Chapter Twenty-Five #2
Looking up from his paper, Mr. Bennet greeted them with, “Good morning, my dears,” and returned to reading.
Visibly relieved by this reception, Jane went to the sideboard and gathered a few pieces of toast. Even Elizabeth, who had very little appetite of late, usually put more on her plate than that. Today, in fact, she felt hungry for the first time in weeks.
They joined their father at the table, where Jane set to tearing her toast into smaller and smaller pieces.
For her part, Elizabeth found the bread lighter and tastier than usual.
The butter, too, seemed quite creamy and rich, and the preserves delightful.
She realized she hadn’t eaten any preserves since the morning they’d seen the announcement of Colonel Fitzwilliam and Miss Bingley’s engagement in the paper.
“I wonder if Mary is happy,” Jane said at length, her gaze abstract as she continued to pull apart her food, having taken not a single bite.
“What did she say in her letter, Papa?” Elizabeth asked.
Mr. Bennet’s paper dipped enough that he could see them over the top. “Who?”
“Mary. What did her letter say, other than that she will be in Kent soon.”
He patted about, checking his pockets, then pulled a folded page from his waistcoat. He passed the letter to Elizabeth.
She opened it and smoothed it out on the tabletop, turning the page so Jane could read right side up. Elizabeth imagined she would do well enough deciphering Mary’s words upside down.
Dear Sir,
You will undoubtedly be pleased to know that I am now Mrs. Collins. I have not besmirched the family name, nor put my sisters’ futures in jeopardy. I understand the importance of such things.
It would please me to be able to apologize for the abrupt and intractable nature of my previous missive, but I cannot.
I stand by the sentiments enclosed therein.
If I, and Mr. Collins, had not been treated so infamously, the drastic measure of elopement would not have been necessary.
I cannot apologize for that which I am not at fault.
We will arrive at Mr. Collins’ parish in Kent tomorrow, likely the same day this letter reaches you.
Do not expect to hear from me again until you, sir, and Elizabeth, have delivered sincere apologies for how myself and Mr. Collins have been treated.
I undertake this letter only out of a regard for my sisters, that they may know I am not a fallen woman.
Dutifully,
Mrs. Mary Collins
P.S. I expect said apologies in writing. You are familiar with the address.
P.P.S. Mr. Collins sends his regards as he feels that his patroness, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, would advise him to be cordial to even those not worthy of cordiality.
Elizabeth read the letter through twice, then sat back, shaking her head. “She seems quite happy to me.”
“Do you believe so?” Jane sat back as well, and tore off another bit of toast. “Can she be truly happy when she is so at odds with you and Papa?”
“I believe being at odds with us is what makes her truly happy,” Elizabeth countered.
Jane pursed her lips, her fingers squeezing and ripping toast.
“She is not like you,” Elizabeth clarified. “Mary is made happy by feeling that she is right and others are wrong. You will never be happy until all is resolved and forgiven.” Feeling daring, she added, “So perhaps you should forgive Mr. Bingley?”
“I am not certain.” Jane’s fingers stilled. She sat up straighter, pulling back her shoulders. “I believe I should like him to apologize, and to…to promise not to keep secrets from me.”
“My dear, all men have secrets from their wives. It is a requisite of the marital institution.”
Elizabeth swiveled to look at their father, but he hadn’t lowered his paper. “Then perhaps that institution should change.”
“Ah, to be young and full of hope,” Mr. Bennet murmured.
Usually, Elizabeth found their father’s cynicism amusing, but the way Jane’s features crumpled robbed his words of humor. “You are correct, Jane. Mr. Bingley should apologize, and offer you his promise.”
“Perhaps,” Jane said with a sigh. Her shoulders hunched forward as she returned to shredding.
Despite Jane’s sorrow, Elizabeth ate, hungrier than she’d realized. She truly hoped Mr. Bingley would apologize, for he was undoubtedly in the wrong for upsetting Jane, no matter what the reason, and he shouldn’t keep secrets from her. Jane was the most trustworthy person Elizabeth knew.
