“And what letters they would be!” the Colonel said, laughing. “Often so tearstained one could barely make out what they said. I recall one memorable missive outlining the cruelty of Fitzwilliam Darcy for refusing her a puppy. She’d already got two, but she became convinced she needed a third.”
“Ah,” Miss Darcy said, “there was a time when I wanted all the puppies in the world.”
“I know from my cousin,” the Colonel said, “that by the time I’d answered that particular plea, my niece had entirely forgotten that she’d ever wrote it and had happily adopted a kitten in its stead.”
“So you see, Miss Bennet, I was a very trying child with two very indulgent guardians.”
Elizabeth was delighted with them both. What a picture of felicity they did paint. It hardly seemed possible that Mr. Darcy had been a part of this pleasant picture.
As Mrs. Bennet arranged the tea things and Miss Darcy complimented her cakes, Elizabeth paused. Mr. Wickham had described Miss Darcy as over-proud and the Colonel as disgruntled with all the world. Those were not the two people who sat before her now.
Combined with Jane’s warnings about Mr. Wickham, it did give her pause.
Emma Woodhouse could remember few circumstances in which she wished to hide from the world. Perhaps the one that stung most was the memory of that dreaded picnic on Box Hill and the injury she’d caused. She’d hurt Miss Bates and deeply disappointed Mr. Knightley. At the time, she thought she might never emerge from her house again. She had emerged, though, and done what she could to make amends. Over time, she had recovered her mostly sunny disposition.
She supposed this particular circumstance must be the same. To have been so wrong about Mr. Collins! Why would these gentlemen insist on proposing to her when they should clearly propose to another? It was as if she’d been in the carriage with Mr. Elton again, listening to all the horror of his words.
All she could think to do was plead ill. She could not face Mr. Collins at dinner. Not, at least, so soon. She must also write Mrs. Weston this instant. It was only that good creature to whom she could unburden herself with no fear of judgment.
She picked up her sharpened quill and wrote:
My dear Mrs. Weston,
You find me, just now, in a very sorry state. I know that you will not condemn me, as you have always been so kind, and so it is to you I turn at my darkest hour. Or, if perhaps not an absolute darkest hour, then a twilight hour.
Mr. Collins, who you will understand is to inherit Longbourn, is visiting. It was for all to see that he ought to marry Mary Bennet, and what do you suppose he did? He proposed to me! I can hardly take it in. Mr. Knightley would surely scold me for meddling, but it did seem such a promising idea. Really, all signs pointed toward a felicitous outcome.
Ah, I see I spend a great deal of time excusing myself. The fact is, I did encourage Mr. Collins and was misunderstood by the gentleman. I am beginning to think that it is near impossible to matchmake due to the recalcitrance and stubborn obtuseness of gentlemen in general. But then I think of how wonderfully my meddling did turn out for Mr. Weston and find I cannot be too hard on myself. After all, is not one marriage worth a trifling bit of trouble elsewhere?
I suppose I do not really know what to think of it all. I will excuse myself from dinner this evening so that I might think of it more.
Your Emma
Mrs. Bennet had informed her eldest daughters that their cousin Emma had a headache and would not descend to dine that evening. Elizabeth and Jane had proposed going up to see her, but their mother had said it not necessary—she had been to Emma herself and had toast and tea sent up. Emma was no doubt already asleep.
Now, at table, Mr. Collins took in the news as if he’d just been told that Napoleon had landed upon their shores. “Miss Woodhouse is ill!” he cried.
“It is only a headache, Mr. Collins,” Mrs. Bennet said. “People do get them. I get them myself on a fairly regular basis. My nerves bring them on, you see.”
“I can confirm that is the case, Mr. Collins,” Mr. Bennet said. “We are all affected by Mrs. Bennet’s nerves. The headache rather spreads like a contagion.”
Elizabeth bit her lip. Mrs. Bennet stared at her husband, as she was wont to do when she was not certain whether he sympathized or insulted.
“But for Miss Woodhouse to suffer so,” Mr. Collins said, appearing deeply affected. “One of her fine constitution must feel it more than others.”
