by Jann Rowland
Bennet pinched his nose, praying for patience. The man’s mention of something presumably stopping him from paying his addresses to Lizzy pricked his interest, but the inexhaustible supply of words soon stretched Bennet’s patience, and he wished to end this interview. Thus, he ignored the matter and cut Mr. Collins off as he was drawing breath to continue to speak.
“That is all very interesting, Mr. Collins, but I have one question, for you: did my daughter in actuality give you a reply to your proposal?”
Opening his mouth to speak, Mr. Collins paused before speaking, and his confusion rendered him mute. A moment later he looked across the desk at Bennet and ventured: “As I recall, Miss Mary wished to speak to you first.”
“Thank you, Mr. Collins, for taking the time to remember that fact, for it is a most salient point. You see, Mary entered my room after speaking with you and informed me she does not wish to marry you.”
A look of utter stupefaction came over his cousin’s countenance. “She does not wish to marry me? Why ever would she wish to refuse me? Is she not sensible of the fact that an offer of marriage may never come her way again?”
Though the parson’s words were offensive, Bennet sensed he had not intended any insult—it was nothing more than the man’s utter lack of tact. It was this insight which prompted Bennet to pause and consider how best to manage the situation. The remembrance of Mary, sitting warily in the very chair Mr. Collins now occupied, clutching the arms in her nervousness, though willing to do whatever required, demanded more from Bennet than to dismiss his cousin’s buffoonery with a caustic remark as he wished. Thus, he exerted himself to do whatever he could to smooth her way.
“Tell me, Cousin: would you wish a woman to accept your proposal for no other reason than because she has no other prospects? Is this the basis for a marriage of felicity?”
Mr. Collins frowned. “But it is true, is it not?”
“At present, perhaps it is. But Mary is naught but eighteen years old, and still has many years to attract a husband. More than this, however, it is not tactful to attempt to induce a woman to accept you by reminding her she is not popular with the gentlemen. A woman wishes to hear she is the center of a potential suitor’s world—not that she is not capable of attracting another man.”
A comical widening of the man’s eyes preceded Mr. Collins’s exclamation of: “Do you suggest I should have attempted to make love to her?”
“In our society, Mr. Collins,” said Bennet, “it is customary for the man to court a woman. Conversations, walks, dances, attending events together—all of these are expected. It is considered gauche for a couple to rush to the altar, for it speaks to possible other reasons for a hasty marriage.”
If Bennet thought the man’s eyes could not become any larger, his cousin was ready to prove him wrong, for Mr. Collins gaped at him in surprise. Then he shot to his feet and exclaimed: “Then that is what I shall do!”
“Sit, Collins,” growled Bennet, surprised when Collins obeyed him, though with clear hesitation. “If you wish to go pay court to some young woman you are welcome to do so. But please refrain from doing so with Mary, for she has already stated her disinterest.”
“B-But—” stammered Mr. Collins.
“It is not my purpose to offend or anger you, Cousin,” said Bennet. “But it is clear Mary is not an option, nor do I think my elder daughters are likely to accept a proposal from you. Did you wish to consider either of my youngest girls?”
A quickly shaken head was Mr. Collins’s response, unsurprising to Bennet. He chuckled and reached over, grasped two glasses, poured a measure of port into each and handed one to his cousin. Mr. Collins accepted it, though appearing uncertain. Bennet raised his glass as if to offer a toast and said:
“To your continued single status, Mr. Collins. In the future, I suggest you take my advice to heart and take the time to come to know a woman, rather than rushing to marry the first woman you can find. Remember, if you choose amiss, your regrets may very well last a lifetime. Please, sir, for my sake and your own—choose wisely.”
“I shall do so, Mr. Bennet,” said Mr. Collins, sipping from his drink.
For the rest of the time Collins was in his library, they chatted amiably about what he should search for in a wife, his company as tolerable as Bennet had ever experienced with him. It was an unfortunate fact that Bennet doubted his cousin would become a man whose society he could tolerate. But he had high hopes that in this, at least, Mr. Collins would think more than was his wont, and perhaps even make a choice for himself, rather than doing exactly what his patroness told him to do.
