Chapter 20
Mr. Collins arrived at Longbourn shortly before dinner, with an air of consequence wholly disproportionate to the modest chaise that conveyed him.
Elizabeth, who had been summoned to the front hall by her mother’s urgent whisper— “Stand properly, child!”—saw first a large, awkward figure bumbling down from the carriage.
His features were not disagreeable; indeed, in repose, they might have been considered respectable.
Unfortunately, his expression was one of solemn self-importance, which did little to recommend him.
He bowed—low and lingering.
“My dear cousins,” he said, straightening with visible satisfaction, “it affords me the most heartfelt pleasure to at last behold the ladies of Longbourn.”
Elizabeth curtsied with due civility. She felt at once that he was a man who admired the sound of his own speeches.
Within moments, he began expressing his gratitude for their condescension in receiving him, for the excellence of the road from Kent, for the admirable aspect of the hedgerows, and for the honor of being connected—however distantly—to so deserving a family.
Elizabeth listened, her curiosity rapidly giving way to astonishment.
He scarcely drew breath.
At dinner, he spoke of his living in Surrey with such frequency that Elizabeth began to suspect it was less a parish and more an extension of his person.
He referred repeatedly—reverentially—to his patron, a gentleman by the name of Sir Godfrey, whose judgment, generosity, and discernment were described in terms bordering upon the devotional.
Mr. Bennet listened with a composure that Elizabeth knew too well. It was the expression he wore when thoroughly entertained.
Mrs. Bennet, meanwhile, nodded with avid encouragement at every mention of Sir Godfrey’s “condescension.”
Elizabeth concluded before the soup was cleared that Mr. Collins considered himself a man of considerable consequence—and that nothing short of thunder would interrupt him mid-sentence.
When the ladies withdrew to the parlor after dinner, Elizabeth anticipated some respite.
She was mistaken.
Tea was laid. Lydia and Kitty immediately began an animated dispute over a ribbon recently acquired in Meryton. Mary took her accustomed seat near the lamp and opened Fordyce’s Sermons with the air of one preparing for spiritual warfare.
Within two minutes, Mr. Collins entered the room and secured a position near Mrs. Bennet.
“Your father had much to do, and he suggested I join the ladies,” the parson explained.
No, Papa wished to be left alone with a book and port, Elizabeth thought wryly as she took up her work. She was seated at a small table somewhat removed from the center of the room. She did not look toward her mother and Mr. Collins, but she listened.
“My dear Mrs. Bennet,” Mr. Collins began, lowering his voice only enough to suggest privacy, “it is incumbent upon me to confide in you the principal design of my visit.”
Mrs. Bennet leaned forward, all expectation.
“I have long felt it my duty,” he continued, “to repair the breach which has unhappily existed between our branches of the family. The entail, though unavoidable, has caused a certain delicacy. It is my ardent wish to make amends in the most honorable manner possible.”
Elizabeth’s needle slowed.
“Indeed?” Mrs. Bennet breathed.
“I have been strongly encouraged—most strongly encouraged—by my noble patroness to enter into matrimony. My patron, Sir Godfrey himself, observed that a clergyman situated as I am ought not remain single. He has repeatedly remarked upon the advantages of choosing a wife from among one’s own relations. ”
Elizabeth’s hand stilled entirely.
“I therefore resolved,” Mr. Collins concluded with solemn triumph, “to select a wife from among your accomplished daughters—should I be so fortunate as to obtain the consent of one.”
Mrs. Bennet emitted a sound of rapture. Elizabeth felt as though the air had grown suddenly thin.
Mr. Collins continued, “Miss Bennet”—he inclined his head in Jane’s direction, though Jane was at present engaged in quiet conversation with Mary— “is a young lady of uncommon beauty. I was much struck.”
Stifling a gasp, Elizabeth’s heart nearly stop beating in her chest.
Mrs. Bennet sighed deeply. “Ah! My dear Jane. Yes—she is very much admired. Indeed, cousin, I believe she is likely to be engaged before long.”
Elizabeth experienced a most unexpected alignment of feeling with her mother.
Let him believe it, she thought fervently.
“Engaged?” Mr. Collins repeated, visibly recalibrating.
“Nothing is formally announced,” Mrs. Bennet said with knowing emphasis, “but there has been particular attention. We fully expect matters to be settled soon.”
Mr. Collins drew himself up with rigid propriety. “I would not presume to interfere with an attachment so nearly concluded.”
Elizabeth allowed herself a silent breath.
