CHAPTER 2 A COURTSHIP PLAN
Elizabeth
Three days later, my father agreed to grant Mr. Collins the living, not, I suspected, because he believed the man capable of eloquent sermons, but because the gentleman was the heir of Longbourn, and granting him the living meant he would earn the support Papa felt obligated to advance him.
Two days after that, Mr. Collins asked to marry me.
I will not say I was surprised, for I had seen it coming with the inexorability of weather, the way his eyes followed me across a room, the way he maneuvered to sit beside me at dinner, and the way his long speeches gradually narrowed their focus until I was their sole and somewhat reluctant subject.
What surprised me was my response, which was neither the firm refusal I had imagined giving nor the acceptance my mother would have preferred.
“I am not ready to accept, Mr. Collins,” I said, when he had knelt—actually knelt, one knee pressing into the carpet of the small parlor, his round face flushed with emotion and hope—and made his case with considerably more feeling than his usual speeches contained.
“But I am willing to… to allow a courtship. To give you the chance to prove—that is, to give us both the chance to discover whether we might suit.”
Papa, watching from his chair by the fire, had said nothing. But later, when I had fled to the library to escape Mama’s indignant raptures, he had caught my hand in his and held it for a long moment.
“I would not have asked this of you,” he said quietly. “I hope you know that, Lizzy.”
“You did not have to ask.” I squeezed his fingers, feeling the fragility I could not acknowledge aloud. “I have eyes, Papa. I can see what is coming.”
“What is coming is uncertain. The physician says—”
“The physician is paid to give hope. I am not paid for anything, and I can see perfectly well that you are not improving.”
Silence. The fire crackled, indifferent to our human concerns. Somewhere inside our home, Lydia shrieked with laughter over something, probably nothing, and the sound was so ordinary, so unchanged, that it made my chest ache.
“Mr. Collins is not what I would have chosen for you,” Papa said. “If I am being honest—and I find, lately, that I have less patience for anything else—he is not what I would have chosen for anyone except possibly Mrs. Long, who I suspect deserves him.”
Despite myself, I laughed—a sound that came out wet around the edges.
“But he is kind, in his way,” Papa continued, his eyes holding mine with an intensity that felt like both blessing and farewell. “And he cares for you—I could see it in his face when he asked my permission. That is not nothing, Lizzy.”
“It is not enough, either.”
“No.” His hand tightened. “It is not. But enough may come later. Or it may not. That is what courtship is for—discovering whether ‘not nothing’ can become ‘enough.’”
I had no answer to that. I still did not, several days later, as I walked to Oakham Mount with a snuffling pug at my heels and a proposal of marriage still echoing in my ears, wondering how, precisely, my life had spiraled so quickly beyond the boundaries of what I had planned or wanted or imagined for myself.
The courtship was not an engagement. I had been very clear on that point, and Mr. Collins, to his credit, had accepted the distinction without argument.
But I had agreed to walk with him, to sit with him at dinner, and to consider the possibility that my future might be bound to his.
I had accepted Empress—thrust upon me as a “token of esteem,” though I suspected the pug had more say in the matter than Mr. Collins realized, and the creature had attached herself to my person with a devotion that was either flattering or suspicious, depending on one’s interpretation.
For my father. For my sisters. For Longbourn itself—
It was not what I wanted.
But want, I was learning, was a luxury the second daughter of a dying man could not afford.
Empress, at least, proved to be tolerable company.
She followed me everywhere: to the henhouse, where she expressed deep skepticism about the chickens; to the kitchen garden, where she attempted to dig up the carrots with enthusiastic incompetence; to the library, where she dozed at my feet while I read aloud to Papa.
She slept at the foot of my bed, having firmly rejected the velvet-lined basket Mr. Collins had provided, and her snoring rivaled Lydia’s complaints in volume, if not in content.
She had opinions about everything, expressed primarily through grunts of approval or growls of disapproval.
And her disapproval was considerably more common than her approval.
She had taken an inexplicable disliking to Mr. Collins’s shoes—not Mr. Collins himself, curiously, just his shoes—and she growled whenever he walked past, nipped at his buckles if he stood still too long, and once attempted to bury his left boot in the garden.
It was baffling, and also rather funny. I liked the little creature far more than I had expected.
Today, she had demanded a walk.
