Chapter 21 #3
And yet she did care. That was the truth she could not laugh away.
Darcy had hurt her because he had first made her hope.
Not with declarations. Not with any open courtship.
But with attention, understanding, warmth, and that strange sense that he saw not merely her face or her fortune or her family, but some truer self she had not known she was waiting for anyone to notice.
Now he had looked away.
Elizabeth returned to Longbourn before the carriage and went directly upstairs to wash her face.
By the time the rest of the family came in, she was composed enough to hear Mrs. Bennet’s raptures over Mr. Bingley’s attentions without flinching, though perhaps not enough to answer Lydia’s teasing remarks with her usual spirit.
The rest of Sunday passed indistinctly.
There were accounts to examine, instructions to give, preparations for Mr. Collins, Jane to watch, Mrs. Bennet to soothe, and Mr. Bennet to avoid.
Elizabeth moved through it all as though each task had been wrapped in wool.
Sounds came muffled. Faces blurred into duties.
Once, she found herself standing in the stillroom with no memory of why she had entered, the key basket in her hand and Cook waiting patiently for an answer.
Monday morning was no better.
November 18th dawned gray and damp, with low clouds pressing upon Longbourn as though the sky itself had come to listen for gossip.
Mr. Collins was expected before dinner, and Mrs. Bennet had turned the house into a theater of preparation.
The best sheets had been aired, the silver inspected, the dinner argued over three times, and the younger girls warned not to laugh at the heir until everyone knew whether he was rich enough in compliments to be endured.
Elizabeth did not laugh.
By late afternoon, Mr. Collins arrived.
Within ten minutes, Elizabeth knew his letter had not misrepresented him.
If anything, it had been charitable.
He was a tall, heavy-looking young man with an air of solemn importance and a manner that seemed to require admiration before every sentence could proceed.
He apologized for being late, then explained why his delay was unavoidable, then apologized for explaining at such length, then assured them that Lady Catherine de Bourgh would approve of punctuality when possible and explanation when not.
He admired the hall, the stairs, the drawing room, the fire screen, the chimney piece, Mrs. Bennet’s daughters, Mr. Bennet’s condescension in receiving him, and the excellent arrangement of the dinner table, all with the same ponderous sincerity.
Mrs. Bennet was delighted.
Mr. Bennet was entertained.
Mary was attentive.
Lydia whispered that he bowed like a pump handle, and Kitty nearly choked attempting not to laugh.
Elizabeth listened, weary beyond words, and thought that no woman in England had ever been less inclined to receive an olive branch.
Dinner was an exercise in endurance. Mr. Collins spoke of Lady Catherine, of Rosings Park, of the great chimney piece at Rosings Park, of Lady Catherine’s daughter, of the smallness of his parsonage only when compared to the grandeur of Rosings Park, of his humble gratitude for preferment, and of his delicate wish to heal the breach between himself and the Bennet family.
Every subject, no matter how distant its beginning, found its way back to Lady Catherine before the course had ended.
Mr. Bennet withdrew to his bookroom as soon as the ladies left the table, claiming letters with a gravity that deceived no one.
Elizabeth watched him go with a flicker of resentment.
He had brought this man into their home—or rather, had allowed him to come with no preparation beyond a joke—and now abandoned them to him.
In the drawing room, Mr. Collins seated himself near Mrs. Bennet with the air of a man prepared to bestow great benevolence.
“My dear madam,” he began, “I cannot express how sensible I am of the awkwardness which must naturally arise from my position with respect to this estate. The entail is, I assure you, a matter upon which I reflect with all proper humility.”
Mrs. Bennet pressed her handkerchief to her lips. “It is a very hard thing, Mr. Collins. Very hard indeed. Five daughters, and all to be turned out when their poor father dies.”
“Indeed, indeed. A most affecting situation. It was precisely such reflection, encouraged by the wise counsel of my noble patroness, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, which moved me to consider whether some manner of reconciliation—some domestic olive branch, as it were—might not soften the unhappy circumstances.”
Elizabeth sat very still.
Her mother’s eyes darted, just once, toward Jane.
“You are very thoughtful, sir,” Mrs. Bennet said, with a delicacy so uncharacteristic it could only mean strategy. “And I am sure any attention to my girls must be received with gratitude. Though, of course, my eldest daughter is very likely soon to be engaged.”
Jane’s head lifted sharply. “Mama.”
