by K C Kahler
Lydia guffawed as she read near the window. Elizabeth had known that Sir Toby Belch would be to her sister’s liking. She envied Lydia’s ability to so effortlessly recover from disappointment, for she could not forget yesterday’s events in Meryton with such ease.
Elizabeth had been exceedingly happy to see Mr Darcy; she must admit the truth of it to herself at least. Despite the warnings from her father, from Miss Bingley, from the very man himself, Elizabeth had allowed herself to become attached to him. Perhaps it was simply a consequence of the unique experiences they had shared. The secrets between them lent an air of intimacy, which Elizabeth’s confession to Charlotte had not curtailed. When Mr Darcy chose to engage in conversation—for it was seemingly impossible to compel him to do so—she found the resulting discussions more stimulating and thought provoking than any she had ever had before.
Yet, she now realised, it was a mistaken feeling of intimacy, for she knew very little about Mr Darcy. He never talked about himself, never revealed anything of his life. She grew weary of the mystery: his inscrutable gaze, his maddening silence. So Elizabeth had been quite pleased to meet Mr Wickham. With his ready smile, agreeable manners, and effortless conversation, this interaction was refreshing in its simplicity. Yet—and there was the inevitable “yet”—perhaps the ease of his smile made the expression less valuable. Perhaps his dark eyes lacked the depth of another’s. Perhaps conversing with him was simply a way to pass time pleasantly rather than a true exchange of ideas.
Elizabeth chastised herself. It would be most unwise to begin comparing every man she met to Mr Darcy. When had he become the ideal? With his moods, his haughtiness, and his inability to be pleased by anyone around him? No, Elizabeth was determined to return to her previous preferences. Mr Wickham was precisely the sort of new acquaintance in whom she would have delighted. So she would be delighted with him even if—or perhaps because—he and Mr Darcy were at odds. They were as different from each other as possible.
Elizabeth and her sisters were to return to the Philipses’ tonight. Her aunt had promised a nice, noisy game of lottery tickets with some of the officers and a little bit of hot supper afterwards. The prospect of such delights was very cheering to Kitty in particular.
“How is your book, Lydia?” Kitty could scarcely keep the ridicule from her voice.
“It is very entertaining. You should read it when I finish rather than retrimming one of your bonnets for the tenth time.”
Elizabeth found Lydia’s newfound scholarly superiority very amusing, and if the hidden smile on her face was any indication, Jane did as well. Of course Jane had done nothing but smile for the last twenty-four hours.
Kitty was unimpressed. “Perhaps you should make extracts of your favourite passages. Then we can compare your penmanship to Mary’s.”
Mary was, at that moment, making yet another extract. Elizabeth began to wonder whether Mary’s pastime was more than it seemed.
Lydia rolled her eyes. She apparently did not wish to engage in further taunting.
Kitty, deprived of her sparring partner, changed the subject. “I am so looking forward to tonight. I hope Aunt Philips extended the invitation to Mr Wickham. Surely if Denny was invited, and he must have been, his friend would be as well.”
Lydia glanced at Elizabeth. “He is pleasant enough, I suppose. But I would much rather Mr Bingley and Mr Darcy be invited.”
“Ha! Mr Darcy would not play lottery tickets. He would stand in the corner and say not a word to anyone.”
The undeniable truth of this statement silenced Lydia, who made a great show of lifting up her book to resume her reading.
* * *
As the men joined the women later that night at the Philipses’, the handsome, agreeable Mr Wickham was the happy man towards whom almost every female eye was turned, and Elizabeth was the woman by whom he finally seated himself. He immediately fell into conversation, and although it was only on its being a wet evening and the probability of a rainy season, she remembered her earlier pledge to be delighted with him.
There was no danger of Lydia’s engrossing Mr Wickham, for she was extremely fond of lottery tickets, eager in making bets and exclaiming after prizes. Seated between Elizabeth and Lydia, Mr Wickham was therefore at leisure to talk to Elizabeth, and she was willing to hear him. What she chiefly wished to hear she could not hope to be told—the history of his acquaintance with Mr Darcy. However, her curiosity was unexpectedly relieved when Mr Wickham began the subject himself. He inquired how far Netherfield was from Meryton and, after receiving her answer, asked in a hesitating manner how long Mr Darcy had been staying there.
