Darcy and Elizabeth

by Maria Grace

  “You too, Mr. Collins, for you are part of the family, to be sure.” Mama waved him toward the table.

  He edged in between Jane and Elizabeth.

  Of course, where else might he stand?

  Elizabeth sidled over to make room for him, nearly treading on Mary’s toes in the process. Poor Mary looked so dejected. If only they might switch places, but Mama would no doubt cause such a scene if they did.

  “Now, Mr. Collins has it been the habit of your family to make a Christmas pudding?” Mama asked.

  “This is the first time I have experienced this most charming and agreeable custom, madam. To be sure, the Christmas puddings at Rosings Park—”

  “Well then, I shall tell you how we do it. There is a great bowl there, and you each have the ingredients beside you. You, sir, have the flour. Add it to the bowl and then pass it east to west.”

  “Clockwise,” Papa whispered loudly.

  Apparently, he thought little of Mr. Collins’s sense of direction. Probably for good reason.

  “Yes, yes like that. Give the bowl to Jane now.”

  She added a pile of minced suet and passed it to Kitty. Kitty and Lydia added dried fruits and nuts and passed it into Papa’s hands for the bread crumbs and milk.

  Mama poured in the brandy soaked citron and spices. “And that makes eleven ingredients. We have two more now, thirteen for Christ and the apostles.”

  Mary added the eggs and slid the heavy vessel to Elizabeth.

  “How fitting for you to add the final sweetness, Cousin Elizabeth.”

  Elizabeth nearly spilled the sugar.

  Mama glowered at her, but quickly recovered her composure and handed Mr. Collins the wooden spoon. “To remind us of the Christ child’s crib. Now stir it east to—clockwise—with your eyes closed sir. And make a wish.”

  Mr. Collins steadied the bowl and grasped the spoon. “I shall wish for—”

  “No, sir,” Elizabeth forced herself not to roll her eyes. Unfortunately, Mama would never notice what she had not done. “Your wish must be made in silence.”

  Mama glowered again. Little matter though. Elizabeth had no desire to hear Mr. Collins’s wish. His expression said too much as it was.

  The bowl passed around the table. Some wishes were easy to guess.

  Mary wished to be noticed by Mr. Collins. Kitty and Lydia wished to be noticed by anyone but Mr. Collins. Mama doubtless wished Mr. Collins to marry one of her girls, preferably Elizabeth. Jane, of course, wished for Mr. Bingley. But Papa’s wish remained a mystery. What would he want?

  The cold, heavy bowl passed to her. The rough wooden spoon scraped at her fingers. What to wish for? She closed her eyes and forced the spoon through the heavy batter. To marry for love. I wish to marry for love.

  “Do not dawdle so, Lizzy. We must add the charms now. Here one for each of you.” Mamma passed a charm to each sister and Mr. Collins. “Add your charm to the pudding and stir it again.”

  Mama shoved the bowl toward Mary. “You start.”

  Mary gulped. “I have the thimble—”

  “How fitting. Spinsterhood!” Lydia snickered.

  “It is for thrift.” Jane’s tone was as firm as it ever got, a veritable rebuke.

  “For thrift, then.” Mary tossed it in and quickly worked it into the batter.

  “I wonder which of us shall travel.” Lydia tossed a tiny shoe charm into the pudding.

  “And which shall find safe harbor?” Kitty followed with an anchor and held the bowl while Lydia folded them in.

  Jane added the coin and Elizabeth the horse shoe. Jane held whilst Elizabeth stirred.

  “And you Mr. Collins?” Mama blinked, but her expression was far from innocent.

  “It seems I have the ring.” He dropped it into the pudding, eyes on Elizabeth.

  “How very auspicious. Did you know, I added that same charm to a Christmas pudding the year of my betrothal to Mr. Bennet?”

  “Traditions says—and I would hardly count it accurate—that the finder of the ring will wed, not the one who dropped it in the pudding,” Papa muttered.

  Did Mama rebuke him for rolling his eyes the way she had Elizabeth?