Mrs. Bennet waved the protest away. “Not engaged, perhaps, but very admired. Very much admired. A mother cannot be blind, Mr. Collins, particularly when the gentleman has five thousand a year and the sweetest temper in the world.”
Mr. Collins blinked, adjusted himself in his chair, and looked from Jane to Mrs. Bennet with solemn comprehension. “I understand. Miss Bennet’s beauty must naturally have attracted admiration.”
Jane’s cheeks were scarlet now. Elizabeth wished she could take her hand, but they sat too far apart.
Mrs. Bennet leaned slightly nearer to Mr. Collins and lowered her voice just enough to ensure every person in the room heard. “Elizabeth, however, has no prior attachment that I am aware of.”
The words struck Elizabeth like cold water.
She did not move. She did not trust herself to move.
Mr. Collins turned toward her with a look of grave appraisal. “Indeed?”
Mrs. Bennet smiled eagerly. “Oh yes. Lizzy is very useful about the estate. Very clever in her way. Not so handsome as Jane, of course, but lively. Very lively. And she knows all the tenants and accounts, which must be a great comfort to any gentleman who will one day possess Longbourn.”
Elizabeth’s throat tightened until speech became impossible.
There was no cruelty in her mother’s tone.
That almost made it worse. Mrs. Bennet believed herself kind, practical, motherly.
She saw a threat and a solution. Longbourn would be secured.
A daughter would be married. The entail would no longer haunt every dinner, every illness, every mention of Mr. Bennet’s advancing years.
Elizabeth understood all of it.
She still felt as though she had been placed upon a table and priced.
“I am all astonishment,” Mr. Collins said, with a bow in Elizabeth’s direction that made Lydia hide a laugh behind her hand.
“Miss Elizabeth’s usefulness, as you describe it, does her great credit.
Lady Catherine herself has often remarked that young ladies should be capable of rendering themselves agreeable and useful within their proper sphere. ”
Elizabeth looked at the work in her lap, though she could not have said what stitch she was meant to take.
Jane said softly, “Lizzy is very tired tonight, Mama.”
Mrs. Bennet did not hear, or chose not to. “She is not always so quiet, Mr. Collins. You must not think her dull. Lizzy has a great deal of spirit.”
“So I perceive,” Mr. Collins said, though Elizabeth had done nothing to demonstrate it. “Spirit, when properly directed, may be of use in a clergyman’s wife.”
Mary looked up from her book. Lydia made a strangled sound. Kitty coughed into her handkerchief.
Elizabeth rose.
“Pray excuse me,” she said, in a voice so even it frightened her. “I have a headache and shall retire.”
Mrs. Bennet frowned. “Another headache? Lizzy, do not be tiresome. Mr. Collins has only just arrived.”
“Then I am sure he will forgive a little fatigue after so much nursing.”
Mr. Collins stood at once. “Indeed, indeed. Christian compassion requires allowance for female delicacy, and I would not wish Miss Elizabeth to overexert herself on my account.”
Elizabeth curtsied without looking at him. Jane’s worried gaze followed her to the door, but Elizabeth could not remain long enough to be comforted by it.
She climbed the stairs slowly. At the landing, she paused, one hand upon the rail, and heard voices below continue almost at once.
Mrs. Bennet’s rose above the others, already speaking of nerves, girls, entailments, and the comfort of excellent connections.
Mr. Collins answered with ponderous gratitude.
Elizabeth went to her room and shut the door.
Only then did she give way.
The tears came harder than they had on the walk from church, harder than they had at Netherfield, harder than she wished to admit even to herself.
She pressed her face into her hands, then into her pillow, but nothing stopped them.
She cried for Jane’s embarrassment, for her mother’s desperation, for her father’s indolence, for Longbourn and all its burdens laid across her shoulders.
She cried because Mr. Collins had looked at her as though she were a useful object, and because some part of her was tired enough to wonder whether being useful might be all that remained.
And she cried for Darcy.
For the warmth that had vanished. For the future she had never been offered but had somehow begun to imagine. For the unbearable knowledge that the best man she had ever known had looked at her family and turned away.
By the time the house quieted, Elizabeth had no more tears left, only a hollow ache beneath her ribs and a headache that was real at last. She lay awake long into the night, listening to the wind move against the windows, while downstairs Longbourn slept beneath the shadow of the entail and the heir who had come to mend it.