She would have ranked Fitzwilliam—that was, Mr. Darcy—as equally trustworthy.
Apparently, she would have been mistaken.
Although, had Jane not said that Mr. Darcy did not know about the subterfuge until he arrived?
Elizabeth could see how he would have had little choice but to go along with the scheme, especially if Colonel Fitzwilliam was acting on behalf of the Crown.
She took a sip of tea, better understanding Jane’s hurt. Yes, Mr. Darcy had to keep Colonel Fitzwilliam’s charade secret from the community, but what about from her? Did he not feel Elizabeth to be trustworthy? The notion stung.
“Mr. Bingley is asking to see you, Mrs. Bingley.”
Elizabeth looked to see one of the maids in the doorway, her face tight with worry.
Jane rose with her usual grace. “Thank you. I will see him in the front parlor.”
“Do you want me to go with you?” Elizabeth asked.
Jane merely shook her head.
Elizabeth poured more tea. She and Fitz— She halted that thought. She must stop thinking of him as Fitzwilliam. Mr. Darcy had not known her for long, so perhaps she could excuse him not trusting her with both his cousin’s and the Crown’s secret.
Yet, she felt such a connection to him. Such strong attachment. Did he not feel the same and did that feeling not include trust? Could they have a future without it?
Her mind continued to whirl, her thoughts punctuated by the occasional turn of a page in her father’s paper.
Her appetite spoiled, Elizabeth pushed the remnants of her breakfast around on her plate.
She did not think Jane had eaten a single bite of her toast. The mess on her plate would go into the midden.
The chickens would be pleased, at least.
“…simply want you to apologize for keeping secrets from me,” Jane’s voice said, suddenly audible in the hall.
“I was sworn to secrecy,” Mr. Bingley’s voice rose with aggravation. “Would you have me break my word as a gentleman?”
“You know very well that I mean you should have told me after Colonel Fitzwilliam ended his pretense.”
“I did not wish to become embroiled in any of it. Not in the first place, and not in cleaning up the mess Fitzwilliam left in his wake. Why should that be my responsibility?”
“Because you remained, and because the moment you asked for my hand, we became entwined in each other’s lives.
You did not simply decide that you did not wish to put things right.
You decided for me that I should not either.
Can you not see that? Can you not offer the simple promise not to keep such a thing from me in the future?
That is all I ask, and I do not believe it to be too much. ”
“You know, I have spent decades being browbeaten by my sisters. I did not realize I had doomed myself to a wife who will issue similar treatment.”
“Doomed?” Jane’s voice ticked up an octave. “Marrying me is your doom?”
“I could order you to come with me, you know. I am your husband. Yesterday, you swore to obey me.”
That was met with silence so frosty, Elizabeth could feel the cold of Jane’s ire radiating down the hallway. She cast her father a concerned look, to find he’d lowered his paper, his expression worried.
“Order me?” Jane finally said, the words splintering like too-thin ice.
“Why have you stopped being biddable?” Mr. Bingley’s voice was thick with strain. “You have always been so biddable.”
“Because you were always kind to me, and that is why I fell in love with you. Your kindness. Your affability. Not your wealth, and not your connections. You, Charles, for you alone. I love you, and I trust you. All I am asking for is that you do the same.”
“I do love you. You know I l—”
“Mr. Bingley, is that you?” Mrs. Bennet’s voice called.
“Why, how wonderful to see you, and so early. How are you—” She broke off, then recommenced with, “Ah, I see. You and Jane are still at odds. Well, nothing to be done for that, I imagine. Time will remedy all. While I have you here, and as it seems Jane is staying with us for a time, I must have your thoughts on expanding the front parlor. The dining room as well. I am certain you agree they are both too—”
Mumbled words sounded in Mr. Bingley’s light baritone. The front door opened and closed.
“How rude of him,” Mrs. Bennet’s voice said, closer now. “I can see why you decided to come home, dear.”
“Oh, Mama,” Jane cried, and footfalls raced up the stairs.