by Mary Street
‘If he does not object, why should you?’
‘He has not given the matter proper consideration,’ I said with finality.
Overruled by the rest of us, Mr Hurst said no more, but his objection had amazed me. I would not have expected him to have any opinion on the matter. He was a surly man who seemed to have no interest in anyone or anything apart from cards, sport, food and drink. His wife largely ignored him: we all did. I had once thought we seemed to carry him around with us like a piece of unwanted baggage.
For the rest of the day we set about arranging the business of quitting Netherfield Park. Caroline Bingley wrote to Jane Bennet to inform her of our departure and the likelihood of none of us returning to Netherfield. It was necessary, but I confess I did not much care for the creamy smile on that lady’s face as she wrote.
For myself, I took no pleasure in the matter. I bore no malice towards Jane Bennet and, certain as I was she would not be heartbroken, I knew she had entertained hopes of securing Bingley. She would be disappointed and possibly embarrassed by the swift and sudden defection of such a promising suitor.
I refused to think of Elizabeth; I refused to dwell on my own feelings. Instead, I set myself the task of marshalling my arguments to Bingley. I had no doubt of my own ability to persuade him: he had paid no heed to the evils of such a match, but I would describe them most emphatically. And I knew he would accept my assurance he had not won the lady’s affection.
We set off for London the next day. Miss Bingley stayed with her sister in Grosvenor Street, where Mr Hurst had a house. I persuaded Bingley to quit his hotel and move into my house in Eaton Place.
Bingley had been very surprised to see us, and I lost no time in making known our reasons. It pained me to see how distressed he was, but I did not hesitate. ‘I am sure she would marry you,’ I said. ‘She knows you would make a good husband and she knows it would be to her own advantage. She is amiable, I have no doubt she would make a pleasing wife. But….’ I went on to list all the causes of repugnance: her low connections, the defects of her family, and my own absolute conviction that her affections were not engaged.
Bingley was clearly shaken. ‘I never thought she cared as much for me as I do for her,’ he admitted, ‘but I did feel she had some regard for me.’
‘I have seen no evidence of it,’ I said. ‘I have watched her most particularly. We know her sister Elizabeth has her affection, we have seen it, it is most pronounced. If there was half as much affection in her countenance when she looked at you I would not now be talking to you as I am.’
Bingley was silent for some time. At last he said, ‘I will give the matter some thought.’
I did not press any further: I knew he would come to see the sense of what I had said.
I wished I could be more sympathetic, but the sense of what I had said was just as applicable to my own sentiments for Elizabeth and I was feeling pain on my own behalf as well as his. Besides, I did not want sympathy: I just wanted peace to deal with my feelings in my own time and I thought Bingley also would prefer to be left alone.
One advantage of being in town again was that I was able to see Georgiana and discover for myself how she was. I had been rather concerned about her, for she was shy and awkward with strangers and never made friends easily. Even with myself she showed some reserve: the difference in our ages and my being invested with authority of a guardian inclined her to look upon me more as a father than a brother. Never had she shown so much spirit as she had in her defence of Wickham, which I had then had to crush. I felt all the perverseness of that situation.
Georgiana was surprised, though pleased to see me and I engaged to take her to the theatre on Saturday. In the event, Bingley and his sisters joined us, the two ladies making such a fuss of her that I had but little chance to converse with her. But I observed her, saw she was looking well, and a quiet word with Mrs Annesley, her new companion, taught me she was no longer suffering from periods of dejection.
Many of our friends were already in town for the winter season: within a week, we had enough social engagements to keep us busy until the new year: Bingley did not mention returning to Netherfield. His decision was understood without being spoken.
One morning, about a fortnight after we had left Netherfield, Bingley and I were at breakfast when the post brought a letter from my aunt, Lady Catherine. My aunt’s letters were usually full of the most trivial communications and I opened it and began reading without much interest, until my attention was horribly fixed by one piece of information concerning someone I knew.
