“Sir, my parents…”
“Ah, that. Allow me to assure you that I have your respected mother's permission for this address.”
“My mother?” Why, of course Mrs. Bennet would encourage this folly! For folly it was. Elizabeth would no more marry Mr. Collins than….
Than Mr. Darcy? Asked some fiendish little voice in the back of her head. Would you not?
Of course, it was not Darcy who was in the process of proposing to her. It was Mr. Collins, and he did so in the most wretched way imaginable. A way that seemed designed to, in turn, insult her, belittle her, and cast her as one of an interchangeable five daughters, as if they were horses for hire in a stable.
“It had been my intention, you see, to choose for my wife from among the young ladies for whom the loss of their father’s estate shall be felt most keenly. I had, of course, believed that the eldest was most due the honor of my attentions, but your amiable mother has assured me that she is all but spoken for. And so, fair cousin, the benefit shall fall to you, and I flatter myself it will not sink me in your esteem that you were not my original object.”
“Indeed, sir,” she managed to say without smiling. “I think there is little that could sink you in my esteem. However, I should not delay an answer a moment longer. I am conscious of the honor of your offer, but to accept is absolutely impossible.”
“Can this be?” Mr. Collins replied, quite astonished. “Your mother assured me that you would not defer to Jane, being as conscious as she of her previous attachment.”
How good of her mother to save Jane for Mr. Bingley, Elizabeth thought. If only she had known of what had transpired on the Netherfield balcony, Mrs. Bennet might have insisted on saving her second daughter for Mr. Darcy, as well. This entire exercise was preposterous. She must end it at once.
“I am not sending you to my sister Jane, Mr. Collins,” Elizabeth said, her voice turning firm. “But I am telling you that your suit will not succeed with me. I am certain that you cannot make me happy, and I believe I am the last woman in the world who can make you so. I thank you for the compliment you pay me, but I must decline.”
“Upon what grounds?” he demanded. “Be not certain, cousin, that another offer may ever be made to you, despite your manifold attraction. You have no fortune, which will surely weigh heavily against your other qualities.”
She swallowed heavily. How could she marry any man who insulted her even as he proposed? “You may be right, sir. And yet, I remain unmoved.”
“Shocking,” was his retort, and he frowned severely at her. “To reject someone such as myself. I who enjoys the patronage of Lady Catherine De Bourgh. Who will someday—perhaps even soon—be the master of this very house.”
“May we consider this matter closed?” she asked, feeling the beginning of temper flicker about her temples. “I have given you my answer and see no cause to prolong this interview.”
“Are you secretly engaged to some other man?”
Engaged? No. Nothing so certain as all that.
“One of those militia officers who are always sniffing about?”
“If I were,” she replied, “I should hardly feel inspired to share such a secret with you.”
“I could inform your parents,” said Mr. Collins. “I am certain they would end any such clandestine understanding immediately upon my word.”
Elizabeth could not but smile at that. “Perhaps, sir, you have underestimated my mother’s desire to see a daughter wed. Like you, she does not think overmuch about the suitability of the partner. She might suggest that if I am not available, you should consider the next Bennet in line.”
Who could tell? Maybe Mary would take him.
“I shall not have any Bennet!” he exclaimed angrily. “And you, foolish cousin, will have the honor of informing your mother why her dreams of remaining in this house when her husband has gone have been dashed to bits!”
And with that, he whirled on his heel and exited, leaving Elizabeth in a state of heightened emotion she could not identify. It was somewhere between hilarity and rage. She sat, pressing a hand against her fiercely beating heart.
Elizabeth had received a kiss and a marriage proposal, all in one week, and both under the most distressing circumstances. The former had discomfited her self; the latter seemed poised to upset her entire house.
