Chapter 1
Elizabeth and Charlotte stood before the Parsonage, their gaze fixed upon the carriage, still uncertain whether they ought to enter the house, as though the peculiar visit had not yet reached its conclusion—still expecting, perchance, that the carriage might return and Miss de Bourgh descend, to accompany them to the tea awaiting in the drawing-room, as any young lady of breeding would have done.
“What can be the matter with Miss de Bourgh?” Elizabeth at length inquired. “She appears more ailing than you had described her, and it seemed exceedingly odd that she did not alight from the carriage.”
“Eliza,” whispered Charlotte, turning to her with sudden alarm; she raised a finger to her lips, imploring silence.
Elizabeth shrugged her shoulders with an indifferent air, while the rumble of the carriage bearing Miss de Bourgh towards Rosings arose about them, rendering it impossible that their words could be overheard.
Mr Collins was already at some distance, intent, it seemed, upon reaching Lady Catherine’s door at the precise moment the carriage arrived.
“I do not comprehend why you are so very cautious. I have said nothing that we have not spoken of before—Rosings’s heiress is a sickly creature…unless she be merely whimsical—”
“Elizabeth!” exclaimed Charlotte, this time in a tone of unmistakable reproof, rarely used with her friend in former days.
She cast an anxious glance towards the house, where they had left her sister, Maria, on setting out to meet Miss de Bourgh, who had announced her arrival through her companion but had not descended for a single instant, preferring to address them from the open door of the carriage.
“And whom do you fear now—the angels in the sky?” Elizabeth’s voice retained its touch of irony. Yet, it was the same tone they had so often employed when Charlotte had dwelt in Meryton and their long friendship had known no interruption or clouds.
“Maria,” Charlotte answered, unmoved by the jest, her mind fixed upon one idea only—that of giving no offence to her illustrious neighbours.
“Though she is near your age, she remains a child in understanding and cannot discern what may be spoken abroad and what must be held in reserve. I am ever fearful that she might commit some indiscretion before Lady Catherine, repeating something heard within our household.”
“My dear,” Elizabeth said gently, taking her by the arm, “be easy—within your home, Lady Catherine and her family are spoken of only in the highest terms. Poor Maria would have nothing to relate that might in the least resemble a blunder. Nothing but praise.”
But her friend, by an unexpected gesture, withdrew her arm and quickened her pace—a mark of genuine uneasiness.
“Wait,” cried Elizabeth, “why do you flee?”
Finally, Charlotte halted and met her eyes, but her look was more resolute than friendly.
“The last two clergymen were dismissed for occurrences which at the time appeared entirely trifling, yet which gave offence to Lady Catherine,” she said, evidently determined that Elizabeth should know the truth, for only thus might she guard against those supposed blunders, which she herself had once esteemed but graceful sallies of wit.
Yet those days were gone. All that Charlotte now desired was peace, smiles, and goodwill.
Elizabeth made another attempt to take her friend’s arm, meaning to show her genuine affection; this time, Charlotte permitted it, even leaning upon her lightly, a gesture that touched Elizabeth deeply.
It seemed as though her friend sought her support, and to such an appeal she could not but respond with warmth.
“Pray, do not distress yourself,” she said after several minutes of silence. “I should never act in a manner to endanger your—your situation—”
“I know,” murmured Charlotte, “at least not wilfully. Yet too often you speak precisely what you think, without—”
“Without reflection,” Elizabeth interposed, smiling; it was the very reproach her father had frequently addressed to her.
“Mr Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam are expected at Rosings,” Charlotte continued abruptly, changing the subject—or perhaps approaching at last her true purpose; and all that had gone before appeared but a prelude.
“I know, my dear; Lady Catherine announces the matter at every dinner.” Elizabeth coloured slightly. But Charlotte, absorbed in her own anxieties, seemed not to observe it, appearing moreover less interested in her friend’s feelings than she had once been.