Mr William Collins, my aunt had written, was going to be married to a lady in Hertfordshire. The wedding would take place at Longbourn.
‘Good God, Darcy, whatever is the matter?’ cried Bingley. ‘You are as white as a sheet.’
‘How can she do this?’ I asked myself.
‘What? Who? Darcy, whatever is wrong?’
I did not answer. I rose from the table and would have quitted the room except that Bingley, swift on his feet, intercepted me before I reached the door, repeating, ‘Darcy, what is wrong?’
‘For heaven’s sake!’ I shouted at him. ‘Can you not see I wish to be left alone?’ I pushed him out of my way and ran from the room.
I found sanctuary in the blue saloon: there I was almost doubled over with nausea. Elizabeth with the odious Mr Collins! It was insupportable! How could she? I had been as certain sure as possible she would have no truck with him. How could I have been so mistaken in her character?
Early as it was, I reached for the brandy, gasping as the raw spirit stung my throat. It helped to pull me from the worst of my imaginings, but other cold ideas were taking hold. To my dismay I found myself visualizing Elizabeth at Hunsford Parsonage: she would be neighbour to my aunt, called upon to dine and take tea at Rosings Park, and assist to make up a quadrille table, and listen and defer to that lady’s decided opinions on every trivial matter.
Worse, I would have to see her. I would have to see her and call her Mrs Collins! Every year, I spent Easter at Rosings; every year I would see a little more of her spirit disappear, for disappear it would. If marriage to the voluble Mr Collins did not entirely crush her, the additional weight of my aunt’s forceful personality surely would do the rest.
I could not bear it. I thought of her future suffering and raged against those who would cause it. I thought of her consenting to the marriage and raged against her for doing so. I thought of her submitting to the disgusting embraces of the slimy fellow and wanted to strangle them both. I paced up and down the room, tearing my hair, half resolving to ride straight down to Longbourn and put a stop to it.
Yet she must have chosen it herself. I knew her mother wished the match and would pressure her to accept, but I had never supposed Elizabeth to be wholly amenable to her mother’s wishes, and she would not shrink from that lady’s displeasure. As for her father, I was persuaded he had no great opinion of Mr Collins: indolent he might be, but he would support her in any refusal.
Her own choice then, and what right did I have to object? I had renounced her myself and in doing so I fully understood she might one day take another man to be her husband. This was the notion that gave me greatest pain, but I had not expected it to happen so soon, and I had comforted myself with the reflection that I would know nothing of it. I had even prayed for blessings on her and for a man who could make her happy, but with Mr Collins there could be little prospect of that.
I reached for more brandy, changed my mind and slumped in a chair, disgusted with her, disgusted with myself for caring so much about a woman who had chosen such a fate, such a man!
How long I sat there, I know not. I heard Bingley go out: he must have spoken to the servants, for none disturbed me, not even to make up the fire. The ashes were cold in the grate long before I emerged from my reverie and even the sound of the doorbell, the sure signal of visitors, did not fully rouse me.
Had my visitor been any other than Georgiana, my butler would
have said I was not at home, but he did not dare send away my sister with a false excuse. Instead, he showed her into a sitting-room at the back of the house, told her I was presently engaged in a matter of business, then came to inform me she was there.
I forced myself to some semblance of normality, tidied my hair, straightened my stock and slapped at my own cheeks to bring a little colour to them, for I did not wish my sister to be concerned about me.
She was with Mrs Annesley. I ordered tea, asked what she had been doing and obliged myself to make conversation. We discussed several matters before Georgiana asked, ‘Did you meet a lady named Charlotte Lucas whilst you were in Hertfordshire, sir?’
I was surprised. ‘Well, yes, I did. Why do you ask?’
‘I wondered what she was like?’
‘Not very tall, a little on the plump side, rather plain, I’m afraid. Straight brown hair; I cannot vouch for the colour of her eyes.’
‘And what is your opinion of her?’
