Rules of Etiquette (Pride and Prejudice Variations)

Confrontation

Elizabeth Bennet sat staring at the man before her in a state of abject perplexity.

What had she just heard? It was the oddest and most unexpected thing.

Mr Darcy of Pemberley in Derbyshire had delivered a speech using love and matrimony as bookends on a shelf otherwise filled with insult and derision practically to the ceiling.

Was it possible for the lone little affectionate bookends to support the insults without the entire edifice crashing down in ruin? Was the parsonage floor even sufficient for the task once the shelf collapsed into rubble? It seemed unlikely.

Was the proposal even worse than Mr Collins’? At least the parson had stupidity in his favour, so he knew no better; but Mr Darcy was a man of sense and education.

Was she supposed to just ignore that he had interfered in her most beloved sister’s affections; or did he believe she did not know and never would? Was she supposed to enjoy being a degradation? How exactly did begrudgingly accepting a degradation advance his suit?

Elizabeth tried to say something… anything… anything at all… but every time she opened her mouth, an astonishingly realistic vision of her mother rose beside Mr Darcy, shaking the infamous Fanny Bennet finger, while giving her yet another bit of motherly advice.

She was eminently familiar with both the finger and the sentiments, as they had been directed at her nearly constantly for much of the past decade.

In times of stress, people sometimes advised her, and the conversations played out as if they were happening right before her eyes. She had no idea if they were visions, remembrances, hallucinations, or incipient madness; but since the advice was sometimes useful, she at least listened.

If you cannot say something nice, say nothing at all!

Of course, she never discussed her potential madness with anybody, except very occasionally Jane. People were carted off to Bedlam for less, and she could not imagine what her mother would have to say—to the entire neighbourhood.

Her mother’s censure was quite familiar but rarely applied to her sisters. Jane was too serene, beautiful, and perfect; Lydia was so much like her mother she could do no wrong; and Elizabeth doubted the matron was even aware Kitty and Mary were her daughters, in anything other than a vague fashion.

Despite Mrs Bennet’s lack of propriety in her own habits, she delighted in endlessly instructing her most recalcitrant daughter on the subject.

Mrs Bennet had been vexed indeed when her second daughter turned down a most eligible match with Mr Collins four months earlier, and she had also persuaded herself Elizabeth was responsible for Mr Bingley’s defection— somehow.

Her precise fault in the matter was never explicit, and the vague accusations varied by the day, but the matron was utterly convinced of her guilt.

The young lady’s conundrum was unfathomable.

To be entirely bereft of words was unprecedented.

Replaying her mother’s words over and over, only slightly less so.

Indeed, she rarely paid the slightest attention to Mrs Bennet’s ramblings, as ignoring the matron’s effusions was a basic survival skill at Longbourn.

Better to keep silent and be thought a fool than to open your mouth and remove all doubt.

She wondered if her father ever had anything remotely sensible to say, since his advice now mirrored her mother’s.

She tried once again to speak, yet nothing emerged.

Once, twice, thrice—she tried again and again—but every time she opened her mouth, her mother chastised her yet again, while Mr Darcy looked on in breathless anticipation.

Mrs Bennet’s earlier threats had been empty, as the matron had chastised her constantly during the four months since the rejection of her first insulting proposal. Apparently, the phrase ‘never speak to you again’ was more figurative than literal.

Once again, she opened her mouth to speak a polite refusal but recalled that scheme had not gone well in her first insulting proposal.

With Mr Darcy, she did not even have the dubious protection of her father—being under the authority of her odious cousin, whose head might burst if forced to contend with a difference of opinion between the formidable Mr Darcy and his esteemed patroness.

There was little doubt where Elizabeth’s opinion on this, or any other subject, would count for Mr Collins or anyone else in Kent, should they enter a dispute.

The young lady would be of age in six weeks and wanted no complications—and most reasonable people would agree that being engaged would most certainly count as a complication.