It was unfortunate but expected that Mrs. Bennet would not understand, for she was not as inclined as Mr. Collins to listen to Bennet’s words of advice. She was also not shy in expressing her opinion.
“I cannot believe you have betrayed me thus, Mr. Bennet!” wailed she for perhaps the tenth time. “You shall not endure the consequences of your refusal to make Mary accept Mr. Collins. I, on the other hand, shall be thrown into the hedgerows to starve!”
“There shall be no starving done by any of us, Mrs. Bennet,” replied Bennet, refraining from voicing a half a dozen sardonic comments which entered his mind. “All shall be well, I dare say.”
“No, it shall not! But let me inform you of this, Husband,” exclaimed she, her shrieking giving way to vindictive petulance, “if Mary does not wed Mr. Collins, I shall not have her in whatever reduced circumstances I will find myself when you are gone. She will be required to shift for herself.”
“Reduced circumstances it shall be,” said Mr. Bennet. “But you will not be in such severe straits as to find yourself in the hedgerows, for I have made some provision for you.”
Though she drew breath to wail yet again, Mrs. Bennet paused at his words, puzzlement adorning her features. “Provision? Of what provision do you speak?”
“It was not my intention to inform you until all the particulars had been completed,” replied Bennet, for once feeling a hint of pity for this woman. Her fears were real, and he supposed he might have saved her much worry if he had informed her before. “Mr. Gardiner has been taking a portion of our income and investing it, and while it will not be a fortune, it should be enough for you to subsist comfortably in a cottage we shall purchase for your future home.”
“I am to have a cottage?” asked Mrs. Bennet.
“You are, Maggie,” said Bennet, grasping her hand. “It is not yet done, but it should be soon—in no more than a year or two. Though I do not know where it shall be yet, it will be in the neighborhood. There should be enough to support you and whatever girls remain unmarried, and even a servant or two. You will not be homeless should the worst happen.”
“But would it not be best to keep Longbourn in the family?”
“That matter has already been decided, Mrs. Bennet,” replied Bennet. “If we treat him well now, it is possible Mr. Collins will even be persuaded to help when the time comes. But none of our girls—not even Mary, by her own testimony—would be happy with him, and I dare say Collins would not appreciate any one of them either. Trust me, Maggie—it is for the best.”
Though she did not speak for a time and she appeared unable to understand, the news she would not be homeless was enough to distract her. After a few moments of this, she closed her eyes, swallowed, and attempted a watery smile.
“Very well then, Mr. Bennet. I shall trust your judgment.”
“Thank you, my dear,” said a relieved Bennet. “I shall not fail you.”
Mrs. Bennet nodded, though distracted. “If you do not mind, I shall take to my room to rest for a time. This morning has been tiring.”
“That is for the best, Mrs. Bennet.”
When his wife had departed, Bennet thought back on the morning, satisfied with his endeavors. Perhaps it would have been best had he told his wife of the provision being made for her, but he thought it had worked out in the end. And he may even have gained a replacement companion in Mary when her elde
r sister went to London.
With that thought, Bennet retrieved his neglected book and immersed himself again in its pages.
Chapter V
Winter had never been Elizabeth’s favorite season, and while there were mixed emotions concerning the upcoming stay in Mr. Darcy’s house, Elizabeth welcomed the waning of February, as it gave way to the marginally warmer weather which characterized March. There was some feeling of disappointment she would not see spring in Hertfordshire, but Elizabeth was philosophical about the near future. Having heard so much of the part of London where Mr. Darcy lived, but not having visited, she was anticipating the sights, especially of famed Hyde Park.
Of the upcoming amusement, Elizabeth had thought much and decided little. With Jane, they had spoken of what they could expect, but neither had come to any conclusions. For Elizabeth’s part, she was attempting to reconcile what she knew of Mr. Darcy, contrasted with what Mr. Wickham had said of him, and what she now suspected of the man, revealed in his moment of unguarded conversation with Elizabeth and her aunt.
