Chapter Twenty
It was a bright November day when the militia arrived in Meryton, the sky clear and sharp with the promise of approaching winter.
The general populace had known of the soldiers’ coming for some weeks; anticipation had built steadily, fed by speculation, gossip, and the natural excitement that attended any disruption to the settled rhythm of country life.
Shopkeepers lingered in their doorways, children clustered at corners, and more than a few ladies contrived errands that required passing through the main street at precisely the right moment.
The colonel of the regiment and a few of his officers had come ahead of the men some time ago to secure lodgings and make the necessary arrangements.
Some of the four-and-twenty families who made their aquaintances at Sir WIlliam’s fete deemed him an enjoyable man, open in manner and eager to ingratiate himself with the local gentry.
His courtesy was undeniable, though whether it sprang from genuine good sense or from a desire to please at all costs remained to be seen.
Elizabeth, who had observed him only briefly, withheld judgment.
Amiability was a pleasant quality, but it did not always accompany firmness of command.
Would his soldiers be allowed more freedom than was good for them, encouraged into idleness and mischief by indulgent leadership?
Or would he prove capable of maintaining proper regulation and discipline? Only time would answer.
That morning, before the inevitable excitement could spill into heedlessness, Mr. and Mrs. Bennet took the opportunity to speak frankly with their children. Such moments of united parental resolve were rare enough to command attention.
“Militiamen are not evil,” Mr. Bennet began, standing near the mantel with his hands clasped behind his back, his tone measured rather than indulgent.
“They can provide social diversion and entertainment, and I do not object to either. But it is not wise to trust them fully. Too many families have fallen from society’s grace because of a silver tongue and an excess of charm. ”
Elizabeth noted the deliberate way he spoke, as though choosing each word to impress rather than amuse. This was not one of his habitual ironies, but something closer to earnest counsel.
“It is also worth knowing,” Mrs. Bennet added briskly, eager to reinforce the lesson while maintaining a note of maternal pride, “that while a man looks exceedingly dashing in a red coat, being part of the militia does not provide enough income to support a wife—except in the rarest of circumstances. Colonel Forster is married, or so Sir William has said, but he is the colonel. His income must be sufficient—or else his bride’s dowry was of considerable size.
” She smiled broadly at all five of her girls, her gaze lingering with satisfaction.
“All of you are destined for a life of leisure as a gentleman’s wife.
Kitty, Lydia—you are too young to be out and thus will not be around the officers.
Still, I urge you to take care when walking out with your sisters and cousin. ”
The youngest girls nodded obediently, though Lydia’s compliance was more theatrical than sincere.
“I think it would be wonderful to see a man in a red coat,” she sighed, her expression carefully arranged to suggest youthful romance rather than defiance, her manner befitting a young lady on the cusp of womanhood.
“They cut a fine figure, to be sure,” Mrs. Bennet allowed, fixing her youngest with a stern look that brooked no misunderstanding. “But it never hurts to admire from a distance.”
After securing the young ladies’ agreement—however provisional—to be on their guard, Mr. Bennet changed the subject with deliberate abruptness.
“There is another matter I need to discuss with you, Mrs. Bennet,” he said, reaching for a letter that lay upon the side table. “This came two days ago. I required time to consider what was within, and how best to respond.” He looked toward the girls. “You may leave. Elizabeth, please remain.”
Elizabeth paused, surprised, as her cousins rose and filed out with varying degrees of curiosity and reluctance.
Jane cast her a brief, questioning glance before the door closed behind them.
When the room was quiet once more, Elizabeth felt a faint tightening in her chest. Matters discussed in her presence alone were rarely trivial.
Mr. Bennet unfolded the missive at last, the paper crackling softly in his hands.
“This,” he said, his voice dry but not without an undercurrent of irritation, “is from my cousin, Mr. William Collins. He is the heir to the estate, as you know.”
Mrs. Bennet’s expression hardened at once. “What could he possibly want?” she demanded. “You are healthy, and he is not likely to take possession of Longbourn for another twenty years!” She folded her arms, as though daring the letter itself to contradict her.
