she thought him a clever man, Elizabeth would have suspected him of reading that passage to spite her. As it was, she supposed that Mr. Collins’s speech, not to mention his mere presence, was just another manifestation of God’s perverse sense of humor.
“Thank goodness you are here, Mr. Collins,” Mrs. Bennet said.
Frowning, Mr. Collins rose from his seat and bowed. “Madam, I was waiting to speak with you. I have been invited to Lucas Lodge for dinner. I was waiting only for an opportunity to take my leave of you.”
“God is merciful, after all!” Lydia said from the sofa, where she and Kitty were sewing new ribbons onto old bonnets.
“Lydia,” Jane scolded without conviction from the writing table.
“Lucas Lodge? Take your leave?” Mrs. Bennet asked. “Mr. Collins, there is no need of that, I assure you!”
“Though you are family, I find it best to behave with the utmost formality, for I would not wish to wrong you as I have been wronged. As Lady Catherine de Bourgh has often been known to say, charity begins at home.”
“It is charitable to respond with goodwill to a wrong,” Mary mused, glancing up from her embroidery, “but is it necessarily wrong for a young woman to refuse a proposal of marriage?
”
Elizabeth looked at her younger sister with gratitude; her mother’s gaze contained an altogether different kind of emotion.
“It is indeed wrong,” Mr. Collins replied, “for it shows a lack of good sense.”
Lydia was the first to giggle, and what Lydia did, Kitty could not help but imitate. Mary, as a rule, never giggled, but her sudden coughing fit sounded more exuberant than sickly. Even Jane could not help but smile.
“It is clear, Mrs. Bennet, that I was quite wrong to think your daughters were the kind of gentlewomen Lady Catherine might find appropriate!”
“Mr. Collins, do not leave us!” the matron cried, hurrying after him as he stormed from the parlor. “You must marry Eliza…oh! He is gone, he is gone!” Mrs. Bennet came back into the room, her eyes flashing. “Well, now you have done it, Miss Lizzy! Now you will have no choice but to marry that horrible Mr. Darcy!”
The girls’ laughter came to an abrupt stop.
“Mr. Darcy?” Jane asked, putting down her pen. “Lizzy, do you mean to say that he has proposed to you? But when?”
Like so many other questions about her relationship with Darcy, Elizabeth found this simple inquiry difficult to answer. Both potential replies—last night in Netherfield’s music room and this afternoon on the front lawn—seemed too ridiculous to speak aloud. Yet, she could not help but smile a little when she thought of both instances.
“Oh, Mama, Lizzy is fooling you,” Kitty said. “Do you not see how she smiles?”
“I am not fooling anyone,” Elizabeth replied. “Mr. Darcy is speaking with Papa at this very moment.”
“You cannot possibly marry that horrible man!” Lydia jumped to her feet. “Mr. Wickham has said—”
“Mr. Wickham is not to be trusted.”
“Mr. Wickham is one of the best men of our acquaintance!” Lydia retorted. “Is he not, Kitty? Why, Mr. Denny has said—”
“Indeed he is!” Mrs. Bennet exclaimed before Kitty could speak or Lydia could finish. “I told your sister that Mr. Darcy is a cruel, dishonest man.”
Elizabeth felt the blood rush to her face. “And I tell you now that you do not know Mr. Darcy!”
Jane went to Elizabeth and put an arm about her shoulders. “I have no doubt that Lizzy can explain what is certainly just a misunderstanding.”
Elizabeth should have been grateful for Jane’s kindness, but as her serene older sister urged her into the nearest chair, she felt an irrational surge of anger. Jane did not have to explain her feelings for Mr. Bingley. A few dances, a few smiles, and everyone accepted that they were in love.
Even as Elizabeth rebelled against the notion that her feelings required explanation, she wanted nothing more than to defend Darcy, to describe in great detail how he had helped her carry the burden of her father’s secret, how he had struggled against the wrong-doing of Mr. Wickham and the lack of faith shown by his own family.
Instead, she said only, “I care deeply for Mr. Darcy, and I have accepted his proposal.”
“Surely you can understand our concern,” Jane said before any of the others could express their displeasure with Elizabeth’s evasiveness. “I do not think Mr. Darcy is a cruel man, but—”
“Well, he is,” Lydia interrupted.
“But,” Jane continued, taking Elizabeth’s hand, “you know so little of him.”
Elizabeth pulled her fingers from her sister’s grasp. “And what do you know of Mr. Bingley?”
Jane’s lips parted but issued no words.
Mrs. Bennet had words enough for all of them. “You cannot mean to suggest that Mr. Bingley is not what he seems!”
“No, of course not,” Elizabeth said, closing her eyes briefly. “I only meant—”
“You only meant,” her mother cut in, “to hurt your sister and insult your future brother! You see, that man has affected you already!”
She could not help but smile a little at that, the only accurate statement her mother had ever made regarding Mr. Darcy. Her smile slipped, though, when she caught sight of Jane’s frown.
“I only meant,” Elizabeth tried again, meeting Jane’s eyes, “that I feel as much for Mr. Darcy as you must feel for Mr. Bingley. What have you and Mr. Bingley discussed that allowed you to come to your understanding?”