I say “demanded” because there was no other word for it.
Empress had stationed herself by the front door, wheezing emphatically, until I had surrendered my book and reached for my bonnet.
October had turned the lanes golden and amber, the hedgerows bright with autumn berries, and even with my problems weighing upon me, I could not deny the pleasure of walking through such beauty.
Empress trotted ahead with determined dignity, her stubby legs churning through the fallen leaves, and I followed at a more sedate pace, letting my thoughts wander where they would.
Earlier in the week, Papa had finally managed to call upon Mr. Bingley, a triumph of will over weakness that had left him exhausted for two days afterward, and had pronounced the young man “entirely inoffensive, which is high praise coming from me.” Jane had met him afterward at a card party at Aunt Philips’s, and I had watched her bloom under his attention, her quiet beauty suddenly radiant with a happiness she had not permitted herself in months.
If Mr. Bingley proved worthy of her, I would welcome him as a brother gladly.
Mr. Bingley’s friend was another matter.
Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley had not attended the gathering at Aunt Philips’s, the gossip reported, claiming estate business—though Mrs. Long had sniffed that “ten thousand a year could surely afford a few hours of sociability.” Charlotte Lucas, more charitable than most, had suggested that perhaps he was shy.
I suspected a disdain for those in trade, as Uncle Philips was a solicitor, although it was reported that Mr. Darcy had appeared at Lucas Lodge—Sir William’s knighthood playing a likely role.
Shy or proud, I had not met him, and I was content to delay the encounter indefinitely.
A man with ten thousand a year would look at me, a gentleman’s daughter in a courtship with a penniless clergyman, wearing her third-best dress and accompanied by a judgmental pug—and see nothing worth remembering.
Which was fine. I had no interest in being remembered by wealthy strangers. I had enough complications without…
Empress barked.
It was a sharp, startled sound—surprising, because Empress rarely barked.
She preferred to communicate through a sophisticated vocabulary of grunts, snorts, and meaningful stares.
But this was unmistakably a bark, followed by another, followed by the pug launching herself through a gap in the hedgerow with a speed I would not have believed her compact body capable of.
“Empress! Empress, come back here—”
I gathered my skirts and plunged after her.
The gap in the hedge was narrower than it appeared.
Branches caught at my bonnet, my sleeve, and the careful coils of my hair.
I stumbled over a root, caught myself against the rough bark of an oak, felt something tear in a way that meant mending, and emerged into a clearing just in time to see Empress hurtling toward—
A horse.
A very large horse, glossy black, with the kind of elegant lines that announced breeding and expense. It stood placidly in the center of the clearing, reins held loosely in the hands of a man who had evidently dismounted, either in search of his bearings or to appreciate the view.
His purpose was unclear, and frankly irrelevant, because what was very clear was that the horse was enormous, Empress was tiny, and the pug was charging directly toward those polished hooves with all the self-preservation instincts of a small furry sack of turnips.
“No! Stop! EMPRESS!”
The man turned.
Time stood still as I saw him clearly—dark hair, somewhat disordered by the wind; a severe coat of excellent cut; a face that might have been handsome if it were not currently arranged into an expression of absolute bewilderment, as though he could not quite believe the pugnacious ball of fur barreling toward him.
The horse, showing considerably more sense than the pug, sidestepped neatly out of danger.
Empress, denied her target, skidded to a halt approximately six inches from the man’s boots.
And began to growl.
“I am so sorry.” The words tumbled out as I hurried forward. “She has never—I cannot explain—Empress, stop that immediately—”
The pug did not stop. If anything, the growl intensified, deepening into a rumble that seemed far too large for her pint size.
She dug in her heels directly in front of the stranger, hackles raised, flat face wrinkled into what was presumably meant to be a menace but looked rather more like squashed outrage.
The man stared down at her with a stoic expression.
Then, slowly, he lifted his gaze to me.
His eyes were dark—not merely brown, but dark, in a way that suggested either depth or nothing beyond the aristocratic boredom that dressed itself in mystery while the rest of us scrambled about in hedgerows chasing pugs.
“Your dog,” he said, his voice low and precise and utterly devoid of warmth, “appears to dislike me.”
“Yes.” I scooped Empress into my arms, which only redirected the growl toward my collarbone. “She appears to. I cannot account for it. She is not usually—that is, she has strong opinions, but she is rarely so vocal.”