  “Well that may be, Mr. Bennet, it might be. But, I can speak to what happened for me. I believe it may well have significance for others among us.” Mama fluttered her eyes at Mr. Collins.

  Mr. Collins smiled his cloying smile and edged a little closer to Elizabeth.

  Papa huffed softly. “Let us hope that something with greater sense than a pudding prevails over such decisions, shall we now? So then, give me the buttered cloth and the pudding that it may be tied up and done with.”

  Elizabeth stood back to give him room to dump the pudding out and wrap it in the pudding cloth.

  Thankfully she had an ally in Papa or at least she seemed to. The way Mama carried on and encouraged Mr. Collins, she would need one.

  November 27, 1811. Meryton

  Monday passed quickly with last minute repairs to Kitty’s ball gown requiring a pleasing amount of time and energy spent in the company of her sisters and away from Mr. Collins. Pity such good fortune could not have extended the rest of the week and into the Netherfield Ball. He dogged her every step like a hound—no, more like a gosling trailing after a mother goose. Worse still, he proved an indifferent dancer at best, and his manners! Ugh! Could he have done a more thorough job at humiliating himself—and by extension her —before Mr. Darcy?

  Following such a performance the previous evening, she could hardly hope to be left in peace today. She must find it now, whilst everyone else slept, for there would be none once the family awoke. What other reason to be out and about at such an early hour the morning after a ball?

  The morning was cold and wet, and rather disagreeable, all told—just cold enough to leave her nose red and tingly. Clouds hung low in the sky, grey and somber, as though the sun could not be bothered to try to peek through. A few birds called, not the pretty songbirds, but the cawing crows whose cry was more ominous than appealing. The brown and crunchy landscape seemed uniformly dreary, with none of the footpaths near the house calling to her. Even the little wilderness near the house felt dull and lifeless. Traces of wood smoke on the breeze failed to smell friendly and inviting, instead they proved scratchy and irritating. But still, the landscape had the very great advantage of being entirely without Mr. Collins. That was enough to make up for nearly every other fault.

  Dew collected along the hem of her skirts as she briskly trod the path up Oakham Mount. She lifted her petticoats slightly to avoid another patch of mud. At least the rain itself had obliged and went its way the day before. A slender branch slapped at her face. She snapped it off and slashed at the tall grasses tangling with her skirts, as tenacious in their attentions as Mr. Collins.

  “I cannot believe the obstinacy of the man,” she muttered. “He has all the social grace of a leech. If he should ever even think ...”

  Think? Was there any doubt as to what his intentions were? Only a blind man might mistake them—or one as bent on ignoring the uncomfortable as Papa.

  “Why must Mama push so hard and insist upon what she does not truly understand. I know why she thinks it a good thing—but so soon? How can she think she knows his character? It is certainly not the same thing as knowing his position. How am I ever to convince her only a fool dares rush into an alliance no matter how ideal it seems.”

  He was to leave soon. If she could just continue avoiding him a while longer. Perhaps, Mama might be worked on in his absence to promote Mary’s cause as a most willing substitute. Then when Mr. Collins returned as he had threatened ...

  She cast the branch aside. Yes, that was the best plan, but how was she to avoid him for now?

  Surely the tenants needed to be called upon today—that should keep her out all morning. Then she might pay an afternoon call to Miss Goulding. Mr. Collins had, after all, stepped on her dress. That should take up most of the day. Only two more days to fill.

&nbs
p; Oh, yes! There would be dinner at Lucas Lodge as well. Charlotte could be counted on to distract him then. That would do very well for everyone.

  She paused and leaned back against a large elm. Even if she were successful in avoiding Mr. Collins’s attentions now and turning him towards Mary in the future, how could she persuade Mama to leave off her quest to see Elizabeth married to the first available gentleman?

  A fly buzzed past her face. She slapped it away.

  Was she expecting too much? Did she owe it to her family to accept an obsequious man whose conversation she could hardly tolerate just because the estate was entailed upon him? Some would certainly argue it was her duty.