She had no strong belief that Mr Collins or her father would try to force her into a marriage, but neither did she want to bet the rest of her life on that blithe assumption, considering how consistently unreliable and arbitrary both men were.

Moreover, Mr Darcy’s unchaperoned presence in the parsonage could become a compromise, which could be yet another tool to force her into an unwanted union.

She had no desire to be on the end of Lady Catherine’s tongue or substantial wrath, should the notion take hold!

She could not even fathom being introduced as a niece at Rosings, not to mention how either an acceptance or rejection would affect her dear friend, Charlotte.

The whole idea was inconceivable! Utterly preposterous!

Mr Darcy was cleverer than Mr Collins, as were most men.

He even occasionally spoke in complete and comprehensible English sentences.

He truly was a man of sense and education in everything except manners, and agreeableness, and amiability, and kindness, and generosity, and basic good sense.

Even those had occasionally been displayed at Netherfield, so he at least understood the rudiments—though he rarely bothered.

He did, however, bear a look of stubbornness, and according to the colonel, he was a man who liked to arrange his affairs to his liking. He had already delayed his departure twice, and she had the sinking feeling she knew why.

Mr Darcy had also told her he was a man of implacable resentment.

In his own words, his temper was too little yielding, and his good opinion once lost was lost forever.

He was clearly unaccustomed to being denied anything and seemed capable of at least as much stubborn wilfulness as Mr Collins.

However, his stubbornness would be much harder to counter.

Instead of four sisters listening at the door, the nearest assistance was half a mile away at Rosings; and given Charlotte’s marital standards, she doubted she would be all that useful.

Think of your mother! Think of your sisters!

It is your duty to save us from the hedgerows!

Mr Darcy obviously had no idea there were two or more possible answers to a proposal, and Elizabeth was not inclined to incite his wrath or test his stubbornness.

What if he carried on as Mr Collins had?

What if he argued with her refusal or became despondent?

What if he became loud, angry, and aggressive?

All were distinct possibilities, since he was not a man often thwarted.

What if he dragged her off to Gretna Green, or worse yet tasked Lady Catherine or her cousin with wearing down her resistance?

Once again, she opened her mouth for a polite refusal, or a rude refusal, or an acceptance, or a delay, or a request for courtship, or even to ask clarifying questions—such as when he had gone mad—but once again nothing came out. Not a peep. Not a whisper. Nothing!

Her father's appearance beside Mr Darcy was something of an improvement over her mother, but he was singularly unhelpful.

For what do we live, but to make sport for our neighbours, and laugh at them in our turn?

Who should she make sport of? Mr Darcy? The colonel? Lady Catherine? None of their situations offered more sport than Elizabeth’s own—and she did not particularly enjoy being the object of his sport.

Two proposals in four months were entirely too many. When it came to insulting proposals, she firmly believed a little goes a long way.

Mrs Bennet returned with a vengeance!

TEN THOUSAND A YEAR!

AND POSSIBLY MORE!

Her spectral form was no more impressed with being spoken over by Mr Bennet than her corporeal form. That recollection and many similar ones filled her with mortification. Was this how a man was measured? By his purse?

Mr Darcy had somehow heard that at the Netherfield Ball, yet he returned months later to pay his addresses.

It was unaccountable. He could not truly esteem her, unless he was the most inscrutable man who ever lived.

He must be far worse than Jane, and nobody but Elizabeth and Charlotte understood Jane.

If their acquaintance passed for courtship in his circles, it was no wonder he stayed unwed at near thirty!

How was a woman to even know she was being courted?

Elizabeth was adrift in an endless sea of voices rattling around her head as her panic rose to ever greater heights, until she began to feel dizzy and even a touch faint—so much so, she grasped the edge of a chair to support herself.

She kept seeing flashes of her family, Mr Darcy, Charlotte, the colonel, and Lady Catherine without end.

Everyone she had ever known was in the room urging her to just quit whingeing, accept a life of luxury, and cease worrying about trivialities such as whether she and her husband could stand each other’s company.

