by Jann Rowland
Grinning, Bingley urged his horse on. There was no way he could know exactly what was occurring, but since Darcy was interested in a woman who had married under suspicious circumstances, it was highly likely that the man was there to investigate. Bingley had no doubt that Darcy had the ability to effect such an investigation. He was highly adept at getting what he wanted.
Her mind full of her fiancé, Jane Bennet went to bed that night, reflecting that Charles Bingley had turned out to be more than she had ever expected him to be. It was a heady feeling to have inspired the love of such a man. Jane could hardly wait to start her new life.
In truth, Jane had thought that Mr. Bingley, for all his amiable qualities, had been perhaps been a little too deferential to his sisters’ opinions, particularly toward his younger sister, as she was by far the more forceful of the two. Considering what Jane had discovered about that lady’s character, it would be worrisome to enter into a marriage with a man who was ruled by his sister.
But in the past days, Mr. Bingley had shown himself to be his own man, and though she had heard something of what had passed between him and his sister—though Mr. Bingley was too much of a gentleman to be explicit—she was now satisfied with his resilience.
A knock on her door startled Jane from her thoughts, and she called out to the person on the other side to enter, drawing her robe about her. The door opened, and Jane was surprised to see Mary in the doorway.
“May I come in?” was her sister’s quiet query.
“Of course, Mary,” said Jane, curious about her sister’s presence. Mary had always eschewed such rituals as this, though Jane had on occasion shared her bedchamber with her youngest sisters. Of course, Kitty and Lydia’s general silliness made it very difficult for Jane to enjoy those times, even if having her sisters in her room did bring comfort and reduce the loneliness she often felt in her home.
“I just wanted to say,” began Mary after they had settled on Jane’s bed, “that I am very happy for you, Jane. Mr. Bingley is an excellent man. You will be very happy.”
“Thank you, Mary,” said Jane. Mary was so diffident that Jane was certain that she was finding it difficult to say the words, even though they were almost expected. “I believe that I shall be very happy indeed.”
Her congratulations spoken, Mary settled into an uneasy silence. Jane had always thought of herself as the most reticent Bennet girl, but with Mary struggling to converse even this much, she wondered if that were true. But it was also clear that Mary had something to say, so it seemed best to allow her to do so.
After a few minutes of struggle, Mary looked at her and smiled a little helplessly. “I was wondering . . . That is, I mean to say . . .” Mary stopped and huffed with frustration. “It is difficult to speak when I have kept to myself for so long. I dare say I share less than ten words a day with anyone in my family.”
“We all do seem to be immersed in our own concerns,” said Jane gently, hoping that her sister would unburden herself.
“A selfish family indeed,” murmured Mary
Though she was perhaps inclined by habit to defend them all, Jane was forced to agree with Mary’s assessment.
“I wonder how much would have been changed had our sister not been chased from our home,” said Mary with an abruptness which spoke to a rush to get the words out before her courage failed her.
So this was the crux of what Mary wished to speak of. Jane did not know why it was her engagement which had brought out a wish to discuss the matter further, but she was grateful for it nonetheless. She herself had seen something estimable in Elizabeth, and she wished for her sisters to acknowledge it, too. Elizabeth’s forced marriage to Mr. Collins had opened their eyes. Now it was time for them to acknowledge that the excuses they had built up in their minds for the state of their family were nothing more than an unwillingness to own the truth. It was their parents’ failings which had led to the state of their family.
“Elizabeth would have made us all better,” said Jane. “We are truly made less without her. You, Papa, and I are reticent in company—”
“To say the least,” interjected Mary with a ghost of a smile.
Jane acknowledged her words with a nod and continued: “Exactly. So do you not think that we would have benefited from Elizabeth’s livelier presence, especially when, unlike with our mother and younger sisters, that liveliness is accompanied by proper behavior?” Mary could only nod. “And perhaps Papa might have done well with an intellectual equal. Elizabeth is very intelligent and has many interests which could have benefited him if he had only taken the trouble to discover them.”
