Chapter 8 Mixed Blessings #6
I will only add, thank you for looking after him these past weeks.
We made a fudge of coming to an understanding, and it lightens my heart to know he has not been without comfort.
That alone endears you to me more than any of the accomplishments lauded by your brother, aunt, cousin or friends, which you are too modest to own.
We have in common our affection for a wonderful man, and that is enough to convince me we shall be the very closest of sisters and the very best of friends.
I wait impatiently—another of my vices—until we meet.
Yours in anticipation,
Miss Elizabeth (Lizzy) Bennet
Sunday 14 June 1812, Hertfordshire
A flurry of letters had been sent out in the days following Elizabeth and Darcy’s engagement, most of them from Mrs Bennet to every person in the country with whom she could claim a connection, though one or two were from the happy couple themselves.
Elizabeth knew not what Darcy had said in his letter to Lady Catherine, but he had finished it long before she finished hers to Mrs Gardiner; thus, she assumed his message was to the purpose.
His letter to Lord Matlock took little longer, but that to his sister must have been more effusive, for four sides of paper were insufficient to contain all her delight when she replied.
Elizabeth’s letter to Miss Darcy was the last to be delivered, and whilst everybody else milled about outside the church after the service, she pulled Darcy aside to give it to him.
He stood close with his head tilted down, ostensibly that they could speak confidentially, though she wondered whether, in truth, he were tempted to kiss her. She hoped so.
“This is for your sister. I do not have the address. Pray, would you send it for me?”
“Gladly. She will be delighted.”
“’Tis nothing. She is very sweet to be so anxious to please me. I rather think it ought to be the reverse.”
“She will not be displeased with you. I have assured her of as much.”
“That is precisely what has made her nervous. You have painted me with Aphrodite’s looks, the queen’s wardrobe and accomplishments to make even Miss Bingley jealous.”
Darcy slipped the letter into his coat and looked at her intently. “You make me nervous for all those reasons. I do not see why I should suffer alone.”
She scoffed at the notion, recalling the countless occasions she had been discomfited by his penetrating stare. “I do not make you nervous, Fitzwilliam.”
His gaze darkened. “Oh, you do.”
She blushed but nonetheless enjoyed the compliment. “Very well. I suppose my good qualities are under your protection now. I give you leave to exaggerate them as much as possible—only not to your poor sister.”
Darcy conceded with a small nod and indulgent smile.
“Shall I meet her before the wedding?”
“I should like that very much. I have long desired that you be introduced. Would you like to go to London?”
“Never mind whether she would like it—she must go,” came a strident interruption.
With an apologetic look at Darcy, Elizabeth turned to her mother, whose conversation with Mrs Philips had evidently not precluded her eavesdropping on everybody else’s.
“And Jane must go too,” Mrs Bennet added, “for you must both have trousseaus and new gowns and—”
“There are plenty of shops nearby where we can purchase what we need,” Jane said, disrupted from her own conversation with Bingley by her mother’s vociferous decree.
“Not of the quality that—”
“Actually, the reason for my visit was to meet Miss Darcy,” Elizabeth interrupted before her mother could embarrass them further.
“If you wish to purchase some new gowns while you are there, it can certainly be arranged,” Darcy offered.
“Let us all go!” Bingley blurted.
“Lizzy and Mr Darcy wish to spend time with his sister,” Jane demurred. “We might do well to remain here and spend some time with yours.”
“Well, yes…although I do need to find an attorney to draw up the articles for the wedding.”
“My Uncle Philips could do that.”
“Oh, certainly, he would be honoured!” Mrs Philips agreed.
“Right then. We had better stay here,” Bingley conceded, a little disappointedly, Elizabeth thought.
“He had better work more quickly than he usually does,” Mrs Bennet said to her sister, “for Mr Darcy has told Mr Bennet he wishes to wed before his cousin’s ball in July, and if Jane and Mr Bingley are not ready, he may very well like to be married first.”
“I would not steal Bingley’s place at the altar, madam,” Darcy said with strained forbearance.