Her sister’s frown deepened. “I…it was no single conversation, Lizzy. I knew from the moment I met him that he was just what a young man ought to be: sensible, good-humored, and lively. With each meeting, he has proven my estimation of him to be accurate.”
“And that is just as it should be!” Mrs. Bennet said. “It is precisely how I felt about your father.”
“Mama! It was only this morning that you said—” Elizabeth began.
“Perhaps I did not appreciate all of your father’s good qualities when we married, but I did not doubt his essential goodness. It was a very good match, and—”
“Just as I do no doubt Mr. Darcy’s essential goodness!” Elizabeth retorted. “As for good matches, I cannot believe that I must remind you of Mr. Darcy’s material advantages!”
Mrs. Bennet scowled. “What good are all of his fine things if he is engaged to another woman? Have you forgotten Miss de Bourgh? I will not have you party to a scandal. Think of how such a thing would harm your sisters’ prospects!”
“Mr. Wickham says they are as good as married,” Lydia added. “Even Mr. Collins says so.”
“Mr. Collins has been misinformed,” Elizabeth said, “and Mr. Wickham is lying.”
“Lying!” Lydia scoffed. “How unfair of you to accuse him such without any evidence at all!”
“My claim is no different from the accusation you have thrown at Mr. Darcy. What evidence have you?”
“Mr. Wickham’s good word, of course! What evidence have you?” Lydia countered.
Elizabeth threw up her hands. “Neither of us will be able to convince the other.”
“If neither of you has proof,” Mary said, “then we can only judge based on each man’s character.”
“Mary is, for once, entirely correct!” Lydia said. “It is clear that Mr. Wickham is the better of the two men. He has never said a cross word to anyone in his life!”
“Tell me, Lydia, is it better to speak the truth with severity or to lie pleasantly? I cannot believe that you, of all people, would value politeness over sincerity!”
“Lydia, Lizzy!” Jane pleaded. “May we not discuss this in a kindlier fashion? Lizzy, you must concede that Mr. Wickham has, on the whole, behaved with more warmth toward us than Mr. Darcy. And Lydia, you must admit that—”
“There is your proof, Lizzy!” Kitty interrupted. “If Jane does not like Mr. Darcy, then he must be terrible, for Jane holds everyone in high esteem!”
“I did not say that I do not like him,” Jane corrected. “He is Mr. Bingley’s friend, so he must have something to recommend him.”
They all looked to Elizabeth, as if waiting for her to explain just what that something might be.
“He has more than Mr. Bingley’s approval to recommend him,” she snapped. “He has mine. That should be enough.”
From the looks on their faces—Lydia’s hostility, Kitty’s bewilderment, Mary’s censure, Jane’s concern, and her mother’s distress—Elizabeth knew that, no matter how much she might wish it, her good opinion alone would not be enough to convince them.
*
After sitting for three quarters of an hour with three sullen females (Jane did not know how to be sullen and Lydia, the most sullen of all, had stormed out of the room some time ago), Elizabeth put aside the book that she had been pretending to read.
“Where do you think you are going?” Mrs. Bennet demanded, looking up from her needlework just as Elizabeth stood.
“For a walk.”
“Now?” Mrs. Bennet glared. “You cannot go now!”
“I am certain, Lizzy,” Jane said, attempting a smile, “that they will be finished any minute now.”
Jane had offered the same words of comfort after a
quarter and a half hour of waiting, as well.
“Well, I hope Papa refuses him,” Kitty said, just as she had said after each of Jane’s earlier assurances.
Elizabeth closed her eyes, waiting for Mary’s “What will be will be.”
“What will be will be,” Mary said.
Elizabeth began to laugh; even to her own ears, the sound had a desperate, panicked quality to it.
“Your sister,” Mrs. Bennet announced, “is clearly mad. First, accepting that man, now this.” She sighed. “Well, there is not much we can do about it anymore. This is a woman’s lot, to deal with all of our misfortunes with good grace and tranquillity.”
Elizabeth’s laughter grew louder (and more desperate).
“Do calm yourself, Lizzy! He may come at this very moment, hear such raucous laughter, and decide that he is better off without you!”
“I thought you did not want her to marry him,” Mary said.
“Well, of course not! But I also do not want him refusing her!”
By this point, Elizabeth was having a difficult time catching her breath.
Then there was a knock at the parlor door, and she fell silent. Her mother and sisters stopped what they were doing and stared at the door.
When it creaked open, Elizabeth felt her mouth go dry.
“Excuse me, Ma’am,” Hill said, coming into the room.
Elizabeth collapsed into her chair and put her head in her hands.
“For goodness sake, Hill, what is it?” Mrs. Bennet demanded.
The housekeeper frowned and crossed her arms. “Beggin’ your pardon, Ma’am, but I only wanted to go over this evening’s menu with you. If now isn’t a good time—”
“Oh, very well,” the lady of the house replied, softening her tone. “You must understand, Hill, that these are very trying times!”
Hill looked unconvinced but knew better than to say what she thought. “We have, of course, the fresh chicken—”
Elizabeth, who thought she really must be going mad, snorted into her hands.
“Pay her no mind, Hill,” Mrs. Bennet said. “She has had an attack of the nerves.”
This Disconcerting Happiness: A Pride and Prejudice Variation Page 13