A dubious frown met her declaration, though Mary did not say anything. Jane herself struggled to imagine her father as anything other than the distant and somewhat frightening man in whose home she had been reared. Of course, the death of his son and heir might have changed him into the man he was now. It was impossible to know.
“And what about Kitty and Lydia?” continued Jane. “Might they not have been made a little less wild had they had someone as an example of proper behavior before them, one who would have had the courage to reprimand them with the sharpness they require?”
“Well, they cannot be many degrees worse,” muttered Mary. “And I grant you that Elizabeth might have been able to keep them better in line than you or I. That outcome seems likelier than our father being anything other than what he is.”
“Perhaps,” agreed Jane. “But I am certain that this family has suffered inordinately from what happened, and though you might not remember it, Elizabeth suffered the most.”
“I do remember,” was Mary’s quiet reply. “I have tried not to think of it, but I do remember. I wish I had behaved better.”
“I do not recall any overt unkindness on your part,” said Jane, placing her hand on Mary’s shoulder in a gesture of comfort.
“No, but neither did I welcome Elizabeth back when she returned. Indeed, you were the only one to treat her with any kindness or even any respect at all. Regardless of what happened when she was a child, she did not deserve such treatment.”
Happy to hear her sister’s words of repentance, Jane leaned over and engulfed Mary in an embrace, and Mary returned it with as much emotion as Jane imparted herself. Mary had always been distant, even as a young child. But now, for the first time in her life, Jane actually felt close to her sister and believed that a strong relationship between them was possible.
“I think that Elizabeth is also very forgiving,” said Jane, still holding her sister tightly. “I know from my experience that she wants nothing more than to have a relationship with her family. If you make the overtures, then I am certain she will be happy to accept your friendship.”
Mary sighed and pulled away. “But I do not think that I shall have an opportunity to extend my apology for some time. Not with her marriage to Mr. Collins and her removal to Kent.” Mary paused and huffed in indignation. “I cannot believe that a man of the cloth would behave in such a reprehensible manner as Mr. Collins did. It is only for Elizabeth’s sake that I would refrain from wishing the man to lose his position!”
Smiling—this was the sister Jane had come to know, after all—Jane leaned forward again and in a mischievous voice said, “If you can keep a secret, then I have something to tell you.”
At Mary’s eager nod, Jane launched into the story of all that had occurred outside Mary’s notice these past days. The sisters talked until the wee hours of the morning, and Jane could not be happier. Perhaps there was a chance for a relationship with some members of her family. It was all Jane had ever wanted.
Chapter XXIII
Time has a strange way about it. It can be the most elusive concept in the world, passing almost like a thief in the night, gone without warning and without notice, leaving one wondering how it had disappeared. On other occasions, its passage is akin to the torturous journey of a tortoise across a sandy beach. Unfortunately for Elizabeth, the time after Mr. Forbes’s departure was very much the la
tter.
Had she been left to the sole attentions of the pernicious parson, she might have been a fit candidate for bedlam. Mr. Collins had never learned the very great benefit of silence and had especially never learned that speaking would prove to all the world that he was as foolish as he was stupid. Life in his company was a never-ending stream of conversation, and none of it was in any way interesting or intelligent. The fact that he had no original thought in his head was confirmed by the fact that his pronouncements echoed what she had often heard from Mary during her short time at Longbourn; Elizabeth suspected that most of his material concerning the deportment of young ladies was memorized verbatim from Fordyce. The other words which spewed forth from his mouth were so recognizable in their pomposity that Elizabeth was certain that they came directly from the mouth of his patroness. And the thoughts he spoke of their situation merely caused her to struggle to refrain from rolling her eyes.
What actually worried Elizabeth, however, was that his patience with her continued refusal to consummate their marriage appeared to be all but exhausted. If he should succeed in this design, it would certainly make it more difficult to annul the marriage, but more importantly, her feelings for Mr. Darcy were such that capitulation was akin to a betrayal of that gentleman.