“Emma is to feel her headache more than I do myself?” Mrs. Bennet said. “I cannot think that right, Mr. Collins. I feel these things deeply.”
“If everybody will stop talking of headaches,” Lydia said, “we might talk of more interesting subjects. Mr. Bingley is to host a ball.”
“A ball?” Mrs. Bennet cried, as if any thought of a headache coming on had flown out the window. “A ball is conducive to young hearts, I am sure.”
“How is it you know he is to have a ball, Lydia,” Elizabeth asked.
“While Kitty and I were in town, we ran into Mr. Bingley and that sour sister of his. I asked him if he would throw a ball—”
“You did not, Lydia,” Jane said.
“I did, and as it happens, Miss Darcy had already asked him and he had assented. So there, Jane.”
“I only hope Miss Woodhouse will be recovered by then,” Mr. Collins said.
Lydia rolled her eyes. “There’s no sense in that, Mr. Collins. You do not even know when the ball is to take place.”
“And?” Mrs. Bennet asked. “When will this ball take place?”
“In a fortnight exactly,” Lydia said. “We must have new dresses, mama. If we go tomorrow, and press our case, they might be made in time.”
“That is true, my girl. Very enterprising of you to think of it.”
Mr. Bennet cleared his throat. “There will be no new dresses. Ribbons, if you must, but I draw the line at that.”
Lydia groaned. Kitty, seeing this was to be a matter where groaning was expected, groaned too. Mary, who had been more quiet than was her wont, said, “One ought not to seek out material things when one has access to the word of God within the bible held in one’s own library. Do not you think, Mr. Collins?”
Mr. Collins, hearing his name, looked about him distractedly. “The bible. Yes, excellent book. I do hope Miss Woodhouse recovers in time.”
Elizabeth wrinkled her brow. Could it be that Mr. Collins did not believe he had gathered sufficient advice from Emma before proceeding to his goal? Here was Mary addressing him directly and giving him every opportunity to converse and he would only fret over Miss Woodhouse. Perhaps he was even more awkward than she gave him credit for.
The company around the dining table at Netherfield was considerably lightened by the presence of Georgiana Darcy. Darcy thought she was growing to a fine young lady with all the pleasing manners and happy disposition he could wish for. Georgiana had always been lighthearted, but nearly a year ago that light had been dimmed. She had been distraught over her mistake with Wickham.
Her idea that she was in love with George Wickham had faded quickly, it having never been particularly true or deep but rather a childish fancy. It was her actions that plagued her. It had taken Darcy many months and many conversations to make his sister see that the disaster had been avoided and the fault of the situation had never been hers. Wickham and Mrs. Younge had ensnared their young victim with little chance that Georgiana would see through their schemes.
It had been Darcy himself that had hired Mrs. Younge and for that he must take full responsibility. Had he examined her references thoroughly enough, had he written to her last alleged employer, he might have discovered those references were forged. He had also known of the desperation of George Wickham and might have considered what a hold he’d had on his sister from their childhood. He supposed it would have been impossible to guess that Wickham and Mrs. Younge would conspire together, but he might have been more on his guard in his protection of Georgiana.
For
all his words of comfort, though, what had really healed Georgiana was time. It was not the mere distance of the event growing day by day, but Georgiana herself growing day by day. She now had the ability to look back at herself as she had been then. She could see now what she could not see at the time—she had been a child. Wickham had preyed upon a child. She had since made the leap, as every young person does, from child-like to nearly grown.
Now, Georgiana said, “I know I ought to consider the ball with a sedate attitude, but I find myself giddy with excitement. And two dinners to attend before that! I have never been out in society so much.”
“I suppose we must go and admire the peas at two more houses before we are done with it,” Miss Bingley said.
Darcy did not answer, but silently willed Miss Bingley to stop talking. It seemed whatever the subject, she would find an insult to the Bennets in it somewhere. She had been mentioning the peas often and he could not see why. So the lady considered her peas a triumph. Mrs. Bennet was a silly woman and most likely found quite a few ridiculous things a triumph.
