What if He Were to Pick Me

by Alyx Silver

  She lay awake in the dark, staring at the canopy over her bed, wondering when he was going to propose. All her misery had been transformed to joy, her confusion to certainty.

  Oh, she was the happiest of women. How all those women who’d laughed at her during her season would be shown up when she captured Mr. Darcy of Pemberley! How they’d repent from having said she was common and smelled of the shop, when she had the invitations to Pemberley in her keeping.

  She hoped he asked when she was dressed in her best. Oh, Lord, this meant she had to dress very well every time she went down to dinner, for who could know when he’d gather the courage to ask her?

  And she’d best get things ready for her wedding, because she could and would be married by a special license, dispensing with the weeks of reading the bans. Such bandying of her name about would be intolerably vulgar. No. There should be no more than a two- or three-week space between the day Mr. Darcy proposed and her wedding day.

  She wasn’t absolutely sure, never having concerned herself with such matters, but surely that would be time enough for the cook to make enough white soup for the reception?

  No wedding breakfast for them. They’d be modish and host a get-together for dinner.

  She had to have her wedding dress sent for and soon. After all, orange wedding dresses weren't that common.

  Idle Minds and Devils

  In the Bennet family itself, not all was as the rest of the town believed.

  So enthralled was Mrs. Bennet with the idea of marrying off her prettier, younger daughters, that she had not paid any attention to her middle daughter, the quiet, bookish one. Nor had anyone else, truth be told.

  The town’s ladies marveling at how smitten Mr. Darcy and Mr. Bingley were with Lydia and Kitty, paid even less attention than normal to Mary. And, frankly, before that all the attention they’d paid to her was to notice that she wore unbecoming dresses and was a blue-stocking and likely to die an old maid.

  This was a great problem, for, as Mary herself would have said, in her more sensible days, idle hands are the devil's playground. Or, in this case, idle brains. Perhaps even an idle heart.

  Mary liked Mr. Stephen Hurst a great deal, and their relationship had been progressing apace.

  Mr. Stephen Hurst was a tall, gangly man, with a prominent Adam's apple and an adenoidal voice, but he had great appreciation for what he liked to call Mary's superior powers of intellect. Which in turn pleased Mary Bennet no end. No one had ever had any appreciation of her powers of intellect, superior or not. Only let her cudgel her brains for days to come up with some maxim that provided much needed advice, or let her struggle for days to encapsulate some complex situation in le mot just, and what did she get in return? “Oh, Mary, stop being tiresome and pass the potatoes.”

  It was something quite wondrous to find that someone – and someone learned, who was studying at Cambridge – thought her fascinating, brilliant, and worthy paying attention to.

  With the tacit consent of her parents’ indifference, Mary met Stephen in the little wilderness beside the house almost every day.

  They walked, and read together, and talked over life, citing important maxims and encouraging each other in memorizing sermons and books of proverbs.

  It was there that Mr. Hurst told her, one morning, that he would be overcome, indeed, overwhelmed, perhaps even overjoyed and definitely overpowered if she'd do him the honor of sharing his life. For he did not think that he would ever find anyone who so well understood the turn of his mind, or who would be likely to make him even half as happy.

  She agreed eagerly, of course, but there was a catch as there would be when a man proposed to a girl without a dowry, even when that girl had a well-developed intellect.

  "You see," Stephen Hurst said. "I'm only the second son, and my family is not at all wealthy, which is why we find it necessary to stay with Mr. Bingley. Mr. Bingley is paying for my studies at Cambridge, but I haven't yet finished reading for the law. My brother has hopes of my marrying into a fortune, and thereby rescuing the whole family from penury, but not only is it unlikely, I would ever catch the fancy of an heiress, I’m also sure that no heiress would capture mine. Not as you have. Nor would her mind partake of my interests, as yours does, begging your pardon for saying so. So, Miss Mary we must keep our engagement a secret until I finish reading for the law, this term, and then I will speak to your father. Surely, he can’t fail to grant me your hand, when he knows I have prospects and a means of earning a living."

