Letters （Elizabeth）
I always believed the best thing to do when you have a headache is engage in an activity so vexing it makes the pain even worse, just so you will be relieved when it finally goes away.
At least, that must have been my belief, based on my activities that Thursday afternoon in Hunsford, when I was visiting my friend, Charlotte Collins.
She, of course, had been dragged kicking and screaming to tea at Rosings, though perhaps I overstate the case.
Tea at Rosings is not the dullest activity in the world—at least if you must attend my cousin’s services—but after Colonel Fitzwilliam’s disclosure of his cousin’s perfidy and interference in my sister’s life, I was disinclined to spend time with either of the pigwidgeons.
I naturally decided to improve my disposition by rereading Jane’s letters—apparently because I could not think of anything even more frustrating to occupy my time.
Jane was unlikely to shrivel up and die over Mr Bingley's defection, or his sisters’ nastiness, or his pointedly ignoring her in town; but her letters showed a certain lack of Jane-like spirit that distressed me.
Of course, now that I knew more of the story, I was required to decide whether to enlighten her on the particulars or not.
I still had a fortnight to think about it, so perhaps rereading her letters would serve some purpose aside from frustrating me—though it was hard to imagine what it might be.
I was quite surprised by the sound of the door-bell.
No pounding sounded, so it was not an express rider.
It certainly was not anybody from Rosings.
Perhaps someone from the village was making a delivery?
I was well on my way to ignoring the bell, exactly as I would have done were I at Rosings, when the parlour door opened. Drat! Now I would have to get up.
I managed to rise from the sofa and did not actually fall over on the floor—though it was a close thing, so that was all to my credit—but then Molly made the most peculiar announcement. “Miss de Bourgh, ma’am.”
At that point, I thought I might have been better falling over on the floor. At least then I would not have had to curtsey awkwardly; but alas, it was much too late, so I performed the office as well as I could. Fortunately, her curtsey was no better.
“Miss de Bourgh, welcome. Charlotte and Mr Collins are at Rosings for tea. You find me quite alone.”
I thought about adding a quip about why she was not at Rosings, but I imagined the poor woman realised she was not at home and needed no instruction from the likes of me. Perhaps her pony threw a shoe, or the wheel of her phaeton broke, and she needed me to send a servant for help.
“Miss Bennet, I hope you are feeling better.”
Most peculiar!
“I am feeling much better. Will you not sit down?”
She looked nervous, which I would have found strange, except I could not really think of a time she had not looked nervous, so perhaps my powers of discernment lacked refinement.
She sat in a chair by the parlour table, and I sat opposite. “Shall I ring for tea?”
She seemed puzzled by the question, so I took silence as assent and rang the bell. Once tea had been requested, we entered into awkward and stilted conversation for a few moments until it arrived, then I served and we partook in the usual manner.
After a few more awkward moments, the lady said the strangest thing. “Miss Bennet, pardon me if this seems overly forward or familiar, but I have come here to forewarn you.”
Not forward or familiar, just odd! Very odd!
“Warn me about what? I must say you are either very mysterious or very alarming. I cannot decide which at the moment,” I said in a voice I hoped might alleviate her nervousness.
She seemed mostly stuck at that point, so I leaned into the table and tried to set her at ease.
“You may speak with candour, Miss de Bourgh. We are quite alone and I will keep your confidence.” I regretted the promise almost as soon as it left my mouth, but there was nothing to be done about it.
“Whatever dire warning you carry is best delivered, is it not? What terrible event is about to befall me?”
She looked truly alarmed, and stuttered, “Not… not… not… no… not… no… not terrible. Not terrible, just… well… oh dear!”
I was becoming a bit agitated, and my headache was back with a vengeance. She seemed alarmed herself, perhaps because she was making such a muddle of the whole business.
At last, she tamped down her anxiety. “I believe my cousin plans to propose to you.”
I blew out the most relieved breath of my life.
I had been expecting something terrible, so I thought to set the poor woman’s mind at ease.
“Oh! Is that all? Have no fear. I already discussed the matter with your cousin in some detail, and no proposal is forthcoming. We are in complete accord on the subject. You had me worried for a moment, but all is well. You may rest easy.”