“Oh my,” Georgiana said. “The peas have been discussed so often that I feel I may be ignorant of their significance. Are they some sort of local delicacy or tradition?”
Miss Bingley appeared rather stymied, but Darcy was not. Georgiana was not likely to understand Miss Bingley’s brand of tart tongue. The two ladies spoke very different languages and he was glad of it.
“I only say, dear Miss Darcy,” Miss Bingley said, “that a lady who goes on so much about peas is rather, well, you see how it is.”
Darcy rather thought it was Miss Bingley herself who went on so much about peas. That Georgiana did not understand the lady’s meaning was clear to Darcy. In Georgiana’s mind, if Mrs. Bennet took pride in her peas, then peas were to be celebrated.
He suppressed a smile as he thought of how indulgent Georgiana was in regard to other’s eccentricities. Their own cook, Mrs. Henderson, prided herself in her pies and, therefore, there was no end to the pie at Pemberley. Darcy had once thought to speak to her about it and vary the menu more than it had been. Georgiana had defended Mrs. Henderson and her blasted pies with vigor. He’d been forced to examine how horribly Mrs. Henderson’s feelings would be trampled upon were he to hint that he’d like less pie.
In the end, he’d sworn he would only have complimentary things to say about the pies. And so, there was more pie than ever. Considering her stance on that particular matter, Georgiana Darcy would hardly condemn a woman proud of a dish of peas.
“I’m sure whatever we find at the dinners,” Mr. Bingley said, “it is bound to be pleasant.”
Georgiana nodded happily. “The Miss Bennets will be in attendance and I like them exceedingly. At least, the two eldest, as I have not been introduced to the others.”
“We were entirely charmed by the Miss Bennets,” the Colonel said. “Miss Elizabeth Bennet, in particular.”
“She is so lively and clever, I thought,” Georgiana said.
“And she has that certain quality that draws a person in,” the Colonel said, “though I would be hard pressed to name it.”
Miss Bingley, hearing of the charms of the Bennets, tasted her soup and grimaced as if it were lemons.
“I do so agree,” Georgiana said. “One cannot precisely name what it is about Miss Elizabeth Bennet that is so engaging.”
Darcy thought that right, as he had been trying to name what it was about Miss Bennet for some time. It suddenly came to him—a thought he’d had that very first night at the assembly. What everybody could see and yet nobody could define. “She is another Marjorie Milleston,” he said.
Bingley said, “The lady who triumphed over Lady Violet and captured Lord Dunston?”
“Yes,” Darcy said.
“Well,” Miss Bingley said, “I suppose they are both short, which gives them some similarity. Though if I recall, Miss Milleston is a skilled conversationalist and speaks three languages.”
Darcy was not certain how Miss Bingley might recall such a thing, as she had never traveled in Miss Milleston’s or Lord Dunston’s circles.
The Colonel laughed. “I hardly think three languages are what caught the Lord’s eye.”
“Of course,” Georgiana said, “I am not acquainted with Miss Milleston, but it is some sort of charm that Miss Bennet possesses,” Georgiana said.
“I really cannot agree that all the charm is to go to Miss Elizabeth Bennet,” Mr. Bingley said with some vehemence in his voice. “Miss Jane Bennet is equally as charming. Even more so, some might think.”
“Oh dear,” Georgiana said, “I did not wish to imply that Miss Jane Bennet was any less delightful. Truly, she is.”
“She is,” Bingley said softly.
Miss Bingley looked as if she had just encountered rotting meat on her plate.
“Well,” the Colonel said, “I might think all the Bennet ladies charming and it is for naught. They do not come with the sort of dowry that is so necessary to a second son.”
“It not only the dowry to consider,” Darcy said. “They are not highly placed and could do nothing for you.”
Fitzwilliam looked at him with some surprise. “There is much that might be done without lofty connections, Darcy. A happy house and a genial wife for instance. As for advancement, an army wife that can charm is an enormous benefit. Further, both Miss Elizabeth Bennet and Miss Jane Bennet could grace any drawing room in London.”