  Mary, who'd thought she'd have to wait a lifetime for someone to propose to her, agreed most readily. She did not want to end up an old maid, as Jane and Elizabeth were in danger of becoming. No. She would be married and have a home of her own. Of course, she was not so mean spirited that she wouldn’t allow Jane and Elizabeth to live with her and Mr. Hurst. The two could make themselves useful around the house and help with the children. But as for her, she’d rather be married.

  I have received a letter," Mr. Bennet announced at breakfast one morning a few days after Mary’s secret proposal.

  "Oh, it's from Mr. Bingley asking for Kitty's hand," Mrs. Bennet said.

  "No. It's from Darcy, asking for mine," Lydia said. She and Kitty broke into wild giggles.

  Mr. Bennet waited until they had stopped laughing. "It's from a man I've never heard from in the whole course of my life."

  He went on to announce that it was from his cousin, a Mr. Collins who, after his death would inherit Longbourn from him and, if he wished "turn you all out to starve in the hedgerows."

  Mr. Collins, having taken orders and received a living from the hand of his most noble patroness, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, wished to make peace with the Bennet family. To that end, he would be coming to town for a fortnight, and staying at Longbourn.

  "Well," Mrs. Bennet said. "He is a wretched man, to be inheriting Longbourn. But he is single, and if he is disposed to make amends, he would do very well for Jane." She looked across the table, at her elder daughter, who blushed at her mother's words. "Yes, indeed. We don't want our Jane to be an old maid."

  Privately she could not understand how the very prettiest of her daughters had failed to catch a man thus far. It must be her lack of liveliness, and ease with men. Lydia had admirers wherever she went, and not an ounce of pride in her. Which is why she had captured Mr. Darcy.

  Mr. Collins arrived at Longbourn within a week.

  He was a waddling, overweight man, with rather greasy dark hair that gave off a rancid smell. The main part of his not very keen wit seemed devoted to giving compliments to those he considered his betters. And, in this at least he must be modest, as it seemed he considered just about everyone his better.

  It wasn't many hours of his being in the house, that his continuous fawning on Mr. Bennet's amiable daughters, on Mr. Bennet's prodigious erudition; on Mrs. Bennet's excellent arrangements – which rather reminded Mr. Collins of this or that room at Rosings, the home of his noble patroness Lady Catherine De Bourgh – had driven Mr. Bennet past amusement and into permanent seclusion in his library.

  The only other person in the family who found anything at all amusing in Mr. Collins's dismal prattle was the Bennets’ second daughter, Elizabeth, who grinned behind her hand at his stupidity, and turned her smiling countenance away from his overwhelmingly transparent compliments.

  However, Elizabeth was not amused with the preference that Mr. Collins showed to her sister Jane. Not because Elizabeth wished for his attentions herself, but because she feared Jane would be forced into a marriage as distasteful as it would be silly.

  She had said as much to Jane, in Jane's room, just the night before. Sitting on Jane's white bedspread, her hands drawn about her own knees, Lizzy – as the family called her – had listened to the chirping crickets in the garden outside, and watched her prettiest sister comb out her golden hair.

  "I'm afraid he means to marry you, Jane."

  Jane looked at the mirror and sighed. "I've come to believe so, al
so, Lizzy," she said, her countenance barely disturbed.

  "And you don't mind?" Lizzy asked. "You mean to refuse him. Tell me you mean to refuse him, Jane."

  Jane sighed again. She turned back from the mirror and stared at her sister. Jane's big, blue eyes swam with unshed tears, but her voice was still serene as she said, "I don't think I can, Lizzy. How can I refuse a connection that would give such security to all my dear family?"

  "Security?" Lizzy spat. "Security? Jane, you'd be marrying the stupidest man in England. It would be so humiliating."

  "Lizzy," Jane said. "You take no account of different circumstances. You're not one and twenty yet, and I'm almost three and twenty. Every man who's ever been in love with me has faded out before proposing. Remember that clerk of Uncle Gardiner's, when I was but fifteen? He walked away. He never came back. All of them have done that. Our cousin is a respectable man. He's not vicious. And, considering his connections, he's likely to give me a comfortable home." Her voice was calm as ever, her gaze even and blue. But the candlelight flickered in the water in her eyes, and gave the lie to her serenity. “Also, you can’t say for sure that he’s the stupidest man in England. You haven’t even met every man in England, much less tested them for stupidity. How would you know?”