I stopped, suddenly aware that I was babbling, and that he was still looking at me with that unsettling intensity that made me wonder if my pelisse was unbuttoned or if I had spinach caught between my teeth.
“You are Miss Bennet,” he said. It was not a question.
“I am Miss Elizabeth Bennet. Jane is Miss Bennet, properly speaking. How did you—”
“I have heard of you.” Still that level gaze, still that unreadable expression. “From Bingley. He speaks of your family often.”
Bingley. Which meant this must be—
Oh.
“Mr. Darcy,” I said, with rather less composure than I would have preferred. “Of Pemberley.”
“Yes.”
“I see.”
I did not, in fact, see anything clearly. My mind went blank, my mouth dry, and my heart refused to stand still. Empress slipped from my grasp as my gaze locked onto his. What was I doing staring at this stranger? This wealthy, entirely ineligible gentleman?
This was the man worth ten thousand a year, destined for a brilliant match with a lady of consequence and fortune. This was the man too proud to socialize with mere country people. This was—
A stranger being growled at by my pug in an autumn clearing, and looking, for all his dignity, rather unsure what to do about it.
Empress chose this moment to sneeze directly onto his boots.
“I do apologize,” I said, catching the edge of hysteria before it could escape into laughter. “She is not normally so—”
“Opinionated?”
“I was going to say demonstrative.”
His mouth twitched. Just once. It was not a smile—Mr. Darcy, I suspected, did not smile at strangers in clearings—but something had shifted behind those eyes.
“Demonstrative,” he repeated. “Is that what we are calling strong opinions?”
“It seems kinder than the alternatives.”
The silence stretched. Empress had subsided into grumbling mutters, still side-eyeing Mr. Darcy. The horse, vastly more sensible, had dropped its head to graze.
I should leave. I should apologize again, extricate myself, and hurry back through the hedge before this encounter could become any more mortifying. I should—
“Bingley also mentioned,” Mr. Darcy said, his voice deep and controlled, “that your father has been unwell.”
The shift was so unexpected that I blinked, my eyes still refusing to leave his. “He—yes. He has.”
“Rheumatic fever.”
“You seem remarkably well-informed about my family’s affairs, Mr. Darcy.”
“Bingley speaks of little else. He is determined to be of use, though he has no idea how. I thought—that is—”
He stopped, and his composure seemed to waver, as if he was concerned or unsure of his footing.
“My physician in London has some expertise in these matters,” he said, the words coming carefully. “If your father would consent to a consultation, I could arrange—”
“Why?”
The question came out sharper than I intended, but I was tired, and worried, and quite frankly bewildered by this entire encounter, by this wealthy stranger offering help to a family he had never met, in a clearing reached only by chasing a runaway pug through a hedge.
“Why would you—we are nothing to you, Mr. Darcy. We are not even acquainted.”
His deep gaze seemed to penetrate to locations I dared not reveal—the fear beneath my bravado and the uncertainty I tiptoed around.
“You are neighbors,” he said finally. “And—”
“And?”
But whatever he had been about to say, he thought better of it. His expression closed again, and that glimpse of vulnerability vanished behind practiced reserve.
“I will send the physician’s direction to Longbourn,” he said. “Your father may do with it as he wishes. Good day, Miss Elizabeth.”
He was on his horse before I could respond, gathering the reins with the ease of long practice, his back very straight and his face turned away from me.
“Mr. Darcy.”
He paused, but did not look at me.
“Thank you,” I said. “For the offer. Even if my father cannot accept it. Thank you.”
He inclined his head, the barest acknowledgment, and then he was gone—hoofbeats fading into the October afternoon, leaving me alone in the clearing with a wheezing pug and a head full of questions.
Empress sneezed again, apparently satisfied that she had successfully defended me from whatever threat Mr. Darcy had represented.
“I do not understand him either,” I told her.
She grunted, apparently satisfied with this consensus, and we began the long walk home.
The lanes were the same—autumn light, falling leaves, hedgerows heavy with berries—but I kept seeing his face. That guarded expression. The crack in it when he’d offered help.
I did not want to think about what it meant, and I thought about it anyway.
End of Excerpt: To read more, go to The Pug and Mr. Darcy: A Pet Matchmaking Romance