by Jann Rowland
“Please desist, Mr. Wickham! Can you not see my sister’s misery?”
“Ah, you have my apologies, Miss Elizabeth,” said Mr. Wickham, though Elizabeth could see he was not sorry in the slightest. “I did not intend to make your sister feel uncomfortable.” Mr. Wickham stopped and winked at her. “I shall yield the field at present and hope for better days.”
Though he stated as much, Mr. Wickham again proved himself a liar as he continued with them, making comments designed to provoke Mr. Collins. At least he did not insinuate himself on Jane’s person again, which was a relief. Mr. Collins considered Mr. Wickham a threat and treated him accordingly. It was clear to Elizabeth that Mr. Wickham did not return the sentiment, which was the only reason he had ceased importuning Jane for the time being. His behavior once again heightened Elizabeth’s disquiet.
“I am afraid I must depart,” said Mr. Wickham after following them through the town for a time. “Duty calls, and though I am loath to leave such fair companions, I shall not shirk.”
With a bow to them all, Mr. Wickham stepped to Jane, caught up her hand, and bestowed a lingering kiss on its back. “I am grateful to have been in your company again, Miss Bennet. Until next time.”
Then with an insolent smirk at the now furious Mr. Collins, he turned and departed, leaving them standing in the middle of the street. The decision to go to Meryton now proven to be a disaster, Elizabeth’s only thought was to return to Longbourn before her released the inevitable explosion of anger. She only hoped they would reach their home before Mr. Collins lost control of his temper and embarrassed them all.
Chapter VII
“Who was that . . . officer?”
The distaste in Mr. Collins’s voice was unmistakable, though Elizabeth detected an equal measure of petulance. A man as wrongly self-confident as Mr. Collins would see no danger to his designs of marrying Jane because of a man ten times as handsome and intelligent. That Mr. Wickham had no chance of marrying Jane was not at issue—neither did Mr. Collins, though he pressed forward with all the determination of a zealot.
“I believe we introduced you to him, Mr. Collins.”
Mr. Collins scowled at Elizabeth from where he maintained a possessive hold on Jane’s arm. “Perhaps you did. It seems to me you should choose your acquaintances rather more carefully, for there is something about him I cannot like.” Mr. Collins paused and said: “It comes to my mind I have heard of this Mr. Wickham before, though I cannot remember when.”
While Elizabeth could not imagine how Mr. Collins might have come across Mr. Wickham’s name in the past, that was not at issue. “If you recall, Mr. Collins,” said Elizabeth, continuing to speak for her sisters, “Mr. Wickham approached us—not the reverse. The militia officers are new acquaintances, the regiment having arrived recently. We cannot be certain of the characters of them all, the acquaintance being new, but when someone known to us approaches on a street, it would be rudeness to refuse to respond.”
The glare did not lessen, but Mr. Collins conceded the point. “I suppose you must be correct. In the future, however, it would behoove you all to take greater care in allowing such ruffians into your acquaintance. Especially you, dearest Cousin,” Mr. Collins bestowed a tender look on Jane, a look which seemed more like it came from a constipated dog than a suitor, “for a woman in your position must do nothing to jeopardize your good fortune.”
“What is your opinion of this verse, Mr. Collins?” asked Mary, attempting to divert his attention. “It is said that we should love others as we do ourselves.”
Mr. Collins drew himself up in his self-importance. “Yes, well, charity is the highest virtue we can possess. Lady Catherine has often said we must succor the poor. In doing so, we may ensure they know their place and not attempt to rise above it.”
It was such a nonsensical statement that Elizabeth could not help but throw a dumbfounded stare at the man. It succeeded in its purpose, however, which was to distract him from his improper words, and they continued with all three girls silent, though Mary responded to Mr. Collins’s grandiose statements whenever the opportunity allowed. That was not often.
So focused was he on imparting his supposed wisdom to his young supplicant that, for a time, he even forgot about insisting on Jane’s attendance to his company. While he was distracted, Elizabeth took the opportunity to have a quiet word with her sister.
