Chapter Twenty-Six
The following day, hothouse flowers arrived, and a letter.
Jane read the letter, her expression contemplative, and took the flowers to the kitchen to put them in a vase.
Elizabeth didn’t pry into what Mr. Bingley had written but took her sister not casting the flowers out into the late November chill as encouraging.
The next day brought an even larger bouquet and an even longer missive. This, Jane read with a small smile, then went to collect ink, pen, and paper. She replied at length. That none of her pen strokes were made in anger or sorrow seemed auspicious as well.
The following day, more flowers arrived, this time requiring two men to deliver them all to the doorstep, and a small brigade of maids to see them in vases and set about Longbourn.
Elizabeth had never counted how many vases Longbourn possessed, but she noted that some of the flowers ended up in a pitcher usually reserved for milk, and others in a crock that had, until recently, held pickles, which were served in abundance at their next meal.
Soon, as well, they would run out of surfaces on which to display Mr. Bingley’s floral amends.
The delivery was, of course, accompanied by an even thicker letter, which took Jane quite some time to read. She spent the remainder of the afternoon crafting her reply. More often than not, a secret smile graced her face.
The fourth day, the twenty-ninth of November, when a knock sounded once more, Kitty and Lydia did not even trouble to look out the window, and Elizabeth wondered how many flowers Mr. Bingley had sent today.
She imagined Jane should forgive him and return to Netherfield Park before he squandered his considerable fortune on hothouse blossoms. And while they could still see each other at meals, for several large vases already adorned the dinner table, the flowers they held taking up considerable space.
Looking about the room at the amusement on her parents’ and younger sisters’ faces, Elizabeth suspected they agreed.
One of the maids appeared in the doorway. “Mr. and Mrs. Collins are asking if you are at home.”
Silence met that. Everyone, even Mr. Bennet, turned to regard Mrs. Bennet.
“We are not,” she stated flatly, her chin taking on a proud tilt.
“Mr. Bennet, sir,” Mr. Collins’ voice said loudly from out of sight in the entrance hall, “I hold that it behooves you to hear me out, for I will someday be master of this abode, and you cannot, therefore, lightly turn me away, especially as I beseech you most humbly for a moment of your time, to explain at length what is required of you by he who will someday possess all that which stands about us.”
Mr. Bennet removed his spectacles to pinch the bridge of his nose, grimacing.
Elizabeth, as well, felt the strain of sorting out Mr. Collins’ words, though their meaning seemed clear enough. He wanted something from her father.
“Mama, please,” Mary’s voice cried. “Lady Catherine has gone to the bishop and seen Mr. Collins stripped of his living and cast us out.”
Mrs. Bennet’s eyebrows rose at that. Meeting Mr. Bennet’s gaze, she nodded.
Elizabeth’s father huffed a sigh, then shoved his spectacles back onto his nose, set aside his book with a loud thunk, and rose. “Very well. If I must.” He strode past the maid and out.
Mr. Collins’ officious greeting echoed in the entrance hall, his droning dwindling as the two sought Mr. Bennet’s office. Elizabeth took in the interest on her sisters’ faces and the battle on Mrs. Bennet’s. Out of sight in the entrance hall, feet shifted, a skirt rustling.
Then a quick patter of boots heralded Mary appearing in the doorway, where the maid still lingered. “Mama, please, you must let Mr. Collins and myself reside in Longbourn. It will be ours someday, no matter what you and Father do, so there is no keeping us out.”
Mrs. Bennet regarded her middle child with pursed lips, tipped her nose up, and looked away. “Please bring tea for five,” she called, addressing the maid.
“Wait.” Jane turned to their mother. “Mama, you must at least offer Mary tea.”
“And I want to hear what happened,” Lydia said, sitting forward eagerly. “What Mr. Collins did to get them in trouble.”
“Mr. Collins did nothing wrong,” Mary cried.
She stepped into the room to level a glare on Elizabeth.
“Lady Catherine received a letter from Mr. Darcy declaring in no uncertain terms that he would not marry Miss de Bourgh, and she came to the parsonage raging about how Mr. Collins had tricked her into paying off the wrong strumpet. She refused to believe Mr. Collins when he assured her that he had not conspired with Elizabeth and Miss Bingley, and she cast us out. It is all Elizabeth’s fault. ”
Elizabeth sighed. “I truly must stop ruining your life, mustn’t I?”