“About a month.” Unwilling to let the subject drop, she added, “He is a man of very large property in Derbyshire, I understand.”
“Yes,” replied Wickham, “his estate there is a noble one. A clear ten thousand per annum. You could not have met with a person more capable of giving you certain information on that head than myself, for I have been connected with his family in a particular manner from my infancy. My father was steward for the late Mr Darcy, and I grew up alongside this Mr Darcy.”
Elizabeth could not but look surprised.
“You may well be surprised, Miss Bennet, at such an assertion after seeing, as you probably did, the very cold manner of our meeting yesterday. Are you much acquainted with Mr Darcy?”
“As much as I ever will be, no doubt,” Elizabeth deflected. “I have spent four days in the same house with him, and I think him a very difficult man to know.” Her choice of words was an attempt to coax Mr Wickham into an explanation of his relationship with Mr Darcy. “He is not liked overmuch in Hertfordshire. Everybody was disgusted with his pride upon his first appearance amongst us.”
“I cannot pretend to be sorry,” said Wickham. He looked at her with a sad smile. “We are not on friendly terms any longer, and it always gives me pain to meet him. His father was one of the best men that ever breathed and the truest friend I ever had. I can never be in company with this Mr Darcy without being grieved to the soul by a thousand tender recollections. His behaviour towards myself has been scandalous, but I verily believe I could forgive him anything and everything rather than disgrace the memory of his father.”
Elizabeth listened with all her heart. She found her insatiable curiosity about Mr Darcy shameful, particularly when she suspected Mr Wickham of having ulterior motives in his revelations. Information from a questionable source was still information at least. The delicacy of the subject prevented further inquiry, but she inquired anyway. “As I understand it, his father died some five years ago?”
“Yes, and before he died, the late Mr Darcy bequeathed me the next presentation of the best living in his gift. He was my godfather and excessively attached to me. I cannot do justice to his kindness. He meant to provide for me amply and thought he had done it, but when the living fell, it was given elsewhere.”
“Good heavens!” cried Elizabeth, truly shocked. “But how could that be? How could his will be disregarded? Why did not you seek legal redress?”
“There was just such an informality in the terms of the bequest as to give me no hope from law. A man of honour could not have doubted the intention, but Mr Darcy chose to doubt it—or to treat it as merely a conditional recommendation.”
Elizabeth’s scepticism increased at this convenient ambiguity, though she carefully worded her reply so that he might continue his tale. “Such disgraceful behaviour would deserve to be publicly exposed.”
“It will not be by me. Till I can forget his father, I can never defy or expose him.”
She paused to consider the contradiction of Mr Wickham’s noble words. He had exposed the son to her that very night. Then she caught Lydia’s furious look behind Mr Wickham. She had been eavesdropping. Elizabeth shook her head once, hoping to discourage Lydia from causing a scene.
Unbidden, Mr Wickham continued on about his former friend. “It surprises me not that he should display such pride to the good people of Hertfor
dshire—almost all his actions may be traced to pride. He can be a conversable companion if he thinks it worth his while. Among those who are his equals in consequence, he is a very different man from what he is to the less prosperous. His pride never deserts him, but with the rich, he is liberal-minded, just, sincere, rational, honourable, and perhaps agreeable, allowing something for fortune and figure.”
Elizabeth would have agreed easily with these last observations were it not for Mr Darcy’s behaviour towards her at certain times. Surely he had not thought to gain anything by helping her—other than entertainment perhaps.
“He has also brotherly pride and affection, which makes him a very kind and careful guardian of his sister; and you will hear him generally cried up as the most attentive and best of brothers.”
“What sort of a girl is Miss Darcy?” Elizabeth still could not contain her curiosity.
He shook his head. “I wish I could call her amiable. It gives me pain to speak ill of a Darcy, but she is too much like her brother—very, very proud.”
