CHAPTER FOUR
AS USUAL, THE BENNET family gathered for dinner that evening.
The room glowed with candlelight, the air lively with the clatter of dishes and the cheerful murmur of five daughters in various degrees of mirth and mischief.
A generous roast stood in triumph at the centre of the table, sending up a tempting steam.
Elizabeth was the last to join them, her cheeks bright from the evening air, Pippin trotting happily at her heels.
“Lizzy!” cried Mrs. Bennet, her fork clattering upon her plate. “You will not bring that creature to table! This is a family dinner, not a kennel!”
Mr. Bennet, carving the roast with deliberate leisure, did not look up. “And yet, my dear, Pippin seems to think herself quite one of us. Indeed, she has done more this week to make our name known in Meryton than everyone at this table combined.”
Lydia burst into laughter; Kitty joined her; Jane hid her smile behind her napkin.
“Pray, Mama,” said Elizabeth as she took her seat, “she will be quiet, and after last night, I daresay she deserves to dine with us, else she misbehave while waiting for scraps.”
Pippin gave a small, eager bark, as if to second the motion.
Mrs. Bennet ignored Elizabeth and turned to her husband instead. “Efforts! I should call it ruin! To make such a spectacle before Mr. Bingley’s whole party! That proud Mr. Darcy will think her wild and uncivilised forever!”
Elizabeth smiled, unruffled. “If so, I imagine his opinion has survived the shock. He appeared in excellent health when I met him again today.”
The table fell silent.
“You met him?” Mrs. Bennet gasped. “Good heavens, Lizzy, where?”
“By chance, near Meryton,” Elizabeth replied, glancing beneath the table. “Pippin made the introduction again today. She went after his dog, and they contrived to knock him quite off his feet.”
Jane’s eyes widened. “Mr. Darcy keeps a dog?”
“He does,” said Elizabeth, her lips curving. “A greyhound, called Apollo. He seems to like Pippin, and the feeling, I’m afraid, is mutual. They were in perfect harmony before either of us could separate them.”
Lydia leaned forward eagerly. “Then Pippin will be married before any of us!”
Mr. Bennet gave a low laugh. “A most promising match. Apollo sounds the very name of a creature of sense. I should say he has chosen wisely.”
Elizabeth tossed Pippin a small piece of meat; the spaniel caught it neatly, earning another ripple of laughter round the table.
Mrs. Bennet, however, was not appeased. “Oh, Lizzy, you make sport of everything! I cannot think why you delight in provoking that disagreeable man.”
“I assure you, Mama, I do not,” Elizabeth replied lightly. “Though I am beginning to think Pippin takes great pleasure in tormenting him.”
“Then she has her mistress’s example,” said Mr. Bennet, eyes glinting with amusement.
Jane’s soft laugh covered Elizabeth’s smile, while Lydia exclaimed, “I am sure Mr. Darcy must have been dreadfully angry, being bested by a little dog and having his own so taken with her!”
“Take care, child,” Mrs. Bennet said, shaking her head. “That animal will be the ruin of Lizzy yet.”
“Then let her be ruined in good company,” Mr. Bennet replied. “Better by affection than by ambition.”
At that, Elizabeth bent to stroke Pippin’s head, her laughter quiet but sincere. “There now, my love, even Papa defends you. We are quite in favour tonight.”
The spaniel wagged her tail in triumphant agreement, and the room filled once more with warmth and laughter.
It was at that moment that Mr. Bennet, with deliberate composure, set down his knife and fork. “And speaking of affection,” he said, “I have received a letter that will, I think, interest you all—a most affectionate one from our cousin, Mr. Collins.”
All conversation ceased at once.
“Mr. Collins!” Mrs. Bennet exclaimed. “The very man who is to inherit Longbourn?”
“The same,” Mr. Bennet said, a dry amusement flickering in his eyes. “And judging by his style, a man of the utmost consequence.”
He reached into his coat pocket, withdrew a neatly folded paper, and adjusted his spectacles with exaggerated care.
“Shall I read it aloud?” he asked, his tone suggesting that, whatever the letter contained, it promised more entertainment than instruction.
Elizabeth glanced about the table, noting her sisters’ curiosity and her mother’s agitation. The name Collins was not a strange one. With no brother to inherit, the Bennet girls had long been reminded of the cousin destined to claim all should anything befall their father.