“Jane, are you well?”
The look her sister gave her in return was filled with more than a little alarm, but she mastered herself and smiled, though it did not reach her eyes. “Do not concern yourself for me, Lizzy.”
“But I do concern myself,” said Elizabeth, frustrated her sister would not acknowledge the impropriety of Mr. Collins’s actions. “When we arrive at Longbourn, we should speak with Papa. If Mr. Collins will not cease proclaiming you as his property, it would be best if Papa were to ask him to leave.”
“That is unnecessary, Lizzy,” protested Jane. “It is little matter what Mr. Collins says.” Then a horror-filled expression came over Jane’s countenance, and she turned a little green. “Papa would not insist I marry him, would he?”
“How can you think such a thing, Jane?” demanded Elizabeth, aghast her sister was uncertain of her father’s support. “Of course, he will not! The entail is no more. We need not depend on Mr. Collins’s kindness—if such a thing even exists.”
“Come, walk with me, Cousin Jane,” said Mr. Collins, interrupting their tête-à-tête, “for I have something of which I would speak to you.”
The parson directed a suspicious glare at Elizabeth, but he addressed Jane again: “The modesty which you display is pleasing, for it is meet that a parson’s wife should be demure in all things. There is little doubt in my mind you will fill my need for a helpmeet in the parish, and I am convinced your beauty and mildness will appeal to Lady Catherine as well. You will, no doubt, wish to defer to her, not only as your superior in every way but because of her extensive experience.
“Having said that, this business of allowing another gentleman such liberties as this Mr. Wickham sought to take is worrisome. To allow other men to dominate your attention, or to rest your hand on their arm, is beyond what any delicate woman should allow. Remember how tender a thing a woman’s reputation is, how hard to preserve, and when lost how impossible to recover. I would not have any wife of mine suffer the loss of virtue, no matter how small.”
One glance at Jane revealed how terrified she was, looking at Mr. Collins, mouth open, eyes wild with fear. It would be Elizabeth’s responsibility to provide a response to the absurd man’s comments, and she would not shirk.
“That is enough, Mr. Collins!”
So surprised was the parson he did not immediately reply, a circumstance which Elizabeth used to good effect. “This must stop, sir, for it is most unseemly. You speak of my sister as if you are engaged, and I will not have it. Please desist from speaking in such terms, for you are not betrothed, nor, from my knowledge of Jane’s feelings and character, will you ever be!”
By the time Elizabeth had finished her speech, Mr. Collins was sporting a fierce scowl. “Though your parents have hired a companion,” said he in a lofty tone, “it is apparent her instructions fell on deaf ears in your case. This does not concern you, Cousin. Perhaps you should give heed to the words for Fordyce, which I just quoted, and remember your place.” Turning to Jane, he said: “Come, Cousin Jane—let us walk together and discuss our future felicity in marriage.”
“Are you witless, Mr. Collins?” demanded Elizabeth, stepping between the parson and her elder sister. “Can you not see how fearful you have made my sister? Can you not understand how she detests the very sight of you?”
“Enough!” roared Mr. Collins. “Cease this objectionable behavior this instant!”
“I might say the same to you, sir,” said Elizabeth, her resentment now equal to her abhorrence for his small-minded person. “I will not allow you to compromise my sister by word
of mouth. Do a woman’s wishes now count for nothing? You have not even proposed to her, you stupid man!”
“If you ever wish to have a home after your father is gone, you will stop now! I will not have one of such indelicacy, such impropriety as you in my home.”
“Longbourn is not yours, nor will it ever be,” snapped Elizabeth, ignoring Jane’s futile effort to have her say.
“It most certainly will be, my dear Cousin,” sneered the parson. “And I have come to my decision. You will be thrown from Longbourn the instant your father passes, for I will not have you tainting my wife with such indecency.”
“I could never have a man who would ban my dear sister from my home!” Jane finally found her voice, and while she did not speak with the forcefulness Elizabeth might have desired, that she spoke up at all was welcome.