  "Oh, Jane," Lizzy said, exasperated. "It is not true. It can’t be true. You can’t resign yourself to such a match. You do not love him. Beautiful as you are, there is no reason you should marry for less than love."

  Jane set her ivory-handled brush down. "There is enough reason. Mr. Collins will inherit father's estate after father's death. If I'm married to him, I can ensure that he treats mother well...." She tried to go on, but her voice failed her. She rested her elbows on her vanity. She hid her face in her hands and she cried.

  Watching Jane cry, Lizzy bit her lower lip. This was insupportable. Jane would be made miserable by that waddling toad of a man, but she would go to the altar like a victim to sacrifice, for the sake of her dear family to whom Jane could deny nothing.

  No.

  Lizzy was not about to stand for this.

  Not for nothing was she spirited, perhaps too spirited, if one listened to her mother. If Jane wouldn't save herself, it remained to Lizzy to save her.

  She had no idea how to do it, but it would start with diverting Mr. Collins’ attention from Jane. And it must start now.

  She knelt beside Jane's chair and held her tightly, while Jane cried on her shoulder.

  "All will be well, Jane. All will be well. I shall see to it."

  The regiment of militia of the _shire had come to town, and girls and women were given fresh hopes somewhat dashed by Mr. Bingley's and Mr. Darcy's preferring the Bennet sisters.

  Here were men enough to marry every spinster in Meryton. Sure, they might not be great landowners, possessed of fortunes and estates. But some undoubtedly had sickly older brothers, or cousins, or uncles, or even great uncles, who would die and leave them fortunes.

  And even should none of that happen, they were men, and could make a spinster into a married woman.

  Meryton assemblies gained considerable sparkle from the presence of so many young men. Visions of red coats and weddings with a guard of honor with sabers drawn danced in almost every female head.

  This should not have affected either Kitty or Lydia, practically engaged women as they were. However, the fact is that the younger Bennet misses were driven more by a competitive instinct than by any sort of infatuation. And, seeing the other girls compete for the officers’ attentions, made them wish to join in.

  In that they were akin to the huntsman, his bag full of birds, who could not resist shooting a few more out of the sky.

  Once the militia was encamped in the neighborhood, the two sisters often found excuses or occasion to go into Meryton, in search of fresh gallants to smite with their charms.

  This happened the day after Lizzy's and Jane's talk related above.

  All five daughters had been in the garden, occupied with their different pursuits, while Mr. Collins and Mrs. Bennet walked in the shade, absorbed in some private conversation that looked to be of great import.

  When Lydia approached her mother and asked if they might all walk into Meryton, Mrs. Bennet had smiled, confidently, and said, "Oh, yes, of course. And I think Mr. Collins would like some exercise as well."

  Mr. Collins, seizing the hint and grasping the moment by its straggle of hair as it ran past, had immediately made so bold as to ask his amiable cousin Jane for her company.

  Jane dropped her gaze, and blushed, and her lips trembled, but before she could say a word, Lizzy advanced. "Oh, Mr. Collins. I was hoping for the pleasure of your company. I wanted to discuss with you a point in Fordyce's sermons that I can't make out at all."

  Mr. Collins looked puzzled, the puzzled expression peculiar to very stupid people who always feel as if the world were putting one over on them.

  Lizzy smiled, a dazzling smile, heart and soul in it. She batted her eyelashes, and sighed, looking at Mr. Collins unprepossessing figure. "You must help me, sir. You must. It's of great doctrinal importance."

  Mr. Collins’ impression of being taken for a fool increased, his eyes narrowing to a small pinpoint of suspiciousness. In his experience, pretty girls had never thrown themselves at him. Though a couple of them had threatened to throw themselves into rivers if he came any nearer or didn’t stop expostulating to them about Lady Catherine’s fireplace.

  And yet, Miss Elizabeth Bennet smiled so enticingly, and her eyes promised such delights – not that Mr. Collins had ever viewed the female form as a source of delights of a grosser nature, something he was sure his bishop and Lady Catherine would disapprove of – that he couldn't help but stammer, "Yes, yes, of course. If it is so."

