Chapter 22
The weeks that followed passed with a swiftness that surprised even Elizabeth, who had long believed that life at Longbourn moved at a pace determined chiefly by her mother’s nerves and Lydia’s impatience.
Calls were paid and returned with much more frequency than they had been before.
Netherfield’s carriage became a frequent sight upon the road, its arrival prompting Mrs. Bennet to adjust her cap and posture with equal urgency.
Mrs. Hurst presided over her brother’s household with cool competence, receiving the Bennet ladies with civility that bordered upon indifference.
Miss Bingley, though scrupulously polite when she deigned to join them, found it necessary to remind the room—whenever opportunity allowed—that Hertfordshire could not rival the refinements of London.
Elizabeth bore it with composure; Jane bore it with grace.
Mr. Bingley’s attentions, however, were neither ambiguous nor restrained.
His pleasure in Jane’s company was so evident that even Mrs. Bennet’s most extravagant anticipations seemed, for once, founded upon fact rather than fancy.
He rode over often, sometimes with Darcy, sometimes alone, and if the conversation turned to the management of Netherfield’s tenants or the improvement of its fields, it did not prevent his eyes from seeking Jane across the room.
One morning, Mr. Bingley arrived earlier than was his habit, and alone.
Elizabeth observed it at once. There was something in his expression—an earnest gravity that sat awkwardly upon his naturally cheerful features.
He greeted Mrs. Bennet with unusual composure, bowed to her daughters, and then, after only the briefest exchange of pleasantries, requested the favor of a private word with Mr. Bennet.
Mrs. Bennet froze.
Elizabeth felt Jane’s hand tighten upon her own.
Mr. Bennet, who had been reading in his accustomed chair, lowered his spectacles and regarded Mr. Bingley with a look of mild curiosity.
“With me, sir?” he drawled.
“If you please.”
Mr. Bennet rose with deliberation. “Very well. I am always interested in private discourse conducted at ten in the morning.”
He led Mr. Bingley toward his study and closed the door.
The click of the latch sounded far louder than it ought.
Mrs. Bennet immediately began pacing.
“Oh heavens. Oh, my nerves. Jane, sit up straight. Lizzy, do not look so knowing. Kitty, for once in your life, quit coughing!”
Jane’s complexion had taken on the delicate pallor of one attempting composure by sheer will. She folded her hands in her lap, her gaze fixed resolutely upon the carpet.
Elizabeth remained outwardly calm, though her own heart had begun to beat with inconvenient force.
“How long can it possibly require?” Mrs. Bennet demanded after less than a minute had passed. “What can men say to one another that is so very mysterious?”
“Perhaps they are discussing crop rotation,” Elizabeth suggested.
“Lizzy!”
Another minute elapsed.
Then another.
The murmur of male voices could be faintly heard through the door, though no words could be distinguished. Once there was a brief pause—then Mr. Bennet’s unmistakable laugh.
Jane drew a sharp breath.
Mrs. Bennet clutched at the back of a chair.
At last, the door opened.
Mr. Bingley emerged first.
The expression upon his face dispelled all doubt. It was not merely happiness—it was relief, gratitude, and a species of wonder.
Behind him, Mr. Bennet appeared composed—though there was something gentler about his gaze than Elizabeth was accustomed to seeing.
Mr. Bingley crossed the room at once.
“Miss Bennet,” he began, and though his voice trembled slightly, it did not fail him, “your father has done me the honor of consenting to a courtship between us. If you will allow me the greater happiness of securing your—”
Jane did not permit him to finish. Her answer was soft but unhesitating.
“Yes!”
Mrs. Bennet gave a small cry and collapsed back into her chair, declaring herself overcome.
Mary began to offer solemn congratulations, though she looked a bit peevish at Mr. Collins, who had yet to declare himself in any way.
Kitty and Lydia erupted into cheers and loud chatter over the gowns they would order for the wedding.
For her part, Elizabeth could not prevent the warmth that rose in her chest at the sight of her sister’s joy.
As she embraced Jane, she reflected that while Jane’s happiness manifested in serene smiles, her own had seized her spirits with far less decorum—betraying itself in laughter, restless thoughts, and a most unmanageable quickening of the heart whenever Darcy appeared before her.
His visits to Longbourn to see her were less animated than his friend’s, but no less steady.
Darcy did not parade his regard, but he also did not attempt to disguise it.
