by Beth Poppet
“Mrs Collins…” here he stumbled, “I confess, it is very hard to call you that.”
Jane knit her brow and halted as Mr Bingley did, uncertain what to make of his declaration. She knew that there was no unkindness or bitterness of feeling between Mr Bingley and her late husband, but her humility could not allow her to suppose that he meant anything like a proposal by it.
“Is there another name you would prefer to call me by?” she questioned softly, and in a manner most composed, though within she suffered a great tumult of feeling.
Mr Bingley let his walking stick slip from his hand and impulsively took Jane’s covered hand up instead.
“I should much prefer to call you Mrs Bingley,” he answered, the pressure of his hand and the way he met her gaze leaving no opportunity for doubting his intentions. Surprised by his own forwardness yet emboldened by it too now the first words were out, he eagerly said all the rest that lay on his heart. “It was only for you that I constantly made myself a nuisance in that library. I didn’t care a bit for the view of the stables, handsome as they are, or the books on the shelves, or the cut of the chairs; not for what they were of their own existence, but for the sole reason that they were an excuse to visit with you.”
He collected himself with a steadying breath and looking down a moment, picked up her other hand before he continued. “I… I hope it will not distress you for me to tell you this, but… I began to fall in love with you on that very first night we danced. You were engaged then, but I did not know it at the time, of course, and I have never really stopped loving you, though I have striven to control my feelings in what I hope could be considered an honourable regard. I… I believe I have done so, and I wished Mr Collins nothing but joy and health while he walked this earth, though more than anything, I prayed that you were happy, and my words uttered in haste had not caused you pain. It was a dreadful shock when I heard of his passing, for the part of me that grieved for the loss of a good man struggled awfully with the part of me that rejoiced in the possibility of you being free to marry again one day.” Mr Bingley swallowed thickly. “Had propriety and Christian compassion not insisted that you be allowed to grieve, I might have made a wretched fool of myself and offered you my hand just as soon as I could make my way to you.
“Now you know the worst of it,” he finished, not knowing quite where to look, “And if you can ever forgive me for my despicable selfishness, I think I shall not know real happiness until you have granted it.”
“Oh, Mr Bingley,” Jane tried haltingly, for she struggled to suppress her tears, “I am so utterly ashamed that I did not find some way to tell you that I was newly engaged that first evening. I never dreamed of causing you pain. Indeed, it is the last thing on earth that I could desire, and I would do anything to undo what you have suffered on my account.”
“Dear… dear Jane,” he soothed, “you are all sweetness and generosity! There is nothing to reproach yourself with, and I defy anyone who can find fault with you. But I would be most pleased… indeed, happier than I really deserve, if you would marry me now, and let me take care of you and your dear little lad.”
“Nothing could possibly bring me greater joy! Oh, Mr Bingley, if you only knew how I have admired you; how often I have thought of you and bitterly reproached myself for it, knowing myself to belong to another. I did not believe—could not believe that things might end this way. Indeed, it is too much… How shall I bear such happiness?” At this, her emotions could no longer be kept back, and she wept openly.
Mr Bingley did not hesitate, but drew her into his arms, and comforted her with the noble embrace of one whose sole desire is to fulfil another’s happiness. When Jane had composed herself, they renewed their intentions through continued affirmation, for it did not seem to either of them that they could say too much or express too openly their mutual affection and shared joy.
Jane wished to retrace their steps to Elizabeth and tell her at once, but there was Henry to consider, and time was short before he would likely awaken. She was not long distressed, however, as Elizabeth and Kitty soon appeared on the walk, following, it seemed, at a short but slow distance.
Kitty stepped lithely forward, unheeding the obvious nearness of the couple who had only moments ago been in each other’s arms. Rather than wait for a confirmation of their engagement, she wrapped her arms around Jane, expressing her congratulations without reserve, receiving from Elizabeth a mild, but smiling reproach.
Elizabeth assured Jane that she need not rush to the nursery, as Nanny would surely be happy to manage her charge for at least another quarter of an hour. Mr Bingley was reminded of Mr Bennet’s insistence that Mrs Bennet be told privately and made a passing remark on it.
“Oh!” Jane cried, “I must go to my mother!”
Kitty was disinclined to be part of that particular scene, but generously offered to go on with Jane and make her way to the nursery while their mother inevitably fell into hysterics.