“No, not in general terms nor at some distant period—they are to arrive within a few days.” Charlotte paused, watching Elizabeth, whose arch expression confirmed her fears: Elizabeth received the intelligence with amusement, as though anticipating a diversion that was no longer agreeable to Mrs Collins. Yet she composed herself swiftly.
“Believe me, I shall avoid every confrontation.”
Charlotte remained silent, yet to one who knew her well, it was plain she placed little confidence in such an assurance.
“Do not look so, Charlotte.” Elizabeth smiled. “Now that I understand the cause of your unease, I shall be a model of decorum and civility.”
“No sarcasm,” entreated Charlotte.
“Much diminished.” Elizabeth’s tone softened, and Charlotte sighed, while in Elizabeth’s mind a new understanding dawned. Her friend loved her still, but she was now Mrs Collins, and many duties of greater weight had displaced the simplicity of their former friendship.
“You had hoped that I should depart with Sir William,” Elizabeth observed, half in jest. Still, the blush that rose on Charlotte’s cheek convinced her she had spoken truth, though the wish had never been uttered aloud. The blush betrayed both shame at the thought and discomfort at being detected.
“It is not as you imagine,” murmured Charlotte.
“I imagine nothing; I seek only to comprehend…the situation.”
“There is nothing to comprehend, Elizabeth. You have ever regarded me as one such as yourself—”
“And were you not? Was our friendship but pretence, in which you feigned to be another?”
“No!” cried Charlotte, then cast a frightened glance around, fearful they had been overheard. Such conduct ill became the parson’s wife; and in a small parish like Hunsford, as in Meryton, all things were quickly known.
“No, I did not feign; I deceived myself, believing I might be as you, or as your sisters—”
“Poor, without a dowry?” Elizabeth spoke with a trace of irony, yet regretted it instantly. The conversation was too grave to be sullied by mockery.
“No, not poor—free. Mr Bennet is wholly unlike my father, and he reared you all in another manner. Only in your house, and in his library—where he so often welcomed me—did I hear of the value of learning, of reading… In my own home, none reads at all.”
“Not everyone in my family reads either.”
“You know full well what I intend, and still you cannot refrain from jesting… It will be the same should you meet Mr Darcy again—your impulse to have the last word—and that word is seldom pleasant.”
“But, in those days, within my father’s library, you joined our conversations; the principles by which we were raised were ever present amongst us.” Elizabeth seemed at a loss as to what Charlotte wished her to perceive. “You agreed with all that Papa said—”
“Because it was beautiful, Eliza. Beautiful even to the point of idealism. The notion that a young lady ought to possess an education equal to that of a gentleman; the freedom to wed where she chooses, not merely to be housekeeper and mother, but companion in life. Within Mr Bennet’s library, all such things appeared possible—”
“And?” pressed Elizabeth, her impatience rising.
“And possible only there. In my father’s house, such notions could find no root—a circumstance you never perceived.”
“Perhaps.” A shadow crossed Elizabeth’s countenance.
“Not perhaps—assuredly. Tell me, how was it when Mr Collins came to your house?” Charlotte asked after a moment’s hesitation, blushing deeply, for they spoke now of the man who had been her husband these two months.
“My mother told him at once that Jane was betrothed—”
“And only then did he request your hand?”
Elizabeth regarded her friend, the truth settling upon her at last—that their relationship had fractured somewhere between Mr Collins’s proposal to her and his subsequent one to Charlotte. Since that time, they had spoken only of trifles.
“Yes, he did, and I refused him.” For an instant, she was tempted to confess that Mr Collins had attempted to kiss her, persuaded her refusal arose from modesty rather than sincerity, convinced she secretly desired to be his wife. Still, observing Charlotte’s downcast look, she was silent.
“You refused him, and your father was not offended; none compelled you to accept him.”
“No, it was wholly my own choice. And with you—how did it pass?” She already knew, for their discourse had led inevitably to this.
