Chapter 21
Elizabeth returned to Longbourn tired enough that even the familiar noise of home seemed to come at her from a distance.
Jane was immediately claimed by Mrs. Bennet, who alternated between embracing her, scolding her for looking pale, and declaring that Netherfield had very likely saved her life by being so comfortably furnished and so conveniently owned by a gentleman of five thousand a year.
Kitty and Lydia wanted every particular of the visit, especially whether Mr. Bingley had looked grave, whether Mr. Darcy had been proud, whether Miss Bingley’s gowns were very fine, and whether any officers had called while Jane was there.
Mary observed that illness was often a salutary reminder of mortality, though she was prevented from expanding upon the subject by Lydia’s groan.
Elizabeth answered what she must, helped Jane to the sofa, ensured she had a shawl and tea, and then escaped to her father’s study before her mother could begin the whole inquiry again.
Mr. Bennet looked up from his book when she entered, but only long enough to point toward a stack of papers upon one corner of his desk.
“There you are, Lizzy. Your return is most timely. Hill has brought these twice, and I have been obliged to defend myself against them with more courage than success.”
Elizabeth looked at the papers.
There were memoranda from the steward, notes about two tenants’ repairs, accounts from the butcher and farrier, a request concerning timber in the south copse, and a folded bill from Meryton regarding a small order of linens she had commissioned for the Gardiner children.
She gathered the stack without any of her usual interest.
“Is that all?” she asked.
Mr. Bennet lowered his book a fraction and narrowed his eyes. “That is not a very Lizzy-like response. I had expected at least one sigh over my indolence and two sharp observations upon the imprudence of leaving estate matters to accumulate.”
“I am sure I shall have them ready by morning.”
“Are you unwell?”
“No. Only tired.”
He studied her more closely, which was so rare an occurrence that Elizabeth almost wished he had not begun. “Tired from nursing Jane, I suppose.”
“Partly.”
“And the rest?”
Elizabeth shifted the papers against her arm. She had not meant to answer honestly, but fatigue made evasion more difficult. “From being in a house where one must smile while receiving small attacks from every side.”
Mr. Bennet’s brows rose. “Ah. The elegant Miss Bingley has unsheathed her claws?”
“She has a very polished manner of doing so.”
“And Mr. Darcy? Has he been equally polished?”
Elizabeth’s grip tightened upon the letters. “Mr. Darcy was perfectly civil.”
“That bad, was it?”
She could not bear to discuss him. Not with her father, who would make a jest of it, or worse, perceive too much and still make a jest of it. “Jane is improving. Mr. Bingley was kind. We came home because it was time.”
“Then I have just the thing to cheer you.”
Elizabeth looked at him warily. Her father’s notion of cheer was not always kind.
He reached beneath his book and drew out a letter. “Our esteemed cousin, Mr. Collins, has written me a letter.”
“Mr. Collins?” Elizabeth set the stack upon the edge of the desk and took the letter. “The heir?”
“The very same… well, not exactly. My cousin apparently passed away last year, and his son is now the heir presumptive. A clergyman now, under the noble patronage of some great lady whose condescension appears to have entirely overset him.”
Elizabeth unfolded the letter and read quickly. After the first few lines, her weariness sharpened into incredulity. After the next few, her brows rose. By the end, she could only stare.
“He is coming here in two days?”
“So he says.”
“And Mama does not know?”
Mr. Bennet leaned back in his chair. “Not yet.”
“Papa.”
“What? I thought it would be amusing to watch her discover it with insufficient time to prepare. A Bennet relation, a clergyman, the heir to the estate, arriving almost without warning—there is drama enough there to enliven a fortnight.”
“It may enliven it by killing Mama outright.”
“Then I could remarry and have a son, and we should all be spared the entail.”
Elizabeth did not smile. She was too tired, and too raw, and the jest struck too near old pain. “You cannot mean to keep it from her until the day itself.”
Mr. Bennet’s amusement faded into irritation. “My dear Lizzy, I am hardly obliged to manage every flutter of your mother’s nerves.”
“No. You leave that to me.”
His eyes narrowed. “You have come home in a temper.”
“I have come home to find estate matters waiting, bills unpaid, Jane still weak, Mama ignorant of a guest who will arrive in two days, and you laughing over the confusion as if none of it will fall upon anyone but yourself.”
For a moment, silence pressed between them.
Mr. Bennet looked away first and reached for his book. “Tell her, if you must.”
“Are you forbidding me?”
“No.” His tone was sharp now. “Do as you please, since you usually do. Only take the papers with you. They interrupt my peace.”