“While I am gratified by your confidence in my longevity—and your belief that I shall live to see my grandchildren married—my mortality is not assured,” Mr. Bennet replied mildly.
“Be that as it may, his letter is of a peculiar nature.” He glanced at Elizabeth, whose brow had furrowed in growing concern. “Let me read it.”
Elizabeth settled herself more firmly in her chair, a quiet apprehension settling over her as her uncle began. Whatever Mr. Collins had written, she suspected it would not be kind—and that it would change more than the tone of the morning.
My Esteemed Cousin, Mr. Bennet of Longbourn,
It is with a sense of duty—rather than affection—that I take up my pen to inform you of a material alteration in my circumstances, which I trust you will receive with the gravity appropriate to its import, if not with gratitude for the condescension implicit in my communication.
I have lately been so fortunate as to obtain the living of Hunsford, in the county of Kent, where I am now settled as rector under the most generous and discerning patronage of Lady Catherine de Bourgh, whose virtues—moral, intellectual, and social—are so numerous and exalted that any attempt to enumerate them must necessarily fall short.
Suffice it to say that her Ladyship unites nobility of birth with a vigilance for propriety that would serve as a model to families far better situated than your own.
It was at her Ladyship’s encouragement that I at first entertained the charitable notion of extending an olive branch toward my relations at Longbourn.
However, upon learning—through no indiscretion of my own—the precise nature of my connection to your family, Lady Catherine was justly shocked, and I was forced to reconsider the wisdom of such a course.
Indeed, cousin, I cannot but observe that the Bennet name has long been associated with a lamentable want of restraint, discretion, and respect for the proper gradations of society.
Were it not for the unfortunate alliance that brought your line into connection with that of the de Bourghs, the family might yet remain unblemished by scandal, and Sir Lewis de Bourgh—whose loss we all must deplore—might still be alive, spared the consequences of associations that brought nothing but sorrow in their wake.
That a young girl should be deprived of her father is a tragedy; that such a tragedy should arise from imprudent connections is a warning to all who would neglect their duty to rank and propriety.
I must therefore confess—though the admission costs me nothing—that I am heartily ashamed of my connection to your family and exceedingly thankful that I do not bear your name.
I consider it a mercy that Providence has allowed me to distinguish myself from relations whose conduct I cannot approve and whose example I must conscientiously avoid.
Accordingly, I shall not seek to renew acquaintance with you or any member of your household.
To do so would be to risk offending my noble patroness, whose opinion I hold in the highest esteem and whose displeasure I would not incur for any consideration.
It is my firm intention to maintain a respectful distance, both for my own moral improvement and in deference to Lady Catherine’s just expectations.
Permit me also to remind you—though I regret the necessity—that as the entail stands, and as I am the lawful heir to Longbourn, the day must come when your daughters will no longer have a claim upon that property.
It would therefore be prudent of you to prepare them for a future that does not include residence at Longbourn, as I shall not be in a position to offer them accommodation once you have reached your eternal reward.
I offer no compliments to Mrs. Bennet, believing sincerity preferable to empty civility.
I remain, your obedient servant—in duty, if not in inclination,
William Collins Rector of Hunsford Under the Most Distinguished Patronage of Lady Catherine de Bourgh
“Well! What a sanctimonious, proud, disagreeable man!” Mrs. Bennet’s cheeks were red, her breath coming a little too quickly as she pressed her hand to her chest. Elizabeth could see fury radiating from her in waves—hot, indignant, and barely contained.
It was the sort of anger that sprang not merely from insult, but from injustice keenly felt.
“I think you share my opinion that such drivel does not merit a response,” Mr. Bennet said dryly, though his raised eyebrows betrayed a sharper irritation than his tone suggested. He folded the letter with deliberate care, as though confining its ugliness within neat creases.
“Most assuredly!” Mrs. Bennet exclaimed.
“How can he say such things about people he has never met? It is despicable. And the things he implied about our dear Lizzy—” She broke off and cast a pitying glance at her niece, her expression softening only slightly.
“To speak so freely of matters he cannot possibly understand! It is cruel.”