“He asked my father, and I was informed only afterwards that I was engaged.”
∞∞∞
Elizabeth passed the whole of that day in a joy whose reason she did not see until evening, when alone in her chamber.
It was not the conversation with Charlotte that occasioned it; far from renewing their former intimacy, it had relatively fixed boundaries painful to acknowledge within so old a friendship.
No, it was something else entirely; the revelation came as they ascended to their rooms, she, following immediately after Mr and Mrs Collins.
With a father other than her own, she might have stood in Charlotte’s place.
Though the thought, for a fleeting instant, brought her near to sickness, once alone in her chamber, the joy returned, illumined by gratitude for her family as it was.
She seated herself at her desk to write, allowing the emotion to overflow, and indeed she shed more than one tear of affection.
My dearest Papa,
I take advantage of being fifty miles distant from you to write what I should scarcely have dared to utter in your presence, particularly for fear of that sardonic smile which would, I am certain, have settled upon your countenance and silenced my courage to confess the present state of my heart.
I am happy, Papa, and at the same time deeply grateful.
Glad that I did not marry Mr Collins, and thankful to you, who reared us in that rare liberty to determine our own destinies—liberty most uncommon in a world where marriage is often the sole conceivable fate of a gentlewoman.
The gift which your education has bestowed upon us is, in this light, beyond estimation.
I speak of all five of us—your delightful burdens, as you so affectionately name us—each receiving, in her own fashion yet with equal strength, that noble inheritance of freedom.
I begin with myself, for I am perhaps the most conscious of its value, not only in sentiment but in reason.
The mere idea that I might remain unwed, should I not encounter a partner worthy of both affection and esteem, fills me with the most exhilarating contentment.
Do not be anxious; I am confident I shall discover some respectable means of living, and even of enjoyment.
I should dearly love to teach—to educate—not as a governess, but as a tutor, though such an office is not yet open to women.
Who knows? Perhaps I shall invent it, or else turn to writing books; you have so often declared that I possess an eloquent pen.
Naturally, I continue with Jane, my gentle, radiant sister, who dreams only of love. I am certain she, too, cherishes the liberty to love, though it has brought her pain. That pain will pass, and she will rise stronger and more resolved in her pursuit of happiness. For her, I have no fear.
Next comes Mary—my sister who, with some refinement of manner and redirection of her self-assurance, might yet become a model of female learning.
Kitty is entirely under Lydia’s influence, a circumstance neither you nor I can commend; yet I hope that once Lydia marries—which I suspect shall not be long delayed, considering specific aspects of her conduct—Kitty will turn her attention to the example set by the rest of us.
To be easily influenced may, in time, become a virtue.
And finally, our wild Lydia—often most unfit in conduct for one so young—is nevertheless full of mirth, possesses a lively understanding, and will, I am sure, find contentment in whatever path she chooses.
Let us hope her impetuosity does not bring sorrow upon us all; yet, in the end, each of us will pursue her own way, according to her own choice.
Thank you, Papa
Lizzy
Having read it once more and being satisfied with the result, Elizabeth folded the letter with great care, well aware of her father’s fastidiousness regarding correspondence—not merely in style but in presentation—for in his eyes an ill-sealed letter was scarcely less offensive than an inelegant phrase.
Then she seated herself in the armchair by the window, her gaze fixed upon the distant view.
A peculiar gladness stole over her as she perceived that her prospect included Rosings.
At once the thought of every other matter vanished, for the anticipation of meeting Mr Darcy seized her with a force she had not foreseen—a mingled throng of emotions among which a small mischievous pleasure assuredly held place.
For, despite her promise to Charlotte, she knew that if provoked, she would reply—for such was her nature.
Mr Darcy remained that singular being who roused in her not only intellect and knowledge but likewise wit and irony; for she knew no greater delight than to engage in combat within the realm of ideas, transformed by discourse into the elegant skirmish of society.