“The decision will not be yours, dearest,” said Mr. Collins, his angry tone from the previous moments becoming a simpering smirk. “Perhaps you do not understand the laws under which England is governed—and if you are not, perhaps it is for the best, for a delicate creature such as my beautiful flower does not need to know of such matters! Once you are married and your father has passed, Longbourn becomes your husband’s possession.”
“We are well aware of the law,” snapped Elizabeth. “But your thinking is laced with fallacy, Cousin—my father has informed us all he will make provision for all of us in the contract by which he passes Longbourn down to Jane. Should he not be convinced her husband intends to honor the spirit of the agreement, rather than just the letter of it, he will change the inheritance to one of his other daughters.”
“Surely not!”
“He said so himself. Furthermore, he will not force any of his daughters into marriage, and certainly not to a . . . a . . . a malodorous cretin such as you.”
“We shall see about that, Cousin Elizabeth,” said Mr. Collins, his tone less assured than it was a moment ago.
“Perchance it would be best to end our dispute,” interjected Mary. “For we have been told contention is of the devil, and we would be wise to avoid it.”
“Poor, wretched Mary,” mocked the parson. “Always speaking of matters of which you know nothing, attempting to portray yourself as a woman of God. There is little difference between you and your elder sister. Be assured that when Longbourn is mine, I will demand your departure, the same as your sister.”
“That is enough!” cried Elizabeth. “Jane, Mary, it is time to return to Longbourn. You, sir, are no parson. All you will ever be is a stain upon your profession!”
And with those final words, Elizabeth grasped her sisters’ arms and began to propel them back towards the estate. Mr. Collins was not about to be left behind and he followed along behind them, his words a constant stream of abuse at Elizabeth in particular, threats concerning what he would do and admonishments for her to behave better. Elizabeth ignored him. It was a fine irony that a man of Mr. Collins’s ilk, one who had little understanding of proper deportment himself, would complain of another‘s behavior!
The house rose in the distance, and Elizabeth marched toward it, careful to ensure Mr. Collins attempted nothing untoward. The parson was content to continue his criticisms, as he made no move toward anything of a physical nature. When they reached the sanctuary of the house, he stopped long enough to hand his hat and coat to the butler, before he turned a baleful eye on Elizabeth.
“You may be assured I shall speak to your father of this matter. Mayhap he will even understand the necessity of throwing you off now, for your continued presence can only be a detriment to his other daughters.”
With those final words, the man turned on his heel and stalked toward Mr. Bennet’s study. He threw open the door and entered therein without even the courtesy of a knock.
“Lizzy? Jane? What is happening?” exclaimed Mrs. Bennet as she appeared in the door to the sitting-room.
“Mr. Collins is what is happening,” replied Elizabeth. Knowing her mother and expecting this event might bring out her nerves, Elizabeth turned to her sisters. “Please take Mama into the sitting-room. I shall join Papa in his study.”
Even in such a distressing situation, her sisters understood the reason to keep their mother calm. The sisters gathered Mrs. Bennet while Elizabeth straightened her shoulders and walked to the open door of her father’s room. As she approached, she could hear the raised voice of her father’s cousin.
Mr. Bennet had been enjoying a quiet afternoon in his study. The morning had been dedicated to estate business, as there had been a tenant concern to see to and repairs to a fence at one of the estate’s borders. After that, Bennet had been at his leisure to return to his room and devote himself to the written word. When he had neglected the estate in the early years of his marriage, Bennet had not realized he could often do the estate business in only part of a day, eager as he was to avoid it altogether. Now that the succession to Jane was secure, he felt a greater urgency to augment his other daughters’ dowries. But that did not mean he did not have ample time to indulge his favorite pastime.
The approaching loud voices had not pierced his consciousness for several moments, though subsequent reflection revealed that he had, indeed, heard them. When the outer door was opened, the louder sounds filtered through his door, pulling his attention away from Chaucer. The clear anger in them, and the fact that he could make out the tones of both Elizabeth and Mr. Collins’s voices told him something had happened. Bennet stood from behind his desk and had taken his first steps toward the door when the parson’s voice had grown louder, and the door was flung open without a by-your-leave.