“Why not all stand up together?” said Bingley. “We are invited to Lord Ashby’s ball as well,” he explained, indicating Jane and himself. “It makes sense that we should all be married beforehand. Darcy and I planned to stand up for each other in any case.”
“What think you, Jane?” Elizabeth enquired, delighted by the prospect of sharing such a wondrous occasion with her dearest sister.
She worried, for a fleeting moment, that Jane looked a little distressed, but then her mother pounced upon the idea with gusto, informing everybody how it would be; and after that, no one else’s opinion mattered.
Elizabeth turned to Darcy. “Do you mind?”
“I care not where or how we are married as long as we are married—and soon.” He looked away briefly, as though searching for something, then reached to pluck a leaf from the rosebush growing near the church wall.
He pressed it into her palm and brought her hand to his lips to kiss the backs of her fingers.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
“I love you, Elizabeth. I made a poor job of showing it before. I shall not make the same mistake again.”
“No, indeed,” she said, lifting her closed fist and her leaf with it to her heart. “You are proving yourself to be quite the romantic.”
He chuckled slightly. “I see you intend to exaggerate my good qualities also.”
“I thought I would attempt it, since exaggerating your bad ones proved so disastrous.”
Tuesday 16 June 1812, Kent
Charlotte Collins had only just read the letter informing her of Elizabeth’s engagement when she looked up to espy Lady Catherine de Bourgh storming down the lane towards the parsonage at a startling rate for one her age, her cane spraying gravel in all directions each time it struck the ground.
She leapt to her feet, stumbling over a chair in her haste.
“Mr Collins! Mr Collins!”
“What is the matter?” he enquired testily as he came into the room.
“Eliza and Mr Darcy are engaged! And look!” She pointed to the window.
He looked then let out an inarticulate wail that Charlotte thought might denote the shrivelling of his manhood. Moments later, her ladyship burst into the parlour, wheezing with the effort of her march and coming to a halt only when nose-to-nose with her parson.
“YOU!”
“Phnar!” Mr Collins replied, cringing.
“This is your fault! Had you married her at the off, this never could have happened!” She slammed her cane on the floor, igniting sparks on the flagstones.
Mr Collins’ face had lost all colour, and Charlotte wondered whether his grimace were a precursor to imminent tears.
“Instead,” her ladyship continued, “you left her unbound and untamed to wreak havoc upon my family!” Her voice cracked under the strain of her displeasure, and she coughed.
“Lady Catherine, you are upset,” said Charlotte. “Can I fetch you a glass of wine?”
Her ladyship rounded on Charlotte. “You dare speak to me? I have welcomed you here, shown you endless condescension, made this house comfortable for you, furnished the closets with the very shelves upon which you lay your clothes! Was I shown any gratitude for my forbearance and charity? I was not! Instead, you invited the same ungoverned, ungrateful girl who refused all this to visit! Then you allowed her to inveigle herself into my good favour and enthral my nephew under my very nose. It shall not be borne!”
“Your ladyship, my friend gave no hint of any designs on Mr Darcy whilst sh—”
Lady Catherine swiped at the air between them with her cane—which was rash, considering how little of it there was. “Your friend is a scheming little upstart, but she will learn I am not to be trifled with.”
“Pray, Eliza is by no means artful—”
“Indeed, she is! She has beguiled my nephew, to whom I have been almost a mother since his own died, into severing all communication with me unless I condone their union! When it is my own daughter who has been jilted!” She span theatrically to leave but turned before quitting the parlour to deliver her coup de grace.
“I am not so easily gainsaid. If he will not hear me, mark my words, she will.”
She left, the room stilled, and Mr Collins abruptly fainted.
After a few deep breaths to compose herself, Charlotte stepped over her prostrate husband and walked to the door, where she found a petrified maid in the hall.
“Some tea, if you would. And perhaps a dash of something stronger. And, Harriett, would you arrange for our trunks to be packed? I believe we shall be visiting my family in Hertfordshire for a while.”