She was not wrong. Within the hour, Elizabeth had received a thorough tongue-lashing from Mrs. Bennet for her rejection of Mr. Collins’s suit. She was an ungrateful wretch, a foolhardy girl who knew not what her poor mother suffered every day that her daughters remained unmarried. She could have given them all such peace. How dare she ? How dare she? Mrs. Bennet then dragged Elizabeth into her father’s study, where she reported to him the entire affair and insisted that Mr. Bennet right the wrong and order his daughter to marry his heir.
Mr. Bennet demurred, to Elizabeth’s great relief. Mrs. Bennet screamed and took to her room to have the vapors.
And as the uproar continued around her, from Jane asking what she thought they ought to do to calm her mother’s nerves, to Kitty and Lydia begging for a recitation of what precisely Mr. Collins had said, to Mr. Collins angrily bashing about with his trunks and valise until he had finally departed, Elizabeth’s mind was filled only with one, preposterous thought:
How very different the morning might have been if another gentleman had asked for her hand!
Chapter 12
Two days after Mr. Collins’s abrupt departure from Longbourn, Elizabeth felt as if she was quite as desperate for a visit from Netherfield as Jane. Mr. Bingley had called upon them once since the ball, reporting that Mr. Darcy remained very ill indeed, but as it had been nearly four days since then, it was likely he had recovered, as Jane and Elizabeth had done at Netherfield.
She did not know what she would do when he did come. How she would act, or how he might expect her to. She had determined within herself that she would forget the entire incident on the balcony and, as to the rest, be guided only by his behavior.
Her thoughts had been her constant companion these last two days, which she had spent primarily in avoidance of her mother, whose endless wailings on the topic of how Elizabeth had ruined the family were tiresome in the extreme. She had taken to the pond, to the orchard, to the stables, to the turkey-house. Anything to avoid Mrs. Bennet’s lectures.
But she had not brought books, nor companions, which meant that her rambles were quite solitary, and good for nothing more than reflection on the contents of her own heart. Which were all jumbled, and likely would remain so until such time as she saw Mr. Darcy again.
Surely he would come.
When next she ventured into the house, she skipped over the drawing room completely and found Jane above in her bedroom, poring over the contents of a letter which, Elizabeth quickly discovered, had lately arrived from Netherfield.
Jane appeared dismayed by the contents.
“Oh, Lizzy,” she said. “I have just received word from Caroline Bingley. She writes that the whole party will have left Netherfield by now for London and without any intention of coming back again.”
“That cannot be!” Elizabeth exclaimed, but Jane passed her the letter, and indeed, it confirmed her words. Caroline’s letter was a piece of elegant, little, hot-pressed paper, well covered with a lady's fair, flowing hand. But its fine appearance belied the littleness and meanness of her pointed words.
When my brother left us yesterday, he imagined that the business which took him to London might be concluded in three or four days, but we are certain it cannot be so. I am convinced that when Charles gets to town he will be in no hurry to leave it again, so we have determined on following him thither, that he may not be obliged to spend his vacant hours in a comfortless hotel.
Many of my acquaintance are already there for the winter; I wish I could hear that you, my dearest friend, had any intention of making one in the crowd, but of that I despair. I sincerely hope your Christmas in Hertfordshire may abound in the gaieti
es which that season generally brings and that your beaux will be so numerous as to prevent your feeling the loss of the three of whom we shall deprive you. I do not pretend to regret any thing I shall leave in Hertfordshire, except your society, my dearest friend.
Elizabeth pursed her lips. It seemed impossible to her that Mr. Darcy might leave Netherfield without at least speaking to her, after all that had occurred.
“Perhaps ‘we’ only pertains to Miss Bingley and some of the household staff,” she said, grasping for excuses. “If Mr. Darcy is still too ill to be moved, then perhaps he shall remain with the Hursts until Mr. Bingley returns.”
“Mr. Darcy is one of the party that has gone to London,” Jane argued. “Only read on, Lizzy, and you shall see.”
Elizabeth did.
Mr. Darcy is much recovered from that same illness which affected you when you were lately at the house, and which required him to retire early from our ball. There is no one more impatient get into town than that gentleman, and it is in large part due to his encouragement that we follow so quickly upon the heels of my brother.