  Jane was so good and obliging, she might be willing to martyr herself so, but she had hopes of Mr. Bingley.

  Mr. Bingley!

  Jane had a very good chance of marrying well and saving them all just as certainly as if Elizabeth married Mr. Collins.

  She gulped in a deep breath. The weight of their future was not wholly on her shoulders after all.

  Best return to the house now lest Mama have too much opportunity to make plans for her. She turned back down the path for Longbourn.

  DARCY LACED HIS HANDS behind his head and stared at the deep red curtains. Rosy rays of dawn crept around the heavy woolen panels and illuminated Netherfield’s finest guest room. A cheery fire lit the neat, functional chamber, entirely appropriate to an older country manor. Dark stained paneling covered the walls, a fitting backdrop for the imposing mahogany furnishings. The bed linens were fine and soft; the mattresses piled high, all properly aired, with none of that musty smell that often permeated little-used rooms.

  Nothing to Pemberley of course, but no reason it should be, either. He stretched under the blankets, working out an annoying knot in his calf. That must have come from dancing last night.

  Perhaps the Netherfield ball had been a good idea after all. Despite protestations that Bingley demanded the impossible of her, Miss Bingley had arranged a first-rate event. Probably the best the sleepy little market town had ever experienced.

  A pleasant, country affair where one could dance with a partner and not fear it would find its way into the society pages the next day. What was there not to appreciate about that? Certainly, such an event was a novelty he might be willing to repeat.

  What a difference a pair of fine eyes and a clever wit could make in what otherwise might have been a dreadful social obligation.

  A sharp gust of wind blew in around an ill-fitting window, fluttering the curtains. Fanciful shadows danced about the chamber. The maid had missed a corner in her dusting. He ought to mention it to the housekeeper himself. Miss Bingley might well have the poor girl sacked for the oversight.

  Despite Miss Bingley’s constant admonishments to the maids, improvement only came when Elizabeth had stepped in during Miss Bennet’s illness. How patient she had been with the scullion assigned to make up the fire in Miss Bennet’s room.

  He screwed his eyes shut and threw an arm over his eyes. Not again! Why could he not shake the thoughts of her from his mind?

  Maddening, utterly maddening.

  He rolled to his feet and shrugged on his dressing gown. Perhaps a walk around the grounds would help him clear his mind. Unless of course he should encounter her along the way. While it might not be likely, it was exactly the sort of bad luck that he seemed to attract since meeting the Bennets.

  Why did she have to be so engaging when her family was so wholly dreadful?

  He rang the bell for his valet.

  They were truly the worst examples of every offensive vice. Indolent and disconnected, Mr. Bennet ignored anything that might demand exertion: his estate, his wife, his daughters. He settled for what came and made no effort to shape what was to come. With the power to command so much for good, Bennet still chose his own ease over caring for those under his wings. What a revolting connection.

  And to shame his own daughter in public, even one as insipid as Miss Mary Bennet! If anyone deserved his censure, it was his horrid wife. Darcy shuddered and brushed the revulsion off his shoulders.

  His valet entered and initiated the mechanics of his morning ablutions.

  To be fair, Mrs. Bennet shared much in common with the match-making mamas of the ton. Most were every bit as determined as Mrs. Bennet to see their daughters successfully wed. But few could match that woman’s vulgarity, speaking loudly of Bingley as though he were already shut up in the parson’s pound with Miss Bennet.

  The unfettered spleen!

  At least the mamas of the ton had fortunes sufficient to cover their bad manners, giving them the form of respectability, if not the substance thereof. Mrs. Bennet had not even that thin veil to hide beneath.

  Darcy gave his jacket a final tug and dismissed his valet with a nod.

  Could Bingley afford such a disagreeable association?

  Connection to a landed family, even a very minor one, would be good for him and help establish his position in society. Surely, though, there were other eligible girls who would not bring disagreeable baggage with them.