The officers Elizabeth saw but little, and she did not repine the lack of their society. Mr. Wickham had attempted several times to speak to her and had raised the subject of Mr. Darcy more than once. When Elizabeth did not give him any encouragement, he responded with the equivalent of a shrug—he seemed perfectly content to bestow his attention on those who gave him consequence, and when Elizabeth did not, he did not repine her disinterest. With Kitty and Lydia in residence at Longbourn, reports of the officers were not lacking, for they spoke of the officers more than all other subjects combined. But it was nothing to Elizabeth if Mr. Wickham began lavishing attention on some other young lady of the neighborhood, one with whom Elizabeth was not at all acquainted.
The day arrived for their departure and Elizabeth and her elder sister oversaw the disposition of their trunks before descending to break their fast and farewell their family. It was while they were in the breakfast room that a carriage pulled upon the drive. The sight of the large coach and four pulled them from the house to inspect it, and they were not disappointed. The large springs installed above each of the wheels promised a smooth ride, the panes of glass would prevent most of the dust of the road from entering the compartment, while the plush interior spoke to the comfort the passengers would experience while within. It gleamed and shone in the morning sunlight, the black lacquer of the paint showing nary a blemish, a bright coat of arms had been painted on the back. The four horses drawing it stamped and snorted, the lead left horse whickering its greeting when Elizabeth approached.
“This is Mr. Darcy’s carriage?” asked Mrs. Bennet, her voice colored with awe.
“It seems to be so, Mrs. Bennet,” said her husband, though it was clear to Elizabeth he was equally impressed. “Our daughters have been favored, indeed.”
Mrs. Bennet appeared overwhelmed by what she was seeing and unable to respond, a situation unusual for the voluble woman. As the family watched, the servants loaded their various effects, and then when all was prepared, the family said their farewells. When it came time for Jane and Elizabeth to part with their mother, she bid them adieu in a manner Elizabeth might have predicted in advance.
“Be certain to do your best, girls,” said she, peering more at Jane than Elizabeth. “As your father said, Lady Anne has favored you, and if you both make the attempt, I am certain you will return with husbands in tow.”
Then she turned and entered the house, leaving Elizabeth and Jane standing, grinning at each other, while their father laughed and wished them a pleasant journey. After receiving the well-wishes of the sisters—Kitty and Lydia finally appeared to understand their good fortune, for they appeared envious—the two eldest Bennet sisters boarded, and the carriage departed.
They spent the first few moments of their journey in silence, but then when the carriage proceeded through Meryton and from thence to the road to London, Jane ventured a comment. “I do not know your feelings, Lizzy, but I will own to some intimidation. We are about to enter a world so unlike that to which we are accustomed, we might as well be on the other side of the world.”
“Come now, Jane,” said Elizabeth, attempting humor to lighten their spirits, “you know that every attempt to intimidate me causes my courage to rise.”
“And yet, I know you well enough to understand your courage is more bravado than true confidence.”
“You know me well, indeed, dearest Jane. There is nothing we can do, however, other than to meet this challenge with fortitude.”
“If you have some to spare, I should be very much obliged.”
Laughter passed between them, which helped to lessen the tension, and the rest of the journey passed swiftly and with much banter between the two girls. Before long, the outskirts of London came into view, and soon they were rattling through the busy streets, the carriage driver weaving his expert way through the congested thoroughfares of the city. Then they passed, as if through some unseen barrier, to a series of quieter streets, the bustle of the business districts being left behind in favor of a series of homes, which grew larger and more impressive the longer they proceeded forward.
At length, the carriage turned onto the drive leading to one house more imposing and larger than the rest, with a large portico with about a dozen steps leading up to a sheltered door. The house was four stories, stood on the corner of the street, with a hint of greenery around the side and the appearance of a large park beyond the end of the road in the distance. The façade was impressive, with stone pillars and a pair of large doors beyond, which stood open, Lady Anne and Miss Darcy standing on about the third step awaiting their arrival.