“Miss Elizabeth,” he resumed after a moment, “being next in age—and certainly possessed of lively countenance—”
Elizabeth felt her spine straighten involuntarily.
“Oh!” Mrs. Bennet interrupted briskly. “Lizzy is being courted as well. The permission was granted only this morning.”
Elizabeth’s fingers tightened on her needle. Thank heavens. A quiet wave of relief passed through her.
Had Darcy not spoken when he did—had her father not given his consent—would her mother now be extolling her merits with unabashed zeal?
Would Mr. Collins be turning toward her in solemn expectation?
The image rose before her: herself seated beside him for life, listening daily to the glories of his patron’s chimney-piece and the precise height of the shelves in the parsonage.
Elizabeth suppressed a shudder.
Mr. Collins appeared mildly discomposed. “I see. I would not intrude where another gentleman’s interest has been formally sanctioned.”
Mrs. Bennet’s gaze darted across the room.
“Well then,” she said brightly, “there is Mary.”
She gestured toward the corner.
Mary sat upright, spectacles glinting in the lamplight, Fordyce open in her lap. Her brow was drawn in earnest concentration. She had, at that moment, the aspect of a young woman prepared to endure tribulation with moral fortitude.
“My third daughter is the most pious girl imaginable,” Mrs. Bennet continued. “So serious. So studious. She reads nothing but improving works. And she is exceedingly industrious.”
Mr. Collins followed the direction of her hand.
Elizabeth watched his face.
There was, unmistakably, a tightening at the corners of his mouth.
His eyes shifted—briefly—to Kitty and Lydia, who were laughing far too loudly over some trivial absurdity. He hesitated.
Mrs. Bennet pressed on. “Mary would make a most dutiful clergyman’s wife. She delights in sermons.”
Mr. Collins straightened, as though resigning himself to virtue.
“Yes,” he said slowly. “Seriousness of mind and moral improvement are of the first importance. Sir Godfrey has often remarked upon the necessity of correct female conduct.”
Elizabeth nearly smiled.
“Yes, I concur with your choice, madam,” he declared. “I shall endeavor to cultivate Miss Mary’s acquaintance.”
He rose and crossed the room.
Mary looked up in evident surprise as his shadow fell across her pages. She blinked, then closed Fordyce carefully, marking her place with deliberate precision.
Elizabeth observed the scene with a mixture of gratitude and incredulity.
She had escaped—narrowly.
If Darcy had not come forward this morning—if her father had hesitated—would her mother now be smiling just so, encouraging Mr. Collins toward her?
The thought alone sent a distinct chill through her.
She bent once more over her work, thankful—for perhaps the first time in her life—that Mrs. Bennet had been premature in announcing a daughter’s prospects.
∞∞∞
The following morning broke clear and brisk, with a pale autumn sun casting long shadows across the lawn at Longbourn.
Elizabeth had just taken her seat at the breakfast table when Lydia burst into the room, cheeks flushed and eyes bright with purpose.
“We are going into Meryton,” she declared, as though announcing a military campaign. “This very morning.”
Mrs. Bennet, who was buttering her toast with unusual delicacy, looked up at once. “Into Meryton? For what purpose, child?”
“For what purpose?” Lydia cried. “To speak with the officers, of course! We were introduced to several of them when Jane and Lizzy were at Netherfield, and I mean to improve the acquaintance.”
Kitty, hovering close behind her, nodded vigorously. “Lieutenant Denny said they would be in town today.”
Elizabeth exchanged a glance with Jane. Jane’s smile was mild, though faintly apprehensive.
“I shall go,” Jane said gently. “It is a fine morning.”
“I as well,” Elizabeth added, knowing resistance would be useless and that it was far better to accompany her sisters than allow them free rein.
Mary, however, did not look up from her book.
“I shall remain at home,” she announced with dignity. “There are passages in Fordyce which require further reflection, and I believe it proper to devote the morning to improvement rather than frivolity.”
Elizabeth suppressed a smile.
Before Lydia could scoff, Mr. Collins—who had entered the room just in time to hear Mary’s declaration—spoke.
“In that case, Miss Mary, I shall forgo the expedition as well. It would afford me the greatest pleasure to remain and engage in instructive conversation.”
Mary’s head snapped up.
In that instant, comprehension dawned.
She had been selected.
Elizabeth very nearly was not able to prevent the small laugh from escaping her lips, but she quickly muffled it into a cough.
A flush crept up Mary’s neck—not of embarrassment, but of triumph. She set her well-worn copy of Fordyce aside with deliberate grace and straightened in her chair. Her shoulders drew back. Her chin lifted.
The transformation was remarkable.