  After last night, it would be difficult to convince Bingley of it. The cakey sot was utterly bewitched by his principal partner of the evening. He would probably be on his way to Longbourn to call upon her yet this morning.

  How could he make Bingley understand? Old money and an established place in society, like Darcy’s, could weather the improprieties of a family like the Bennets. Bingley’s fragile social standing could not.

  Perhaps something would come to him over breakfast.

  He made his way downstairs. Servants bustled about, still working to restore order after the prior night’s festivities. Darcy dodged around their efforts and ducked into the morning room.

  The east facing room caught the sun, making for pleasant warmth. It probably was dreadfully hot in full summer, though. The round table was a bit oversized for the room. Whether that meant it was crowded or cozy was probably directly related to how much one appreciated the company sharing the space.

  Pleasing scents of fresh breads and meats wafted from the buffet opposite the windows. Platters and serving bowls lay spread along the sideboard with pots of coffee and tea nearby. Coffee’s bitter bite suited the morning time well. Tea was better for afternoon and evening.

  “Good morning, Mr. Darcy.” Miss Bingley rose and curtsied.

  Interesting that she should be up so early the day after a ball and have breakfast already laid out. Most women in her position would have slept well past noon.

  “Good morning.” He bowed and seated himself along the opposite side of the table. The sun on his back would likely become uncomfortable quickly. At least it was a good reason to cut the meal, and time spent in her company, short.

  “I wonder that you are up so early sir, did you not sleep well?”

  “It is the habit of a lifetime. I rarely sleep after sunrise.”

  Everything in her expression begged to be asked a reciprocal question. But questions like that had the unfortunate tendency to lead to highly improper conversations. So he raised his eyebrow and cocked his head.

  She blinked several times, clearly waiting for the desired query.

  Darcy strode to the sideboard and poured a cup of coffee.

  She added sugar to her tea and stirred it silently.

  He could go on for the entirety of breakfast this way, comfortable in the silence. In fact, it would be preferable.

  “I hardly slept at all last night. I am sick with worry for Charles.” Miss Bingley pressed her hand to her chest and leaned back with a sigh.

  Drama belonged in the theater, not in the morning room.

  “Has he taken ill?”

  “After a fashion. Do you not consider him love-sick over Miss Jane Bennet?” Miss Bingley buttered a slice of toast.

  How peculiar she should be considering the same things as he. Peculiar and uncomfortable.

  “He paid her uncommon amounts of attention last night.” He sipped his cof
fee. Bitter and a bit stronger than he preferred.

  “Indeed he did, and I loath to think what it might mean for all of us. You know how impulsive Charles can be.”

  “True enough, but he falls out of love nearly as quickly as he falls in. Are you not a bit premature in your concerns?”

  Miss Bingley balanced her forehead on her fingers. “He seems utterly besotted with her, more so than I have seen him with any other. To be sure Miss Bennet is a good sort of girl—who could object to her alone? But her family?”

  Darcy lifted an open hand. “I observed the same spectacle. Best not recount it.”

  “I could not agree more. Oh, the vulgarity! Can you imagine—of course there is no need as you saw it all yourself. I need not convince you of the very great misfortune of being connected to such people. Charles, though—he has no notion.”

  “I quite agree.” The words sounded so strange, tumbling from his mouth. Agreeing with Miss Bingley? He would have wagered that such a thing would never happen.

  “I knew you would see it the same way. We think so alike, you and I.” Why was she batting her eyes?

  He clutched the edge of his chair lest he bolt from the room.

  “Louisa and Hurst quite agree as well. Though Hurst cannot be roused to think it an urgent matter, Louisa and I are convinced we must act quickly. We must persuade him to leave this place at once.”

  “But you have only just hosted your ball. There will be many anxious to return the invitation. Dinners, parties—”

  “I am well aware and dreading nearly every one of them. The society here is boorish and confined at best. The thought of all those engagements is an untold evil. I would endure them for propriety’s sake, of course. But each one presents a grave danger of putting Charles in Jane Bennet’s company.”