‘My dear, I had but little conversation with her. She seemed a pleasant, calm, sensible sort of woman, but more than that I cannot tell you. Her father, I am afraid, is a dreadful bore. What is your interest in Miss Lucas?’
Georgiana shrugged. ‘It is merely that I wondered what kind of woman would marry Mr Collins.’
I gasped, swallowed, and managed, ‘What did you say?’
‘Mr Collins,’ said Georgiana, ‘is the new rector of Hunsford, and our aunt, Lady Catherine—’
‘Yes, yes, I know all that,’ I told her. ‘I have met him, for my sins.’ I was trying to think, which in my dazed state of mind was not easy. To give myself time, I said, ‘When did you meet him?’
Georgiana flushed. ‘The last time I was at Rosings Park, of course. In July.’
‘Ah, yes, of course. And where does Miss Lucas come into it?’
‘Have you not heard from Aunt Catherine recently?’
‘I have,’ I confessed, ‘but I have not—’ I gasped as a new idea assailed me. ‘I have not paid as much attention to her letter as perhaps I should have done. Mr Collins is to be married, you say?’
‘To Miss Charlotte Lucas,’ confirmed Georgiana. ‘You find that astonishing?’
‘It is astonishing,’ I told Georgiana, ‘because when I saw Mr Collins only two weeks ago, he was paying court to a very different lady. She did not welcome his attentions, but he was quite oblivious to the fact. He meant to pay his addresses to her, I am convinced. And once his purpose is fixed, I am persuaded nothing will shake it. But no.’ I shook my head again. ‘Even he could not propose to two women within a fortnight.’
Georgiana gave a little shriek of laughter. ‘Less than a fortnight, for he returned to Hunsford last Saturday with the good news.’
‘I wonder how she contrived it?’ I said, supposing, for a moment Elizabeth’s sense of fun had led her to bring those two together. ‘But no. She would not. I am persuaded she could not have wished Mr Collins for her friend.’
I turned my thoughts to what I had observed at the ball, recalling how Miss Lucas had joined Elizabeth often, with the kind intention, as I had thought, to give her friend some relief from Mr Collins. ‘I wish I had paid more attention to what was going on in that quarter,’ I said at last, ‘but I confess I did not.’
‘I am all bewilderment,’ my sister complained. ‘Tell a plain story, sir, I beg you.’
So I told as much as I was able, finding some relief in speaking of Elizabeth, describing her, if only briefly. Both my sister and her companion were diverted by my account of the dance she had endured with Mr Collins.
‘I should like to meet Miss Bennet,’ said Georgiana, surprising me. ‘I remember thinking so when you mentioned her in your letter from Hertfordshire.’
I became aware of danger and switched to speaking of Miss Lucas. ‘I am sure she will make an excellent wife for Mr Collins,’ I said. ‘I am delighted for him he could not have chosen better. Miss Lucas is a very sensible, practical lady.’
‘But not as sensible as Miss Elizabeth Bennet,’ observed Mrs Annesley shrewdly.
‘Neither of them are fools,’ I said indifferently, ‘though their dispositions are not alike.’
I turned the conversation to another subject and when they left, I retrieved my own letter from Lady Catherine, reflecting that I could have saved myself a very unpleasant morning had I paid just a little more attention to the content.
But I could not wholly blame myself. Mr Collins had, at first, certainly chosen Elizabeth to be the future mistress of Hunsford Parsonage and the mention of Hertfordshire and Longbourn had done the rest, for I had no previous reason at all to suppose Miss Lucas had become involved.
I found it somewhat harder to satisfy myself on the point of my own violent objections to the notion of Elizabeth getting married. During the last fortnight, I felt I had made quite satisfactory progress in my attempts to subdue my own partiality for her.
At last, I persuaded myself I did not object to her marrying: should she find a man worthy of her regard, I would be the first to wish her joy. I simply felt Mr Collins would be an objectionable husband for her.
It was easier to excuse Miss Lucas for accepting a man for whom she could have no real regard. I suspected the lady had but little fortune and marriage was necessary to preserve her from future poverty. Mr Collins was respectable, and though she would find his company disagreeable, she would have some security and a comfortable establishment.