When the carriage lurched to a halt, Elizabeth and Jane exchanged one last glance for courage and then exited with the help of the waiting footman. Lady Anne and Miss Darcy were quick to greet them and express their pleasure, inviting them inside.
Therein they found another impressive sight of an open entryway, a large curved stairway leading to the second floor, decadence and wealth dripping from every tile set into the floor, every item displayed in a position of honor. For all this, however, there was no sense of overwhelming riches, no sense of display for the sake of informing the visitor of the wealth of the inhabitants. It was a home, and though fine, appeared comfortable and lived in, and not overly ostentatious.
“Here are your rooms,” said Lady Anne as she showed them up to their bedchambers, pointing out a few locations of interest along the way. “I have assigned you chambers with an adjoining sitting-room—I hope it meets your approval, for I thought you would be comfortable near to each other. If not, please inform me and I will make other arrangements.”
“No, this is lovely,” said Jane, echoed by Elizabeth’s agreeing nod. “I believe Lizzy and I will find it agreeable to be situated so close to each other.”
“Excellent! Then we shall leave you to refresh yourselves.”
“Might you also leave us a guide to assist us in reaching the sitting-room?” asked Elizabeth, feeling her courage rise a little with her light-hearted comment. “If you do not, I feel we shall become lost in this intimidating house!”
Their hosts laughed, and Miss Darcy said: “Oh, Miss Elizabeth, Miss Bennet—we shall have so much fun together!”
“Yes, I am certain we shall,” said Lady Anne. “If you have any trouble, feel free to ask any of the servants for assistance. Should you wish to rest at present, then we shall see you again for dinner.”
“I cannot speak for my sister,” said Jane, “but I have no need of rest.”
“Then I hope you will join us for refreshments,” replied Lady Anne, before leading her daughter from the room.
“Should Mama see us now, she would die of mortification at the sight of your daring, Lizzy,” said Jane once they were gone.
“Then it is well she is not here,” replied Elizabeth. “It is also well that Lady Anne is of a more relaxed demeanor.”
Jane shook her head. “Only you, Lizzy. But I must tha
nk you, for I am more at ease now than I have been since we left Longbourn.”
“That is why I said it, Jane,” replied Elizabeth, kissing her sister’s cheek. “Humor is my defense against intimidation, and I am confident Lady Anne will endeavor to make everything easy for us.”
The sisters separated thereafter, going to their rooms to change. In these rooms and the sitting-room outside, Elizabeth discovered her impression of the house was accurate. The chamber which was to be hers while in London was large—perhaps as large as Elizabeth and Jane’s rooms at Longbourn together, and the furnishings, while fine, did not leave one with the impression they were to be shown and not used. Elizabeth particularly enjoyed the sight of the bed, which was far larger than anything she had used before. She would sleep well in such comfortable surroundings.
Elizabeth also discovered Lady Anne had assigned her a maid for her stay, a young girl by the name of Lucy, who was already setting about unpacking her effects. Though Elizabeth was uncertain of this development, she greeted the girl with cheer, answered a few questions concerning her preferences, then allowed her to assist when she changed her dress. Within a few moments, they had dispensed the dust of the road, the damage to her hair repaired, and she found herself ready to descend and greet their hosts.
“Well, here we all are now,” said Lady Anne when they were seated together. “Georgiana and I have been anticipating your visit, for as my daughter said, I have no doubt we will all enjoy the visit very much.
“Now, I will ask after your preferences, for I wish to construct our activities based on what will give you the most pleasure during your stay.”
“Oh, do not concern yourselves for us,” protested Jane. “I am certain Lizzy and I shall enjoy whatever activities you believe would be best.”
“It is kind of you to say it, Miss Bennet,” said Lady Anne, patting Jane’s hand, “but we wish to take your preferences into account too. I have had many years in London to attend events, and as such, there is nothing which I particularly wish to do. While we will attend balls, parties, and dinners as expected, there are many more activities in London than those. Do you like plays and the opera, or do your tastes tend more towards exhibits and art?”