Lydia turned to them with a false smile on her face. “Pardon me, I could not help but overhear your conversation. Mr Darcy mentioned his sister to me. As I understand it, Miss Darcy is only fifteen years old and not yet out. What kind of a man would declare to perfect strangers that a defenceless, orphaned girl at least ten years his junior is too proud?” Lydia eyed him without mercy.
Mr Wickham blinked at her, his face paling as it had the previous day in the street. “I apologise if I have shocked you. I have an open, unguarded temperament and have been known to speak perhaps too easily on all manner of subjects.”
“Indeed! I have heard you readily speak about this subject to young ladies with whom you are barely acquainted. If it ‘gives you pain’ to speak ill of a Darcy, you certainly had your share of pain tonight!” Though she kept her voice at a normal level, Lydia’s eyes were sparking.
Elizabeth prayed that her overexcited sister would control herself. “Lydia, Mr Wickham means no harm. Let us not spoil this pleasant evening over what is surely a misunderstanding. Think of Aunt Philips.” Her eyes beseeched Lydia for calm.
“Means no harm? I am sure he means precisely that! And after Mr Darcy has been so kind to me—to you as well!” Lydia stood with her head held high. “It seems I have lost my enthusiasm for the game. I leave you to your conversation.” She walked off towards Mary without looking back.
Mr Wickham turned to Elizabeth, looking very grave. “Oh dear, this is another of Mr Darcy’s traits that I hesitate to mention in mixed company, but you must be warned for the sake of your young sister.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, when Darcy is amongst people whom he does not consider…of much consequence, he sometimes…he sometimes amuses himself with some poor young lady who is flattered when he grants his much-sought-after attentions.” At Elizabeth’s incredulous look, Mr Wickham continued, “Oh, he does nothing to compromise her, nothing so reprehensible. He simply leaves her pining after him, nursing her disappointed hopes.”
Elizabeth considered how to respond to this latest accusation but was at a loss. Could there be any truth in what Mr Wickham had told her? Could it all be pure fabrication? If so, Mr Wickham certainly had a cruel and vivid imagination. No, she suspected there were grains of truth in his words. But which parts?
As she contemplated all she had heard, the voice of Aunt Philips carried above the din of the room. “Upon my word, Mr Collins was so much struck with the size and furniture of our apartment that he declared he might almost have supposed himself in the summer breakfast parlour at Rosings, the estate of Lady Catherine de Bourgh.”
Mr Wickham’s attention was caught; he asked Elizabeth in a low voice whether her family was very intimately acquainted with the family of de Bourgh.
“No. We only know of them through my cousin Mr Collins. Lady Catherine de Bourgh has lately given him a living.”
“You know of course that Lady Catherine de Bourgh and Lady Anne Darcy were sisters; consequently, she is aunt to the present Mr Darcy.”
“Yes, I did know of the relationship.”
“Her daughter, Miss de Bourgh, will have a very large fortune, and it is believed that she and her cousin will unite the two estates.”
This information made Elizabeth gasp. Mr Wickham gazed at her. “Ah yes, of course his prior arrangement with Miss de Bourgh would not be known here. It might interfere too much with his amusement.”
Elizabeth had heard quite enough. She rose. “Excuse me. I believe I should speak to my sister now.”
He grasped her hand and smiled at her. “Of course; I hope I have not distressed you or Miss Lydia. That should be the very last thing I desire.”
She pulled her hand back. “Do not trouble yourself, Mr Wickham. No doubt Lydia will forget all about Mr Darcy when he leaves Hertfordshire. She is not built for melancholy.” She left him there and crossed the room to Lydia and Mary.
Lydia immediately addressed her. “So you finally wearied of his horrible lies. I do not understand how you could have listened to him for so long. You do not believe anything he said about Mr Darcy, do you?”
Elizabeth shook her head, but in her mind, she could think of but one thing: an afternoon spent in the sitting room at Netherfield where Mr Darcy wrote a letter to his cousin Anne de Bourgh.