If it was one thing Bennet had always detested, it was his sanctuary being invaded without a knock or permission being given—his wife had taken some time to learn this simple fact. The ruddiness of Mr. Collins’s countenance suggested the man was far too incensed to give any thought to such pleasantries. But it was annoying, nonetheless.
“Cousin!” boomed Mr. Collins. “I cannot even begin to inform you how shameless, how utterly improper her behavior is. I must insist upon your setting your daughters straight, for I shall not countenance such willful contempt for my position as this. You must take them in hand.”
“If it is as you say, Collins,” said Bennet, “I shall do so with alacrity. As of yet, however, you have not informed me of what, particularly, has angered you so. Shall you not do so?”
“I shall tell you, Papa.” Elizabeth entered the room, her glare at his cousin showing her distaste. As for Mr. Collins, the poisonous look he directed at her was enough to alarm Bennet. A man did not look at a woman in such a manner in polite society.
“Mr. Collins has gotten it into his head to speak to and of Jane as if she is already betrothed to him, and he will not moderate his language.”
“Is this true, Collins?” asked Bennet, spearing the parson with a look. While Bennet had divined his cousin’s interest on that score, it did not seem to him that Collins was behaving inappropriately, despite his ardent and inept attempts to woo Jane. Though Bennet would not have allowed a betrothal, he also did not wish to offend his cousin, their reconciliation being new and fragile, so he had thought to refrain from saying anything until it became a true problem.
“I was merely stating my displeasure for allowing a man of the militia to take up so much of her attention,” said Mr. Collins, his righteous indignation betrayed in his posture. “It is a failing in you, I suppose, to allow them such freedom.”
“You did, did you?” asked Elizabeth, sarcasm oozing from her voice. “Did you not say I would not be welcome in Longbourn when it was yours? What of your callous words to Mary and your disregard for her feelings? Did we, in any way, misunderstand you?”
The parson attempted to bluster for a moment, but it was clear he had no answer. Bennet looked to Elizabeth, noting her tight nod at his unspoken question, not that he would have disbelieved her account. It appeared the time to disabuse Mr. Collins was upon him, whether he wi
shed it or not.
“It would be best, Cousin, if you approached me regarding any of my daughters. Then I may set you straight so you may avoid any misunderstanding concerning their feelings or my opinion on the matter.”
“And so I have,” replied Mr. Collins with a tight nod. “Furthermore, I ask you to set your daughters straight so there is no misunderstanding. You must know I have come here for this purpose—I am not accustomed to being put off in matters of import.”
“I am sorry, Mr. Collins,” said Bennet, tiring of the silly man, “but that will have little effect on me. My daughters are all precious to me. Nothing would induce me to engage any of them to a man they did not favor.”
Mr. Collins gasped. “No, it cannot be! Miss Bennet must be betrothed to me. Every feeling depends on it—honor, mercy, gratitude, justice—all of these must be satisfied.”
“You have stated your piece, Mr. Collins. Now let me state mine: my daughters are all free to marry wherever they like. I will not direct them. Considering you have only been here for two days, you cannot have courted my daughter and proposed to her. That is the only way for you to achieve your desire.”
“Jane detests the very sight of him,” supplied Elizabeth.
“She has never said as much to me!” snapped Mr. Collins.
“When have you ever given her the chance?” demanded Elizabeth. “Had you ever had occasion to dam your continual waterfall of words, you may have heard Jane disavow all interest in you as a husband. But you blather on, speaking of your crone of a mistress and her nonsensical advice, allowing no one else to speak a word. How was Jane to inform you of her disinterest? A man of any intelligence at all would have seen through her eagerness to be out of your company every time she found herself in it!”
“See!” cried Mr. Collins, pointing at Elizabeth. “See what a wild child you have raised? Do you not see how she should be censured and despised?”