Chapter 13 A Surprising Breakfast
A SURPRISING brEAKFAST
Jane remained at the ball even though gossip of Mr. Collins’s humiliating claims circulated to her soon after we left. She braved the whispers but was not approached by Mr. Bingley until their final dance.
“It was so awkward,” she told me, late that night in our room. “We said almost nothing, and at the end, he bowed over my hand and was gone. Oh, Lizzy, I think he is furious.”
“I do not believe it,” I said. “Not Mr. Bingley. Or if he is angry, it is not with you. He loves you too much.”
At that, Jane finally began to cry, and I comforted her a long time before we slept.
But, when the morning sun lit our window, I was optimistic and told her so. Jane had done nothing wrong. And I was certain I knew Mr. Bingley’s feelings. What harm could the ruffled pride of his sister achieve?
We went down to breakfast and found my sisters, my mother, and Mr. Collins. Only my father was missing, having requested a tray in his library. Hiding, in other words.
Mary was red-eyed but resolute. Mamma and Mr. Collins were fidgety and silent—a relief, but peculiar.
Mamma ate a single bite of toast, then stood. “Come girls! I want you upstairs.” I rose, but she said, “No, Lizzy. I insist you stay.” Mystified, I watched them troop out the doorway.
As Mary passed, she bent and whispered fiercely in my ear, “Do not surrender!”
Surrender what? If they were not back soon, I would have to eat breakfast alone with Mr. Collins. Surrender my sanity, most likely.
With a sigh, I prepared for a most dull morning.
To the empty room, Mr. Collins stridently announced, “Miss Elizabeth Bennet!”
I jumped a foot. “Yes?” I said, then tried, “I am… here?”
“You can hardly doubt the purport of my discourse,” he said with great enthusiasm. “My attentions have been too marked to be mistaken!”
The only object of marked attention I saw was the piece of toast he was waving in one hand. The butter was already beside him, so I moved the marmalade within reach, achieving the last two inches by pushing with an extended finger, for he was not seated very close.
“My dear Miss Elizabeth, your modesty only adds to your other perfections!”
My mouth fell open in complete astonishment, and he continued:
“Almost as soon as I entered this house, I singled you out as the companion of my future life! But perhaps it would be advisable for me to state my reasons for marrying—and, moreover, for coming to Hertfordshire to select a wyfe.”
A wyfe? Just in time, I realized I must not laugh, so I clapped a hand over my lips. But that prevented any attempt to stop him, and he was off again.
“My reasons for marrying are… first, it is a right thing for every clergyman…”
He continued in this vein, but I was now reviewing his visit in my mind. Had I given the slightest impression of interest in marriage? He paid more attention to me than my sisters, but I had attributed that to a clergyman’s effort to reform the worst of the lot.
“…as I am to inherit this estate after the death of your honored father, I resolved to choose a wyfe from among his daughters, that the loss might be lessened when the melancholy event takes place…”
Oh.
If I said yes, and we bound a draca, Longbourn would be secured for my family.
The import sank in. My mother’s behavior. And Mary’s warnings. What an idiot I was not to anticipate this.
I rolled that back and forth for a few minutes. I was practiced at ignoring Mr. Collins, so his endless monologue was no distraction.
I could never marry Mr. Collins. I should rather be a maid to support my destitute family. But what if my parents insisted? Perhaps I could accompany Mary and drag her harpsichord across the American plains.
“… and third… although perhaps, I should have stated this first… so, first! Lady Catherine de Bourgh, as mistress of the most exalted draconian breed, a wyvern—”
“Lady Catherine has a wyvern?” I interrupted.
He came to a stumbling stop. I could not blame him for being surprised. I had said nothing thus far. I suppose, as a preacher, he could sermonize for an hour even if I were asleep.
“Her ladyship, indeed, has a wyvern,” he answered.
“Is she not widowed?”
“Lady Catherine de Bourgh is blessed with such formidable strength of will and institutional grandeur that she has retained her bound draca, even after her husband’s premature death.”
Now I thought of it, I had heard her name in this context years ago. Perhaps Mr. Collins’s effusive praise was merited. There were less than a half-dozen draca held by widowed wyves in all of England.
“Have you seen her wyvern?” I asked.
He was taken aback. “Do you… doubt my explanation?”
“Of course not. I am just curious. How large is it?”