The room fell silent but for the faint crackle of the fire, as five daughters leaned forward, prepared for what promised to be a most diverting performance.
“‘Dear Sir,’” he began, in a tone of mock solemnity, “‘The disagreement which has so long subsisted between yourself and my late honoured father has weighed heavily upon my conscience; and as I consider it my duty, in the light of Christian forgiveness, to atone for the same, I flatter myself that this letter will be received with such kindness as may heal the breach between our families.’”
He lowered the page long enough to remark, “A very pious opening. I am already softened.”
Lydia giggled; Mary looked scandalised at the levity. Mr. Bennet continued:
“‘Having completed my ordination and, through the gracious condescension of my noble patroness, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, now happily settled in the rectory of Hunsford near Rosings Park, I feel it incumbent upon me to set an example of humility by making the acquaintance of your esteemed self and wife, and of course, your fair daughters.’”
“Humility indeed,” murmured Elizabeth, earning a stifled laugh from Jane.
“‘…And as it is my intention, while under your hospitable roof, to solicit the honour of one of your daughters’ hands in marriage—thus making amends for the entail which has so long deprived them—’”’”
“Marriage!” cried Mrs. Bennet, sitting bolt upright and nearly upsetting the gravy boat. “Oh, Mr. Bennet, did you hear? He means to marry one of them! We are saved!”
Mr. Bennet, still perfectly composed, said, “So it seems our cousin’s Christianity is of the most practical kind. Continue? Very well.”
He read on a few lines about “dutiful gratitude” and “Lady Catherine’s excellent advice,” then folded the letter with a wry smile. “In short, my dear, we may expect him on Saturday, prepared to sacrifice himself to whichever of you girls looks least disagreeable.”
Mrs. Bennet clasped her hands in delight. “Oh, what a charming man he must be! To think he should wish to make reparation in so genteel a way—and he arrives in only two days’ time! We shall lose Longbourn to no stranger after all.”
Her gaze drifted—significantly—to Elizabeth.
Elizabeth raised her brows. “Why look at me, Mama? Surely such heroism deserves the eldest.”
“Jane has Mr. Bingley,” Mrs. Bennet said promptly, “and you are next in beauty and age.”
“I thank you for so delicate a compliment,” Elizabeth returned with perfect composure.
Pippin, who had been dozing under the table, gave a low, expressive bark, as if offering her own opinion on the matter.
“There, even Pippin agrees!” cried Lydia between laughter.
“I should hope,” said Mr. Bennet, stroking his chin, “that she barks in protest, not consent. One sensible female in the house is quite enough.”
Mrs. Bennet waved the jest aside. “Oh, Mr. Bennet, you may laugh, but if Mr. Collins should take a fancy to Lizzy, we shall all be well provided for.”
“I cannot think so, my dear. From his letter, Mr. Collins does not appear to be a man who could manage Lizzy for a single day. Indeed, I suspect he would spend the first sermon seeking divine assistance, and the second begging for mercy. As for Pippin, she would bite him long before Lizzy had the chance.”
The room erupted in laughter. Even Mary tried, unsuccessfully, to hide a smile behind her napkin.
Mrs. Bennet, however, was not amused. “You may all laugh, but I tell you, Lizzy, if that dog so much as growls at Mr. Collins, I shall have her turned out into the yard where she belongs. I will not have your prospects ruined a second time by that creature!”
Elizabeth reached down to stroke Pippin’s silky ears, her tone sweetly innocent. “You hear that, my dear? If you disturb Mr. Collins, Mama will send you to live among the servants.”
Pippin wagged her tail once, as if wholly unmoved by the threat, and laid her head upon Elizabeth’s slipper, perfectly content and quite indifferent to both Mr. Collins and the yard.
When the family at last dispersed and the room had fallen into a companionable quiet, Elizabeth lingered by the fire, her gaze upon the dying embers. The pompous turns of Mr. Collins’s letter still echoed in her mind, and she gave a soft sigh.
“A most dutiful gentleman,” she murmured to Pippin, who blinked drowsily up at her, “and already I am persuaded I shall not like him.”
Pippin gave a faint yawn of agreement and nestled closer, her tail giving one last contented thump upon the hearthrug.