Elizabeth gathered the stack again, Mr. Collins’s letter on top. She ought to have felt guilty for speaking so plainly, but she could not find the energy. Her father had turned back to his book before she reached the door.
She paused there, hoping—foolishly, perhaps—that he would call her back, soften, say that he had only been teasing and that he knew she was tired.
He did not.
Elizabeth closed the door quietly behind her.
The drawing room was no quieter than when she had left it. Jane lay against the cushions, pale but patient, while Mrs. Bennet sat beside her and lamented, for the third time, that they had returned before Mr. Bingley could be made to feel their absence properly.
“It is very unlucky,” Mrs. Bennet said as Elizabeth entered.
“Very unlucky indeed. Had you stayed another day, Jane might have had a whole evening by the fire with Mr. Bingley, and who knows what might have come of it? But no, Lizzy must bring her home as though Netherfield were not the very best place for her to recover.”
“Mama,” Jane said gently, “I wished to return.”
“Nonsense. You are too good to know what you wish.”
Elizabeth set the papers upon a small table and held out Mr. Collins’s letter. “It is fortunate we did return, Mama, for otherwise you might not have known until the day itself that Mr. Collins is to arrive in two days.”
Mrs. Bennet stared at her. “Mr. Collins?”
“Our cousin. The heir to Longbourn.”
For one breath, Mrs. Bennet did not move. Then she snatched the letter from Elizabeth’s hand with an expression that might have belonged to a woman receiving news of invasion.
“The heir!” she cried. “Coming here? In two days? Mr. Bennet never told me! Oh, that man will be the death of me. Hill! Hill must be told. The spare room must be aired, and the sheets changed, and what are we to have for dinner? Two days! Only two days! I am sure no woman was ever so used.”
Lydia brightened. “Is he handsome?”
“He is a clergyman,” Mary said, as though that settled the matter.
“That does not answer my question.”
Mrs. Bennet, meanwhile, had sunk into a chair and begun the letter. Elizabeth watched her mother’s eyes move rapidly down the page, watched outrage mingle with curiosity, then with calculation.
“He speaks of an olive branch,” Mrs. Bennet said slowly.
“So he does.”
“And reconciliation.”
“Yes.”
“And making amends for the entail.” Her voice changed again, gaining that sharp, hopeful note Elizabeth knew too well. “Girls, do you hear? He speaks of making amends.”
“Mama,” Elizabeth warned.
Mrs. Bennet looked first at Jane, then at Elizabeth. Her gaze lingered critically upon Jane’s pale face and then sharpened as it turned.
“Jane is for Mr. Bingley,” she said.
Jane’s cheeks colored. “Mama, please.”
“And Mary would preach him into a stupor, though perhaps a clergyman might enjoy that. Kitty and Lydia are too young.” Mrs. Bennet’s eyes fixed upon Elizabeth with sudden purpose. “It must be you.”
Elizabeth’s eyebrows rose. “I beg your pardon?”
“You heard me. If Mr. Collins means to choose one of my daughters, it must be you. You are the one practically running the estate already. It makes every sense. You know the tenants, the accounts, the repairs. If you married the heir, Longbourn would remain with us, and all this misery of the entail would be at an end.”
“If the man is as foolish in person as he appears in his letter, Mama, there is no possible way.”
“Foolish! What is foolishness compared to being mistress of Longbourn? You are always so determined to have your own way, Lizzy, but in this you shall do as you are told.”
“No,” Elizabeth said.
Mrs. Bennet pressed a hand to her chest. “No? No? There it is. Ungrateful daughters. Ungrateful, headstrong, selfish daughters! My nerves, my poor nerves, are never considered. I shall be turned out of my home, and you will all stand about moralizing while I am left to starve in the hedgerows.”
“You will not be turned out into a hedgerow, Mama.”
“How do you know? Are you mistress of fate now? You may laugh, but when your father dies, that odious man may cast us all out before the funeral meats are cold.”
“He is not yet here,” Jane said softly.
Every eye turned toward her.
Jane flushed, but continued with the gentle courage that so often succeeded where Elizabeth’s sharper truths failed.
“We do not know what Mr. Collins is like. His letter is very formal, but perhaps he is better in person. He may be kind. He may truly wish to make amends. It would be better to wait until he arrives before deciding anything.”
Mrs. Bennet sniffed. “That is because you are an angel, Jane, and always think well of everybody.”
“I think we should be fair.”
Elizabeth gave her sister a look of disbelief. “You cannot be encouraging this.”
“I am only saying that you may come to care for him if he is kind.”
“I may also come to care for boiled turnips if forced to eat them long enough, but I should not choose them for dinner if there were any alternative.”