A lady should show more affection than she feels until she fixes his attention.

Even practical Charlotte’s ghost claimed her share of the conversation—though it appeared one could succeed even better by showing not the slightest hint of affection whatsoever!

Even veiled derision and endless arguments seemed effective in bringing a suitor to the point. Could she have hastened the process by bashing him with a club or poisoning him at Netherfield? Would Lady Catherine and her words of wisdom be next?

In a panic, Elizabeth groped for something, anything, anything at all, to guide her in what to say, what to do, and how to act.

Like a drowning woman, she thrashed aimlessly until she finally, desperately, seized upon the first passing bit of flotsam that drifted by, and paused long enough to grasp it.

She was so relieved to have an answer that she accepted it without weighing its merits. She then did the most shocking thing she had ever done in her life!

She followed her mother’s advice.

Well, Miss Lizzy Bennet! If you cannot say something nice, say nothing at all, and take yourself elsewhere until you learn to keep a civil tongue in your head!

Having chosen her admittedly weak device, she clung to it for dear life.

Without a word, Elizabeth Bennet walked to the parlour door and opened it.

Fitzwilliam Darcy stood gazing at Miss Elizabeth Bennet in confusion, torn between the pleasure of finally regarding the woman of his dreams in open admiration, the relief of unburdening his heart, the removal of all doubts concerning the match—and utter bewilderment at her most peculiar manner of accepting his suit.

While he remained rooted to the spot, the object of his affection entered the corridor, donned her pelisse, stuffed her bonnet unceremoniously on her head, took up her reticule, and walked out the front door.

Within five paces she was trotting, and within ten she hitched up her skirts and ran. By the time the utterly confused master of Pemberley grew alarmed and started after her, she rounded the corner out of sight, running headlong towards the village.

Pausing to take his coat and hat, he started in pursuit, but after only a few steps slowed. A lady running towards the village with skirts hiked and flying would excite gossip. It would be embarrassing and injurious to her reputation—even for a Bennet—but not fatal and easily explained.

A woman running through the lanes pursued by a gentleman would incite more than gossip. It would trigger scandal at the very least. A likelier outcome would be a thrashing by protective shopkeepers, a quick trip to the parson’s mousetrap, or both.

Mindful of this, he slowed his pace. While not sedate, he followed as quickly as he could without appearing the lunatic himself.

By the time he reached the corner where he had last seen her, the path forked.

One branch led to a secluded grove he suspected his Lizzy had already discovered and loved; the other led to the village.

Unable to believe the latter, he took the path to the grove and spent a quarter hour scouring the way with nothing to show for it.

He presumed she was overcome by the proposal and wished to set her mind at ease.

Moving from concern to alarm as the minutes ticked by, he decided running was not so worrisome after all, especially since he would not be chasing a woman through the lanes.

Five minutes of breathless flight deposited him in the middle of Hunsford village, barely in time to glimpse the post coach leaving the stage stop with Elizabeth Bennet within, her head bowed, looking neither out the window nor at anything.

He saw only a glimpse of her face and bonnet, as she sat between two matrons and stared at the floor.

What could possibly be occurring? Of all the imagined reactions to his proposal, this was the last he expected. To tell the unvarnished truth, the only possibilities he had considered were a polite acceptance or her leaping into his arms.

In great confusion, he thought some scheme must be afoot, though explaining it was beyond his capacity.

Was she afraid of Lady Catherine’s wrath?

Or her father’s? Was she intimidated by the prospect of joining the first circles?

Was she already engaged in secret? Was she overwhelmed by his wealth and consequence?

Was she fearful of her ability to manage Pemberley?

Did she doubt his affection? Did she feel no affection for him?

Was there some inadequacy in the proposal?

Those last three thoughts halted him abruptly mid-step, nearly causing him to fall, while he reconsidered everything he had said in his ill-fated proposal, and her reactions.

A minute later, with a very ungentlemanly exclamation of, “Blast and damn and bloody festering bollocks!” he started running toward Rosings.