Darcy looked away, somewhat chastened by his cousin. As his mind traveled through the drawing rooms of London, he could not dispute the idea that either of the eldest Miss Bennet’s comportment would find welcome in those houses. So what exactly had he meant by the statement? What benefit were lofty connections meant to bring? He’d thought it often enough, but he realized now that he’d not looked further into the details.
“You sound so like father,” Georgiana said to her brother. “I still remember being very little and he would come into the nursery and say, ‘Who will you marry, Georgi?’ He had trained me to say, ‘Only a duke will do.’ I hadn’t the slightest idea what he meant by it, but it pleased him enormously, and so it pleased me.”
The Colonel roared with laughter. “That sounds very like him. Well, Darcy, I suppose you only carry on the tradition.”
Darcy did not answer. In truth, he was rather dumbstruck. He had sounded like his father. There had been conversations, talks between father and son, on the subject. Darcy was to aim high, just as his father had done. Darcy was to elevate the family line with a Lady Somebody. He’d had the idea ingrained in him as the only logical course.
His father had held an enormous respect for Lady Anne’s family, genealogy and connections. Darcy had, too. His father wished his son to bring home an equally elevated lady. Darcy had, too.
It took him slightly aback that he’d never thought to question why. Why had his father been so firm on the idea? Why had it been such an imperative? He had not asked then. He’d taken in his father’s opinions as fact. It was how the Darcy men proceeded. It galled him to realize that he’d not questioned any of it when he reached manhood.
“I have all confidence,” Georgiana said, “that whoever my brother chooses, she shall be just as charming as both the Miss Bennets.”
Darcy did not say much else through dinner. His thoughts felt as if they were roiling inside him. It was as if the mantle of his father’s opinions had suddenly lifted from his shoulders. If he did not hold to his father’s opinions, what opinions did he hold to? What if it were not imperative to marry a Lady Somebody?
He had experienced some inclinations recently which he’d swiftly dismissed. A certain lady who was a thorn in his side. A certain lady not of any notable rank. A certain lady who would pronounce his apology badly done. A certain lady who had that undefinable something.
He’d known there was more to his feelings than only wishing to have everybody’s good opinion. He’d only not allowed himself to examine it. Why examine a thing that meant nothing?<
br />
If he were to examine it, he would fancy himself rather in the position of a Lord Dunston. That gentleman had passed over Lady Violet in favor of Marjorie Milleston.
And what had Lord Dunston got in return? Happiness.
Happiness was the one state he’d not bothered to consider when he’d thought of marriage. He’d thought of duty and connections. He must have thought of his father’s pride, though he could not recall consciously doing so. He’d looked upon an advantageous marriage as an epaulette on society’s uniform. He’d not given any thought to the idea that a marriage was a melding of two people’s lives.
But even so, were he to throw off his father’s ideas, why should he throw them off for Miss Bennet? There might be any number of ladies in town that he had not considered. Why her?
Because she was his Marjorie Milleston. That was why.
Good Lord. She was his Marjorie Milleston.
Darcy felt his face flame, though Miss Bingley was only talking of dresses for the ball. To think of the interactions they’d had! He had discovered his mistake far too late. Miss Bennet despised him.
And yet, if she was his Marjorie Milleston, might he not attempt to repair what had been done? A week must pass before he would see her at the Mallory’s dinner. A week in which he might carefully compose what he would say. He did not have the first idea of what those words would be, he only knew that they need be far better than any he had uttered to the lady so far.
Chapter Ten
Emma had recovered from her illness, a headache she’d said it was, and come down to breakfast. Elizabeth was glad of it, as Emma had closeted herself in her room for three days, which seemed excessive for a headache. Elizabeth had nearly insisted that the doctor be called in and her father written to.
Emma’s first meal downstairs had been full of embarrassments. Mr. Collins lamented the illness, prayed for her health, swore he would inform Lady Catherine of her progress and wondered what he might do to prevent such a thing occurring again. Mr. Bennet was vastly amused and encouraged Mr. Collins to speculate on what Lady Catherine might say when she was informed of the headache, which Mr. Collins happily did. Lady Catherine, if Mr. Collins were to be believed, would pronounce headaches tiresome.
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