“You believe it is amusing that you ruin everything I care for? You never helped me buy new music, you put all our futures at risk with your hoydenish behavior, and now you have somehow misled Lady Catherine into turning on a man who could not be more dedicated to her, and into tearing my new home away from me.” A hiccupping sob left Mary.
“And do not think that I do not know that you have done so on purpose, in vengeance.”
In the doorway behind Mary, the maid looked down, shrinking against the frame, obviously uncertain if she should fetch tea for five, or six, or at all.
“Vengeance? You truly believe that I would seek vengeance for your pettiness?” Sorrow stabbed through Elizabeth at her sister’s hatred and misery. “But then, you would construe such motives to me, for you can only see others as behaving how you would behave.”
Jane cast her a sharp look.
Elizabeth jutted her jaw mulishly. If anyone should be angry, she should, not Mary.
Elizabeth had never set out to harm her sister, while Mary had deliberately tormented her.
Now Elizabeth was somehow at fault for Lady Catherine’s unreasonableness as well?
That tendency seemed bred into her ladyship, not instilled there by Elizabeth.
“I do not know why you hate me,” Mary wailed, tears overflowing her eyes.
Elizabeth did not hate her sister, but could muster only a flat look, disgusted by Mary’s behavior.
Jane stood, crossing to wrap Mary in a hug. “Shh, all will be well. Come sit, and we will call for tea, and you can tell us what happened, and I am certain we will find that it has little to do with Elizabeth. She can have no influence over Lady Catherine, after all.”
“Tea for five,” Mrs. Bennet said loudly.
As the maid scurried away, Jane looked over her shoulder at their mother. “Mama.”
“Never fear.” Elizabeth stood. “Mary may have my portion. I have no appetite.” Slipping around her sisters, Elizabeth left the parlor.
She collected her outerwear and went out through the scullery.
No one would stop her, she knew. Not now that Jane was married so well, even if she and Mr. Bingley had yet to dwell under the same roof as husband and wife.
And if, for some reason, Elizabeth returned to find Mary waiting for her, ready with accusations, Elizabeth would have a thing or two to say to her sister.
She walked fast and far, trying to outpace the turmoil of her thoughts. Elizabeth had never realized that giving up on the pianoforte had caused a rift between her and Mary. One that, apparently, had bloomed into dislike on Mary’s side. She hadn’t meant to upset her sister.
But Mary had meant to spy on her, and to get her into trouble. Just as Mr. Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam had deliberately misled her and everyone else. Lied to her about who they were and why they were at Netherfield Park. They had even roped Mr. Bingley and his relations into their ruse.
Yet somehow Jane was happy again and would undoubtedly return to Mr. Bingley soon. Mrs. Bennet had succeeded in seeing Jane wed to a wealthy gentleman. Miss Darcy’s future seemed safe, with Mr. Wickham gone and their union never truly realized. Colonel Fitzwilliam and Miss Bingley were betrothed.
And Elizabeth was miserable. It was scant comfort that Mary seemed to be as well, for Elizabeth did not actually wish any misery on her sister.
Even if that meant that Mary and Mr. Collins must be installed in Longbourn.
Elizabeth grimaced at the thought, the wind whipping at her.
At least they should no longer need to hear Lady Catherine lauded in every other sentence Mr. Collins uttered.
She had all but forgotten Lady Catherine’s declaration that Mr. Darcy would marry her daughter.
Elizabeth had not, until now, put together that the man her ladyship meant was the man Elizabeth still privately thought of as Fitzwilliam.
It was good to know, at least, that he did not intend to wed Miss de Bourgh.
Not that such a lack of intention meant he’d set his sights on Elizabeth. Or that she wished him to.
When it came to Fitzwilliam…rather, Mr. Darcy, Elizabeth did not know what she felt. Emotions tangled inside her. She could not even be certain she knew who he was, let alone her feelings for him.
With a sigh, she turned back for Longbourn. The wind picked up more, the force stinging her eyes. Elizabeth dashed away tears born of her tumult and winter’s encroaching chill.
She returned to find Jane, not Mary, waiting in the scullery. Elizabeth dashed at her eyes again, for the wind had caused them to water the entire walk home. Jane took one look at her and enveloped her in a hug.
Elizabeth leaned her head on her taller sister’s shoulder, absorbing the love, tranquility, and warmth that was Jane. Letting out a long breath, Elizabeth straightened. “I am perfectly well, do not fear.”
Jane released her. “You are not. You are miserable, and now Mary and Mr. Collins will be staying here for a time, and your misery will worsen.”