She looked perplexed. “You already discussed it with him? How? When?”
“We canvassed the subject this morning when I met him in the park. It came up in relation to… well, to your other cousin… and a friend. Fear not. All is well!”
“He did not propose to you?”
“He did not, but we discussed the matter, and it is quite resolved to everyone’s satisfaction.”
“If it is not asking too much, can you tell me why it is resolved in such a way. I was certain of my conclusions, and would be astonished to find them in error?”
The poor woman turned bright red and looked like she had never asked an awkward or embarrassing question before.
It may well have been the worst moment of her life, but in the Bennet household, a moment this awkward would not even be the worst moment of breakfast. The poor woman truly needed some sisters to toughen her up.
“It was resolved in the usual way. He seems to have some… er… what did he call them… ah… ‘habits of expense’ to guide his requirements for a bride. A figure of around ￡50,000 was discussed, and that was in the appropriate range. At any rate, we are in accord that no proposal is forthcoming or expected, since I have no such fortune, and neither of us is particularly distressed by the lack of said engagement.”
It seemed the matter could be resolved, and all so easily. I had no idea what she could be nervous about.
“Do you know what ‘habits of expense’ means?” she asked.
I was somewhat chagrined. “I have no idea, and I suspect that, given the opportunity to learn, I probably would demur. I am not at all certain I want to know about expensive gentlemen’s habits.”
She gasped at the implications but nodded in agreement. Some things were best left unknown.
She looked a bit embarrassed. “I know I am being even ruder than my mother, but would you object to telling me how far short of that mark your fortune is?”
She covered her mouth with her hands, her eyes wide in fear or embarrassment, but I just looked at her calmly and tried to settle her down.
“Be at ease. I do not mind. You really should have some sisters if such a small slip is going to distress you. May I lend you some? I have plenty and I could spare you at least two with no trouble whatsoever, and three would not be out of the question?”
She seemed incapable of seeing the humour of my suggestion, or anything other than horror, so I rushed to finish the thought. “It is not gossip you seek! Everyone in Meryton knows the answer. My cousin Collins knows as well, so be assured your mother is aware too.”
She studied me curiously, finally coming down from her embarrassment, so I answered. “As of this morning, I am around ￡49,993 short of the mark.”
She gasped. “You have no fortune at all?”
The shocked look should have made me angry, but it just made me impertinent. “No fortune at all… well, actually I have ￡50 per annum, so I am not quite destitute. But fear not! To compensate, I have no accomplishments either!”
She looked mortified, and I had to spend another minute trying to explain the difference between teasing and censure; which seemed to be entirely new concepts to her.
I thought it might profit Lady Catherine to hire a master to instruct her on teasing, and of course, Mr Darcy could profit from the instruction as well.
It would be very efficient for the estates if they shared lessons, since they were both complete novices.
They could both start with the very basics and work their way up.
She eventually calmed. “To be perfectly clear, you openly discussed marriage with my cousin, he told you he needed a large dowry, and you now consider yourself either bereft or barely escaped.”
I laughed gaily. “Your cousin is nowhere near that disagreeable. We are just not suited to each other, and our situations are entirely incompatible. I assure you, I am neither bereft nor relieved. I never seriously considered him at all.”
She took the news with much more of a confused look than I might have expected.
I began to wonder what was so confusing about the whole thing, since I barely knew the colonel longer than a fortnight.
Why would she expect him to be proposing marriage after such a brief acquaintance, and why was she surprised that an army colonel might be short of funds from time to time?
I was pondering those weighty matters, and the unexpectedly cross countenance of Miss de Bourgh, when the door-bell rang again.
I began to wonder if the colonel planned to come back and check on my condition—or possibly stand still while I beat him with a stick for saying such disagreeable things about my sister.
‘Honour of my cousin’s triumph,’ indeed! PAH!
When I had explored the idea of a stick and the colonel’s head in sufficient detail, I cast about for an even more ridiculous supposition. Perhaps, if I was truly in a mood for far-fetched suppositions, I might hypothesise that it was Mr Darcy come to check on my condition.
I was quite enjoying a good giggle about the ridiculousness of that idea when the parlour door opened again.