The gasp of breath which followed upon her reading of this paragraph might even have been called a shout of surprise. Elizabeth dropped to the bed beside her sister, holding out the letter as if it were a living, biting thing.
“Mr. Darcy’s idea to leave?” But….to leave without saying a word to her? How could that be?
But then she was reminded of her own behavior, upon leaving Netherfield. She, too, had been embarrassed after her fever had caused her to act contrary to her nature. She, too, had sought to avoid the gentleman who had come to her aid. If Mr. Darcy was gripped by the same sense of mortification, he might flee rather than face her.
He might fear even that she expected something from him. And, Elizabeth admitted, were not all her fancies of the last few days precisely that?
She was heartily ashamed of herself. To even entertain the thought that what had passed between them was real. No, it was a fever dream. The work of a foolish mind with too little to occupy it during a rainy week.
“Not Mr. Darcy’s idea, no,” said Jane. “I do believe it was Caroline’s, though he did encourage her. You can read on to see why.”
I believe he longs to see his sister, and to confess the truth, we are scarcely less eager to meet her again. I really do not think Georgiana Darcy has her equal for beauty, elegance, and accomplishments, and the affection she inspires in Louisa and myself is heightened into something still more interesting, from the hope we dare to entertain of her being hereafter our sister.
I do not know whether I ever before mentioned to you my feelings on this subject, but I will not leave the country without confiding them, and I trust you will not esteem them unreasonable. My brother admires her greatly already, he will have frequent opportunity now of seeing her on the most intimate footing, and her relations all wish the connection as much as his own. A sister's partiality is not misleading me, I think, when I call Charles most capable of engaging any woman's heart. With all these circumstances to favor an attachment and nothing whatsoever to prevent it, am I wrong, my dearest Jane, in indulging the hope of an event which will secure the happiness of so many?
“What think you of this sentence, my dear Lizzy?” said Jane as she finished the letter. “Is it not clear enough? Does it not expressly declare that Caroline neither expects nor wishes me to be her sister, that she is perfectly convinced of her brother's indifference, and that if she suspects the nature of my feelings for him, she means, most kindly, to put me on my guard? Can there be any other opinion on the subject?”
“There can be many,” Elizabeth replied, “but few whose tone or manner are in keeping with your sweet nature, Jane. I do not think there is a single syllable in this letter that can be construed as kind.”
“Lizzy!”
“Hear me out. If Miss Bingley does indeed suspect a partiality on your side, she might speak frankly of her hopes for her brother and Miss Darcy. A private word in your ear, perhaps, during the many occasions of your intimacy. But who has been calling on us at Longbourn most often while the Bingleys were at Netherfield. Was it Miss Bingley? Or was it her brother?”
And his friend.
“Why… lately, I suppose it has been Mr. Bingley,” said Jane.
“Precisely. And therefore, I do not think she is concerned so much for your feelings about Mr. Bingley, as she is his feelings about you. Miss Bingley sees that her brother is in love with you but wants him to marry Miss Darcy. She follows him to town in the hope of keeping him there and tries to persuade you that he does not care about you.”
Jane shook her head.
Elizabeth dearly wanted to leave Jane to her misery and go indulge in a bit of her own. But she knew that it was Jane who suffered most cruelly by this turn of events. Her sister truly had seemed to love her suitor, and everyone believed that Mr. Bingley’s affections were likewise engaged. As for Elizabeth—all she had was a collection of fancies she’d allowed to run rampant since the ball. No one knew of the connection she’d shared with Mr. Darcy. Even Jane, who had witnessed his rescue of her, thought it merely a kind service and nothing more.
No, Jane needed her now.
“Indeed, Jane, you ought to believe me. No one who has ever seen you together can doubt his affection. Miss Bingley is not such a simpleton.” She laughed, in spite of herself. “Could she have seen half as much love in Mr. Darcy for herself, she would have ordered her wedding clothes.”