Thus, Elizabeth was forced to use every weapon in her arsenal to avoid the rector’s attentions. Once it became obvious that her “female issues” could no longer be the reason for her reticence, she began inventing excuses to keep him away. One evening, she pleaded a headache—prompting the man’s insistence upon caring for her, which she, of course, firmly rebuffed—while the next she retired early, claiming fatigue due to the day’s activities. On another occasion, she insisted that he show her the length and breadth of Rosings’ park, an activity to which he agreed with alacrity but soon came to repent; much as had happened at Longbourn, Mr. Collins found himself breathless before they had walked more than a quarter of a mile. On that evening, he had almost fallen asleep in his mashed potatoes, which had been a source of great amusement to Elizabeth. One night, she took the simple expedient of locking her door and ignoring him when he attempted to delicately gain her attention.
She was convinced that the man would not attempt to break the door down, not only because he was simply not a violent man, but also because of his fear of what his patroness would say should she discover he had ruined one of the doors in the parsonage. The events of the first evening, where Elizabeth had tricked him into overindulgence in spirits, were only repeated once, and on that occasion, she was certain she was only successful since the man was brooding over the fact that even though his marriage was nearly three weeks old, his conjugal bliss was still a matter of his imagination rather than fond remembrance.
But the rope was straining and fraying, and Elizabeth was certain it would snap before long. And when it did, Elizabeth could well imagine what form his displeasure would take. No doubt there would be more of his long-winded soliloquies about female comportment, obeying one’s husband, and the proper behavior for married couples.
Had she not had Mr. Darcy and his cousins to turn to, Elizabeth was certain that she would have succumbed to madness long before. Mr. Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam visited every day, and though Miss de Bourgh could not, constrained as she was by her dictatorial mother, she had appeared on her own several times and in the company of her cousins on occasion.
One night after Elizabeth had again claimed a headache, she and Mr. Collins were invited to Rosings Park for supper and cards. Though Elizabeth’s nerves were frayed by the necessity of maintaining constant vigilance, she had dressed herself and made her way alongside her insensible husband, ignoring his prattling about windows and chimney pieces throughout their walk up to the front entrance of the grand estate.
They were shown into the sitting room where Lady Catherine held court. And after they entered the room, the expected inanities began.
“Mr. Collins,” said Lady Catherine when she saw him, “I distinctly remember impressing upon you multiple times the importance of punctuality, yet you walk in at this hour. I expect that you will correct this oversight the next time you are invited to Rosings.”
It was all Elizabeth could do not to laugh in the lady’s face. Not only were they almost five minutes earlier than the appointed time, but Lady Catherine said this every time they arrived, regardless of what time they walked through the door. Elizabeth had even contrived for them to be ten minutes late one day, thinking that the lady would do more than simply berate them, but her speech had not altered in the slightest. Elizabeth suspected that it was one of the ways in which she exercised her control and supposed superiority over her parson.
Mr. Collins, of course, was incapable of contradicting her ladyship. “Indeed, you are correct,” said he in a groveling tone, his knuckles almost dragging on the floor due to the depth of his bow. “I shall instruct my wife thus and take care that we arrive on time in the future.”
Of course, Lady Catherine hardly heard his humble reply, as she had turned back and directed her pronouncements at her nephews, who were seated nearby. Mr. Collins, eager to bask in his patroness’s august presence, immediately hastened to her side, resembling nothing more than a crab scuttling across the beach. Noting a smile from Miss de Bourgh, Elizabeth returned it and moved to take a seat next to the heiress.
“Mrs. Collins,” said Miss de Bourgh quietly in greeting when Elizabeth sat. “I trust you are well?”
Eyes darting to where the parson was now seated as close to Lady Catherine as he could contrive, Elizabeth sighed. “I am coping, Miss de Bourgh. Being forced to live in close quarters with such a fool has been difficult, to say the least.”