  "You are all kindness, sir," Elizabeth said, taking his proffered arm and smiling so prettily that something long forgotten within Mr. Collins fluttered to life.

  He didn’t have a name for it, but it was a pride of place, a gratification in being noticed by such a pretty girl. It was followed by a misgiving: after all, Elizabeth was second to Jane in looks as well as in age.

  Shouldn’t he, as the future heir of Meryton claim the best of the family’s daughters, the first and not the second? Would Lady Catherine approve of his condescending to take merely the second-born and the second-best? The thought worried him very much.

  Mr. Darcy, having spent a couple of days shooting the birds on Mr. Bingley’s lands, felt confined and tired by the unvarying society.

  No. To be fair, he was confined and tired of Miss Bingley who had, all of a sudden, become solicitous enough that Mr. Darcy had contemplated jumping into a river to avoid her. Or even better, pushing her into a river.

  He dragged himself away from an enticing image of a bedraggled Caroline, her feathered headgear all wet, crawling out of the river. It was not gentlemanlike to dream of tormenting a lady. Looking at Charles Bingley, he said, "Charles, how would you like to ride into Meryton?"

  Charles agreed readily, and it wasn't long before they were riding down the main street of Meryton amid carters and passerby.

  It also wasn't long before they spotted the Bennet sisters. All five of them clustered around three men in regimentals. Two of them were somewhat known to Darcy, from his dinners with the officers. They were Denny and Carter, annoying but otherwise inoffensive young officers. But the third–

  Mr. Darcy drew in breath, in horror and shock.

  Wickham.

  George Wickham was the son of the late steward of Mr. Darcy's father. Darcy and George Wickham had grown up together, almost like brothers, at Pemberley, Mr. Darcy's vast estate in Derbyshire.

  But Wickham had turned out very wild, running into gaming debts and seeking debauch wherever he went.

  There were other reasons why the sight of him should be painful to Darcy but the most poignant was, perhaps the one that should have affected him least.

  The last time they'd crossed paths – after Mr. Wickham's almost
successful attempt to convince Darcy's younger sister, Georgiana, to elope – Wickham had told Darcy that if only Darcy hadn't been so proud and thought himself above everyone, perhaps their friendship would have subsisted and perhaps Wickham would have had that moral support and guidance for the lack of which he'd become a villain.

  From the way Wickham had flung the words out, Darcy was sure he had not the slightest idea of their being taken seriously.

  But, in fact, they had haunted Darcy every day since then. He could see in his own aunt Catherine de Bourgh an impression of what unrestrained pride might do to the personality that let it run wild, like brambles upon fertile ground. It made all a desert around her, and granted only a sort of obsequious courtesy that fell very short of true friendship.

  Seeing it, knowing pride for a blemish upon his own character, Darcy had, since then, sought to husband it.

  He thought he'd done well enough at it. The old Darcy would never have glanced at Lydia Bennet, seeing only the lack of restraint, the country manners that would have put him off.

  The new Darcy saw the innocent charm, the enthusiasm behind the manners, and felt drawn to that enthusiasm like a moth to a flame, only, Darcy hoped, not as fatally.

  Right then, his flame's enthusiasm was turned, with smiling face and intense dark eyes to Mr. Wickham.

  Bingley, approaching the group, had engaged one of the Miss Bennets – not Kitty, but the self-contained blonde one – in conversation, now and then casting hopeful looks at Kitty who was in a laughing tete-a-tete with a smirking Denny.

  Darcy could not bring himself to join in the conversation, nor could he approach a group of which Wickham was part.

  He took his hat off to the ladies and bowed.

  As he rode away, he heard Lydia's loud, unrestrained voice say, "Oh, Mr. Darcy is fine enough. But he would look better if he were in the militia. I think a man looks nothing without a red coat."

  Darcy felt as though he’d been slapped. It wasn’t even the rudeness of the exclamation that wounded him, but the inanity of it. The sartorial comment was strange enough. Who would think that his coat, cut to a nicety by Weston, should be replaced by a standard-issue red coat? But the rest of the thought was worse. What sort of mind thought the master of ten thousand a year and vast estates in Derbyshire should enlist in the militia?