Perhaps it was a special quality of Darcy’s that made one’s imagination soar to such ridiculous heights. Or maybe it was simply his vast fortune that had attracted her, and Elizabeth was no better than Miss Bingley, nor any other chit on the marriage market in town.
“The case is this,” she went on. “We are not rich enough or grand enough for them, and she is anxious to get Miss Darcy for her brother, from the notion that when there has been one intermarriage, she may have less trouble in achieving a second.”
“No, I am sure you are wrong,” Jane replied. “Do not place such accusations at Miss Bingley’s feet. I am sure if she has hopes for Mr. Bingley and Miss Darcy, it is because of the latter’s lovely qualities and accomplishments.”
“But you will not deny she has set her cap for him,” Elizabeth shot back. “Though I believe I heard once that he was intended for a cousin in Kent. The daughter of the very lady of Rosings Park about whom we have lately heard so much.”
She had never paid much mind to Mr. Collins’s ramblings about the family to whom he owed his preferment. But perhaps she ought to have listened more closely. It made sense, in a way, for Mr. Darcy to feel free to kiss the odd girl in the country, so long as he was safely promised to a woman of fortune in Kent. She had never once heard the name of Miss De Bourgh spoken by him, nor anyone else at Netherfield, though she doubted highly that Miss Bingley would want her rival brought up in conversation.
“But, my dearest Jane, you cannot seriously imagine that because Miss Bingley tells you her brother greatly admires Miss Darcy, he is in the smallest degree less sensible of your merit than when he took leave of you on Tuesday, or that it will be in her power to persuade him that instead of being in love with you, he is very much in love with her friend.”
“If we thought alike of Miss Bingley,” replied Jane, “your representation of all this might make me quite easy. But I know the foundation is unjust. Caroline is incapable of willfully deceiving any one. All that I can hope in this case is that she herself is deceived.”
Elizabeth scoffed at this. There were many things Miss Bingley might be deceived in. The direction of her brother’s affections, however, was not one of them.
“Besides,” Jane went on, “could I be happy, even supposing the best, in accepting a man whose sisters and friends are all wishing him to marry elsewhere?”
“You must decide for yourself,” said Elizabeth, “and if, upon mature deliberation, you find that the misery of disobliging his two sisters is more than equiv
alent to the happiness of being his wife, I advise you by all means to refuse him.”
She had expected Jane to smile. But instead, her brow furrowed all the more. “That is not a happy thought. Caroline Bingley has never been other than a good friend to me. Even if I am not the first choice they would make for his wife, surely they love me such that their disapprobation would not color their joy shared with both their brother and their friend.”
“Would such a supposition require you to hesitate?”
“I cannot say. And perhaps I shall never know. If he returns no more this winter, my choice will never be required. A thousand things may arise in six months! Perhaps he will forget all about me and come to love another, even if he does not already.”
“Perhaps,” said Elizabeth. “Perhaps in six months, you shall forget him, too.”
Perhaps they would all forget the events that had transpired among the party so lately at Netherfield Park.
Chapter 13
Everyone at Longbourn was overjoyed to have their aunt and uncle, the Gardiners, visiting from London for Christmas, and none more so than Elizabeth, who loved her aunt as much as any lady in her family save Jane. Had Elizabeth's opinion been all drawn from her own family, she could not have formed a very pleasing picture of conjugal felicity or domestic comfort, but for nearly a dozen years, she’d had the example of her dear aunt and uncle on regular visits between Longbourn and their lovely home in London.
Mr. Gardiner was a successful tradesman, and his wife an intelligent, elegant, amiable woman who had filled his home with children and happiness. If ever Elizabeth was tempted to cultivate a dismal opinion on the subject of matrimony, she need only remember the marriage of the Gardiners to recall that when respect and equality of mind and affection existed between the partners, felicity in marriage could easily follow.
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