Elizabeth found that his presence altered the shape and character of her days in ways she could neither dismiss nor entirely explain.
It was not so much what she did, but rather who she did it with.
Their conversations were quite ordinary, ranging from books to boundaries, from the obligations of landowners to the peculiarities of Meryton society.
She discovered that beneath his reserve lay not severity but deliberation; beneath his gravity, a capacity for warmth that revealed itself in quiet moments rather than grand declarations.
Elizabeth had felt nervous the first time he called on her after Mary’s verbal assault, anxious over the idea that Mary might drive him away. To her profound relief, however her next younger sister maintained a dignified silence.
Having been firmly instructed by her father to refrain from theological debate within his walls, Mary complied outwardly, though her glances toward Darcy were seldom free of reproof.
She spoke often of conscience and duty, and once declared, in tones of solemn resolve, that while she remained subject to parental authority she would be guided by obedience—but that conviction, when given liberty, must not be restrained.
At Mary’s side in each instance was her constant companion, Mr. Collins. In fact, his attentions to Mary were so overt that Elizabeth was quite surprised that Bingley had spoken to Mr. Bennet about one of his daughters before Mr. Collins had.
That discrepancy did not last long, however. Bingley’s example proved to be as catching as one of Lydia’s yawns during Mr. Collins’s daily readings of Fordyce. On the very afternoon that Jane and Mr. Bingley’s understanding was secured, Mr. Collins applied to Mr. Bennet with a proposal of his own.
As the family assembled for dinner, Mr. Bennet unfolded his napkin and cleared his throat with an air of restrained amusement.
“I believe,” he began with false solemnity, “that we are in danger of losing all of our daughters in rapid succession.”
“Lose our daughters? What on earth do you mean, Mr. Bennet?” his wife demanded.
“This afternoon, Mr. Collins came to me with an offer for Mary’s hand, and I deemed it prudent to approve his request, seeing as he might turn you all out otherwise upon my death.”
Mrs. Bennet gave a shriek that might have startled the poultry in the yard. “Approve his request! Oh, my dear Mr. Bennet, what felicity! Two daughters being courted, and now the third is engaged! What a triumph!”
“Yes, I believe we now enjoy the distinction of outpacing our neighbors in matrimonial enterprise,” Mr. Bennet said dryly. “Though I perceive I have erred in announcing it before the conclusion of dinner, for I foresee very little peace at this table henceforth.”
He then turned to Elizabeth and gave her a small wink, and she gave a small laugh.
Mary, who had not shrieked at her father’s announcement, folded her hands with grave composure.
The expression on her features was unmistakably one of triumph.
There was in it a satisfaction that bordered upon superiority—as though she had secured not merely a husband, but a moral victory.
“I trust,” she said with solemn dignity, “that I shall discharge the duties of my future station with seriousness and propriety.”
Elizabeth observed that her sister’s posture had gained at least two inches in height.
Mr. Collins bowed deeply across the table. “My dear Mary’s devotion to improvement is among her many distinguished qualities, and one of which my patron is bound to approve. I am most fortunate.”
Kitty attempted to suppress a giggle and failed. Lydia did not even make the attempt. “Well!” she cried. “Mary will have sermons at breakfast and sermons at supper! What a bore!”
“Lydia!” Mrs. Bennet snapped sharply, startling the entire table.
Elizabeth raised her brows. Mrs. Bennet, who seldom rebuked Lydia with any lasting effect, fixed her youngest daughter with a severity rarely employed. “Your sister’s engagement is a matter of great consequence. You will behave accordingly.”
Mary’s chin lifted another fraction.
Lydia subsided, though not without tossing her hair in exaggerated martyrdom. Kitty leaned close to whisper something that caused both of them to shake silently with laughter, though under Mrs. Bennet’s vigilant eye they did so with unusual restraint.
Mr. Bennet surveyed the scene with philosophical detachment.
“Well, Mary,” he said mildly, “I trust you will reform your husband as thoroughly as you intend to reform the rest of us.”
Mary received the remark without visible irony. “I shall endeavor to be a suitable help meet to my husband, Papa. As Proverbs says, The heart of her husband doth safely trust in her, so that he shall have no need of spoil. She will do him good and not evil all the days of her life.”
Mr. Collins nodded solemnly. “A virtuous woman is a crown to her husband.”
“Oh, Lord,” Lydia said with a sigh. “Now there are two of them in the family.”