The Reverend William Collins arrived at Longbourn on a rainy Monday afternoon. He was received with much civility, particularly by Mrs Bennet and Miss Bennet. Very soon after partaking in tea with his guest, Mr Bennet returned to his study while the Bennet ladies took up their individual pursuits.
Mr Collins was pretending to read a book, but in reality, he contemplated the blessed state of marriage. He had spent the last fortnight in similar contemplation. Yes, his days of bachelorhood would soon be at an end. When he left Hertfordshire the last time, he had been undecided between three young ladies. He had now, based on his own preferences, Mr Darcy’s intelligence, and consultation with Lady Catherine, made his choice. He only had to be sure that he was not—through the raising of expectations during his last visit—honour bound to offer for Miss Bennet.
The prospect of marriage to the young lady was by no means disagreeable. On the contrary, she had been Mr Collins’s first choice until the fortuitous conversation with Mr Darcy in which he was advised that Lady Catherine would disapprove of Miss Bennet’s exceptional beauty beyond her rank. During his time back in Kent, Mr Collins had the privilege of dining at Rosings with the Grantlys, including the youngest son, Arthur Grantly, and his betrothed, Miss Horton. The young lady in question was indeed handsome, but if he must compare the two, Mr Collins must conclude that Miss Bennet’s extraordinary beauty eclipsed Miss Horton’s. Lady Catherine would think her far too beautiful to be a country parson’s wife.
Thus two young ladies remained from which Mr Collins would choose the companion of his future life. He did not think he flattered himself to own that each of them had conveyed an interest in him. Of course the position of Mrs Collins was quite a desirable circumstance, both in his current situation and his future one. Mr Collins did have a preference of his own, though he appreciated the varying fine qualities in each of the young ladies. Miss Lucas was kind and modest. She was an exceptional listener, but she also shared her sound and practical opinions when asked for them. Miss Elizabeth was kind, too, and a very caring sister. She had a liveliness about her to which one could not but be drawn even if it occasionally neared impertinence. Though not a classic beauty like her elder sister, Miss Elizabeth was very handsome. This perhaps held more weight for Mr Collins than it ought. But if he must give up exceptional beauty to please his patroness, did he not still deserve a pretty wife?
“Lizzy!” Miss Lydia cried, breaking Mr Collins’s reverie. “I have finished the first book you recommended!”
“That is excellent, Lydia. I am surprised you did it so quickly. Perhaps, if you are not completely weary of reading, you will have time to finish the second one
before the ball.”
“Oh, I shall, especially if it continues to rain. But may we go speak with Papa about this one first? Do you think he will take the time to discuss it with us?”
“Twelfth Night is one of his favourites, and I secured a promise from him that he would discuss it with you. Let us make him keep his word now, shall we?” Cousin Elizabeth held out her hand, which Cousin Lydia took with a grin, and they entered Mr Bennet’s study together. The scene only confirmed to Mr Collins that Miss Elizabeth was a very caring sister indeed.
He returned to his own book without actually reading it. He was confident he had made the right selection. Although the decision was ultimately his, Mr Collins had been pleased to obtain Lady Catherine’s advice yesterday at tea, and what she had said provided the final impetus for Mr Collins's choice of bride.
“I trust that upon your return from Hertfordshire this time, you will have, if not a wife, at least a betrothed, as I advised,” she had said.
“That is my intention, Lady Catherine.”
“Good. I would generally commend a man for taking care and deliberation before making a decision of such import, but I see no reason to delay. As you have described them, these three eldest Bennet sisters sound like good, respectable girls. They are at least a gentleman’s daughters, and they are in a very precarious position. I greatly approve of you making one of them the future mistress of that estate, entailed as it is away from the female line. Anne, of course, will never face a similar predicament, but I have imagination enough to sympathise with their plight.”
“Indeed, Lady Catherine, your elevated rank has not blinded you to the condition of others. What insight, what compassion you show to all around you, even to those whom you have never met!”
She had nodded and taken a sip of tea. “I have a letter for my nephew, if you will be so kind as to deliver it, Mr Collins.”
“I shall perform this service most eagerly, Lady Catherine.”