Mrs Bennet did not disappoint on that score. As soon as the words were uttered, there began such fluttering of her hands, and exclamations of delight that Mr Bennet was wholly justified in his desire to be separate from the scene. “Oh, Jane!” she cried, waving her into a delighted embrace, “I knew you could not be so beautiful for nothing! And see how wonderfully it has all turned out for you! Longbourn is secured, you have a strapping young boy, and now you will be rich as well! You could not have made me any happier, best of all girls. What a good daughter you are, my dear Jane!” This last was spoken whilst cupping her daughter’s face with an elated squeeze.
“I am glad to make you so happy, Mama,” Jane answered tearfully. “Mr Bingley is the best of men.”
“But of course, he is,” she assented in a musical fashion, “So very handsome, and gentlemanly. I am very fond of him myself! So much so that I once thought he would do for Lizzy, but as she has not disappointed me after all in her choice and situation, I suppose all has turned out just as it should be—as I always knew it would for you,” she chirped. “And now all my daughters shall be married but one!
“But Jane,” she rattled on, “You must be married from Longbourn. Mr Evander can conduct the ceremony, and then you will go directly to Netherfield, which will be such a convenience to Mr Bingley, who certainly would not wish to always be here and there, but must settle, now that he is taking a wife!”
And though settle the Bingleys did, it was not in the way Mrs Bennet had intended for them. They were married several months after a new Miss Darcy was introduced into the family, with sufficient time following the birth that Elizabeth was recovered enough to attend. Her travails were light in comparison to what Jane’s had been with Henry, and her recovery swift. The new babe was an excellent distraction for Mrs Bennet, who was not as distraught as she might have been over Mr Bingley chusing to give up Netherfield for good and purchase his own estate within thirty miles of Pemberley. This created more distance between Jane and her maidenhood home, but kept her nearer to the sister which had always been dearest to her. No one who knew Mrs Bennet’s proclivity for dramatics could blame the Bingleys for such an establishment, and the purchase was the fulfilment of his sisters’ joy, who could now claim an estate to their family’s name.
Caroline renewed her appearance of fondness for Jane upon her marriage to Mr Bingley, and though Elizabeth was ever wary of Miss Bingley’s pretences, as they could not generally pose a threat to the overall happiness of Jane and her familial bliss, Elizabeth reserved her verbal censure to those instances that called for direct opposition on Jane’s part. When Miss Bingley became Lady Richelieu, she was afforded the proper excuses to maintain a civil distance from her brother’s family, much to the satisfaction of all concerned.
Mr George Evander and his wife were frequent guests at Longbourn, and to the surprise and contentment of Kitty, Mrs Bennet learned to speak with as much pride regarding her husband as one might have hoped for. Though she could never aspire to the lofty accolades heaped upon her siste
rs’ husbands, whether it was the wealth and position of the two eldest’s, or the charm and appeal of the youngest’s, the mere fact that her mother liked Mr Evander and always took care to have his favourite dishes served when they dined was the completion of Kitty’s joy.
Mary continued to improve under the direction and attention of her married sisters with the exception of Lydia whom she regarded with admirable tolerance, despite the frequency with which she made herself—and Mr Wickham when he was able—a guest of the Bingleys.
Mr and Mrs Darcy allowed Lydia to stay with them on occasion but steadfastly refused to darken their gatherings by allowing her husband the same liberties of association. Mr Darcy especially was moved by the birth of his daughter to not only raise fences, but tear others down by seeking reconciliation between Lady Catherine de Bourgh and his family. Her Ladyship was not eager to concede any wrongdoing on her part, but eventually penned her regrets regarding one or two areas in which she might have, perhaps, been a trifle hasty to pass condemnation upon her nephew and his choice of bride. The honour of Elizabeth’s relations thus being restored, Miss Anne de Bourgh delighted again in the company of her singular companion, Mary Bennet. Whether she delighted in her as a true friend, or merely a diverting companion, it was of little consequence to Mary, who gladly stood as her bridesmaid when Miss de Bourgh joined Mr Richard Polbright in holy matrimony.
“For,” she penned to Elizabeth in a letter, “is it not our Christian duty to seek the happiness of others above our own? I have discovered so late in life the remarkable passage in Holy Scriptures which instructs us each to esteem others better than themselves. In this, I have erred. Though I may carry the knowledge of what is right, do I not fail in what is required of me if I share this knowledge out of conceit and self-ambition?”
Elizabeth did not answer her query directly but assumed it a rhetorical one. Still, Mary’s missive gave her cause to smile, and she sent a voluminous letter in return, giving what encouragements and familial happenings she thought might be of interest to her.
She was most happy at last to announce the marriage of Colonel Fitzwilliam to Miss Georgiana Darcy, and their union was so greatly celebrated amongst the Darcys and Matlocks together that there could not, it seemed to them, have been greater felicity amongst the families.