“Your feelings of exasperation are understandable,” murmured Miss de Bourgh, glancing herself at the man in question. “He truly is the perfect man to be my mother’s parson, you must own.”
This time, Elizabeth did roll her eyes, an act which prompted a giggle from her companion. “That does not speak highly of either of them. No offense to your mother, of course.”
“None taken, though it would certainly not be an untruth. I am well aware of my mother’s faults, I assure you.” Miss de Bourgh paused and looked at Elizabeth closely. “Has Mr. Collins been . . . difficult to keep in check?”
Elizabeth’s cheeks flamed at even so oblique a mention of her avoidance, but she nodded once. “He is becoming impatient. I am certain of it.”
“I wish I could help more. I would invite you to stay at Rosings with me for a day or two, but I know that my mother would suffer apoplexy.”
Giggling, Elizabeth allowed that it was so. “No doubt the pollution of the venerable halls of Rosings could never be cleaned should such a low-born woman such as myself stay here for a night.”
“Your impression of my mother is rather droll,” replied Miss de Bourgh with a straight face. “One would almost think you have heard her speak.”
The two ladies laughed, and at that moment, Mr. Darcy approached and, with a bow, greeted Elizabeth before beginning his own quiet inquiries into her state. Unfortunately, Elizabeth was not able to spend much time conversing with him, as they were called in to supper, and Elizabeth was escorted by Mr. Darcy, who also escorted Miss de Bourgh. The rest of the evening passed in a fashion typical of an evening at Rosings.
The true excitement of the evening began after they left Rosings to return to the parsonage.
“A most agreeable evening indeed, my dear,” said Mr. Collins as the carriage departed from the grand house. Lady Catherine, eager to impress her guests and maintain the distinction of rank at every turn, had insisted upon their return to the parsonage through the auspices of one of her carriages. “I flatter myself that anyone in our position would consider Lady Catherine’s favor as a most blessed circumstance. Is it not so?”
Privately, Elizabeth could not imagine anything worse than such a meddling crone overseeing their every action. Still, she allowed it to be so, eager to maintain whatever good hu
mor her husband possessed. The quickest way to lose his good opinion was to criticize the woman, after all.
“Indeed, I believe that this is a providential occasion, my dear,” continued Mr. Collins, a gleam entering his eye. “We have dined yet again with the most condescending Lady Catherine de Bourgh and her relations, and I am certain that such attention from her ladyship can be construed as nothing less than her wholehearted approval of my new wife. And as such, I believe that the night where we finally become one has arrived, and I flatter myself that you, my dearest wife, are as eager as I to partake in the delights assigned to married couples.”
His statements both annoyed and alarmed Elizabeth. It was a trial not to stare at him in disbelief, as he had been making hints such as this from almost the exact moment they had first arrived in Kent. However, he had never spoken in quite as blatant a manner as this, and the look in his eyes suggested that his patience was all but exhausted.
Elizabeth replied with a noncommittal monosyllable which seemed to satisfy Mr. Collins. He bowed—a curious affectation, as they were still sitting in the carriage—and he regarded her with anticipation.
“In that case, my dearest Elizabeth, I believe that we should retire as soon as we reach the parsonage. I shall give you twenty minutes to prepare before I come to you.”
The rest of the journey back to the parsonage was filled with Mr. Collins’s conversation, and while that was not unusual, he continued to speak of their future felicity in a manner which Elizabeth found quite unseemly. Thus, when the carriage stopped in front of the parsonage, she opened the door and stepped down, hurrying into the house with alacrity, amusing herself with the thought that he almost certainly considered her haste to be because of her eagerness for his visit. In truth, Elizabeth hurried into the kitchen, where the keys for the various rooms of the house were kept, to make certain that all keys to her bedchamber were in her possession before she retired to her room and entered, making certain that the door was locked behind her. Now, more than ever, she was thankful for the foresight which had resulted in her insisting upon her own room.