He seemed unsettled by the direction of our conversation, but, gamely, he put down his toast and held his hands several feet apart. “The body would be… like this? Understand, I do not approach, for it is a most formid—”
“Would you describe it as intelligent? More than our firedrake, or less?”
“Intelligent? It is a beast.”
“Quite,” I said absently. Would it be possible to visit? Mr. Collins was watching me expectantly, so I waved him on. “You were saying?”
He took a breath. “Third… no, first… but we must be further…” His lips pursed in puzzlement.
I could see he had lost his place. Then I remembered the seriousness of this conversation, for him at least, if not for me, and I felt a stab of guilt.
“Mr. Collins—”
But he had found his stride again. “I shall now assure you in the most animated language of the violence of my affection—”
“Mr. Collins, sir!” I interrupted. “You forget that I have made no answer. Let me do so now. Accept my thanks for this honor, but it is impossible for me to do otherwise than to decline.”
His lips opened and closed several times before his indefatigable self-assuredness, or maybe it was willful self-deception, returned. He waved my words aside.
“I understand it is usual for young ladies to reject the man whom they secretly mean to accept, when he first applies for their favor.”
“Mr. Collins, I assure you—”
“And that sometimes the refusal is repeated a second or even a third time. I am therefore by no means discouraged, as I shall lead you to the altar before long!”
“Three times! I promise you that if such young ladies exist, I am not one of them. I am perfectly serious in refusing you. You could not make me happy, and I am the last woman in the world who could make you so.”
“But Lady Catherine de Bourgh herself has blessed a union with your family. She wishes that I marry gentry and bind draca to maintain the prestige of her estate. She considers your familial history of binding most encouraging.”
“How would she know that?”
“Her ladyship has condescended to advise my search for a wyfe. From her unique perspective, she values most highly the wyfe’s lineage for a superior outcome.”
That was intriguing, but I refused to lose sight of my objective. “I am certain she would not approve of me. Throughout your visit, I have many times demonstrated”—what would the stuffy Lady Catherine abhor?—“impertinence. No, wait… reformist sympathies!” That was much better.
I had succeeded in triggering a concerned expression, but at that moment, my mother burst through the door.
“Lizzy! I demand you attend me immediately. Outside!”
And thus, to battle. I listened to my mother in the hallway, but I was stony-faced, and cross that she had not even warned me.
But my heart sank when she said, “We shall see what your father thinks!”
The library door was open. That was unusual. Papa always required that we knock. He looked solemn, sitting at his desk and not even reading. I became nervous.
“Papa…” I began.
“Oh, Mr. Bennet!” Mamma broke in. “You must make Lizzy marry Mr. Collins, for she vows she will not have him, and she is our next prettiest and eldest after Jane, who of course is all but engaged already, and if you do not make haste, Mr. Collins will change his mind and not have her!”
“Mary has been to see me,” he answered.
“Mary has nothing to do with it!” cried Mamma.
“Mary has offered to play only Italian airs, and wear white frocks, and make no more scenes that embarrass our family.”
“Well, that would be a great relief, but I—”
“Please wait a little, Mrs. Bennet. It is to Lizzy that I speak.”
I was angry at him now, remembering last night. “I am surprised that chastising Mary would achieve that result. I thought I knew my sister better.”
“There was no chastisement. She arrived of her own accord to offer her promise to improve our social standing, in exchange for a promise from me. However, I declined the bargain, and instead, I apologized to her for last night. Her bargain shamed me, for I should not wish a beloved daughter to act so against her inclinations and beliefs. It is not Mary’s responsibility to defend her sister”—he nodded to indicate me—“by bargaining with her inadequate father. I should defend my own children.”
“Defend them from poverty and homelessness, I should hope!” cried my mother.
But I understood. Mary had been willing to sacrifice everything she treasured if Papa would not force me to marry Mr. Collins. As if the scraps of social standing she could offer were any recompense for the huge loss to our fortunes from my refusal.
“Come, Mrs. Bennet,” Papa said gently, pushing to his feet and extending his arm to my mother, whose face was falling as she understood.
“Let us have tea and commiserate with Mr. Collins. He shall not be sending any happy letter to Lady Catherine today, for I can spare you the trouble of suggesting Mary as an alternate, and if you can convince Kitty or Lydia to marry Mr. Collins, I shall be amazed.”