She would have a more comfortable establishment than I supposed, for on reading the rest of my aunt’s letter I discovered the Longbourn estate was entailed away from the female line and, upon the death of Mr Bennet, Mr Collins would inherit.
My aunt did not approve of entails: for Mr Collins’s sake she was glad of it but in general she saw no need for it. She went on to give me her very decided views on the matter. She ended by saying she hoped the present master of Longbourn had made decent provision for his daughters.
I hoped so too, but I had my doubts. In my own view, the five daughters were now explained as Mr Bennet’s repeated attempts to father a son who would inherit the estate.
I now knew far more of Elizabeth’s business than I had any right to know, and it pained me, for, like Miss Lucas, she and her sisters could scarcely avoid future poverty if they did not marry prudently.
I could not be sanguine about their prospects. With some fortune, they might at least be secure; with little or no fortune, such low connections, and the repugnance any man of sense must feel towards the family, even the undoubted charms of the two eldest girls were unlikely to save them from penury and want.
Mrs Bennet’s determined pursuit of husbands for her daughters could now be better understood: rapacious, she certainly was, but her motive of securing their future prosperity could not be despised.
Her methods could, but she was too silly to understand how obvious she was: she would never believe it was largely her own fault that her eldest daughter had been deprived of her best chance of future prosperity.
I had removed Bingley from the imprudent connection he was about to make; I had renounced Elizabeth and was determined to conquer whatever feelings I still had for her. The Bennets would have to make shift for themselves as best they could, for I could not repent my own decision. My duty was to myself, my family and my friends.
I hardened my heart against all the Bennets.
Seven
JUST BEFORE CHRISTMAS, Georgiana was taken ill: it began as a trifling cold and quickly developed into an ague, with fever, aching limbs, headaches and a racking cough.
I cancelled all my engagements: in my anxiety, I frequented my sister’s establishment more than my own, and it soon became clear that her companion, Mrs Annesley, had taken the same infection.
Our physician let some blood, prescribed some draughts and ordered both patients to stay in bed.
I instructed the housekeeper to attend to Mrs Annesley. I could, I suppose, have prevailed upon Bingley’s sisters to watch o
ver Georgiana but I did not: I found myself remembering how little real concern they had displayed when Jane Bennet was ill. I found myself feeling most reluctant to place myself under any obligation to those two ladies.
It crossed my mind that my sister would have fared better had she had Elizabeth to look after her.
A gentleman undertaking the role of sick nurse would raise a few eyebrows in polite society, but I did not hesitate: I determined I myself would care for Georgiana.
Since nursing does not come within the scope of a gentleman’s education, it was fortunate the housekeeper was a sensible woman and, after her initial astonishment and protests against my resolve, she gave sound, practical advice. ‘Sir, you can only keep her warm, make her comfortable and give her medicine according to the doctor’s instructions,’ she said.
‘Is that all?’
‘Should she take a turn for the worse, we must summon the doctor again. But there is nothing you can do to bring about her recovery, which depends upon her own constitution. You can only make her comfortable.’
I took her advice and did everything in my power to make Georgiana comfortable. In addition, I ordered delicacies to tempt her appetite and read aloud to her when she wished it; only when she was sleeping did I venture out for air and exercise.
Thankfully, she began to mend and my enquiries after Mrs Annesley produced pleasing intelligence also.
Whilst she was ill, Georgiana had felt too wretched to care who attended her. Recovering, she displayed some embarrassment. ‘Sir, you should not: it is not seemly.’
‘Would you have preferred me to send for our aunt?’
‘Indeed I would not. But you, sir, have cancelled engagements and neglected your friends, and over Christmas, too!’
‘Should any friend object to a little neglect in such a case, he is no longer my friend.’
‘You are so good to me,’ she said. ‘I do not deserve it.’
‘Oh, come now! Who else should look after you, with Mrs Annesley ill herself?’