Chapter Eight Cold Calls and Dark Eyes
BY ELEVEN O’CLOCK THE following morning, Jane had been installed by the drawing room fire with two shawls, a footstool under her feet, and a bowl of broth cooling untouched on the table.
Mrs Bennet had arranged all four items and now regarded her eldest daughter with the satisfaction of a physician who had personally defeated death. Jane’s attempts to explain that she felt almost recovered had produced another shawl.
“You must not presume on your strength,” Mrs Bennet declared as she tucked the edge around Jane’s knees. “Mr Bingley would never forgive us if you suffered a relapse.”
Jane’s colour deepened. “I believe my recovery chiefly concerns my family, Mamma.”
“Of course it does, my dear. But there is no reason to be selfish about it.”
Mr Bennet lowered his book far enough to examine his wife over the top. “Your mother is correct. Illness is a social responsibility. A young woman cannot expect to inconvenience an eligible gentleman for ten days and then recover without consulting him.”
Jane attempted to hide her smile behind her hand. Lydia and Kitty, who occupied the sofa nearest the window, made no such effort. Mary sat opposite them with a volume of sermons open on her lap and an expression that disapproved of laughter without having entirely resisted it.
Elizabeth remained next to Charlotte on the smaller sofa. Charlotte had arrived half an hour earlier and had the rare ability to enquire after Jane without either discussing her coffin or calculating the annual income of the man who had supplied the apothecary.
Mr Collins had placed his chair close to Elizabeth’s end of the sofa. Each time she leaned to Charlotte, he moved forward as well, determined that no private conversation should occur within the reach of his ears.
“I am gratified to observe Miss Bennet’s restoration,” he announced. “Lady Catherine has frequently remarked that good health is best preserved by sensible habits and obedience to superior advice.”
Charlotte glanced at Jane’s shawls. “Does Lady Catherine recommend a certain number?”
Mr Collins folded his hands over his stomach. “Her ladyship would consider the temperature of the room, the constitution of the patient, and the quality of the wool before reaching a decision.”
“She would probably require more garments than we have,” Elizabeth said. “Mamma has already exhausted the available shawls.”
Mrs Bennet turned from the fire. “Your cousin speaks very sensibly, Lizzy. If Jane had taken greater care, she would never have become ill.”
Jane lowered the broth she was reluctantly sipping. “You sent me to Netherfield on horseback in the rain.”
“I could hardly have predicted rain merely because the sky was black.”
Mr Bennet returned to his book. “Weather has always been deficient in consideration for your plans.”
A carriage approached along the drive before Mrs Bennet could defend herself. Lydia abandoned the window seat and pressed both hands to the glass.
“It is from Netherfield.”
Jane sat straighter. One shawl slipped from her shoulder, and Mrs Bennet rushed to restore it before hope could expose her to the air.
“Mr Bingley has come.” She turned her hopeful gaze to Hill, who had entered to announce the visitors.
Hill waited until her mistress paused. “Miss Bingley and Mrs Hurst, madam.”
Jane’s disappointment appeared only in the brief lowering of her eyes.
Elizabeth saw it because she had expected the same name and experienced a disappointment of her own, which was unreasonable.
Mr Darcy had never promised to call. He had merely said that he hoped their conversations would continue, and hope, as Mr Collins constantly demonstrated, could survive without assistance from likelihood.
Miss Bingley entered with Mrs Hurst behind her. Both women carried the chill of the morning into the room, although neither appeared affected by it. Miss Bingley approached Jane with graceful concern and extended both hands.
“My dear Miss Bennet, how relieved we are to find you downstairs. Charles has spoken of nothing but your health since we left Longbourn yesterday.”
Jane accepted the greeting. “Your brother has been exceedingly kind.”
“He wished to call again this morning, but Mr Darcy proposed riding and would not be persuaded to postpone it.” Miss Bingley sat in the chair Mrs Bennet indicated, smoothing her skirts with evident pleasure at having accounted for her brother’s absence and Mr Darcy’s in the same sentence.
Elizabeth smiled politely. If Miss Bingley expected evidence of disappointment, she had to work harder for it.
Mrs Hurst settled beside her sister. Her gaze travelled over the room, paused on Charlotte, and then rested on Mr Collins, who was still standing after the ladies’ entrance, and whose importance increased visibly beneath the attention.
“We met yesterday,” he reminded her, bowing awkwardly. “Mr Collins, rector of Hunsford in Kent and fortunate recipient of the patronage of Mr Darcy’s esteemed aunt, Lady Catherine de Bourgh.”
Mrs Hurst regarded him with faint uncertainty, as if she had just discovered that an unpleasant dream had acquired a second morning. “Yes. Yes, I remember.”
Mr Collins bowed again. “Your recollection honours me.”
Mr Bennet turned another page. “It has survived almost twenty-four hours. Such endurance ought to be acknowledged.”
Miss Bingley’s gaze moved to him, but Mr Bennet appeared absorbed in his book. She accepted the tea Mrs Bennet offered and held the cup delicately on its saucer.
“We have also come on a matter of business.” Miss Bingley addressed Jane with a smile which might have been warm if warmth had not required practice. “My brother promised that you should choose the date of the Netherfield ball. The household cannot proceed until you have pronounced judgement.”
Jane glanced at her mother. Mrs Bennet had already opened her mouth.
“The twenty-second would be suitable,” she began. “Although the twenty-third may give Jane another day to recover, and there is no reason to delay beyond that unless Mr Bingley wishes to invite a great many people.”
“The twenty-sixth,” Jane said quietly.
Mrs Bennet stopped.
Jane rested her hands on the abandoned shawl in her lap. “I believe the twenty-sixth would allow sufficient time for the invitations and preparations. I shall also be entirely recovered by then.”
Miss Bingley inclined her head. “The twenty-sixth it shall be.”
Lydia sprang from the window and hurried across the room. “Will Colonel Forster and all the officers be invited?”
“Lydia,” Elizabeth warned.
Miss Bingley lifted her cup but did not drink. “My brother has already assured the regiment of its welcome.”
“All of them?” Kitty asked, leaning around Lydia.
Mrs Hurst selected a small cake from the plate Hill offered and placed it on her saucer. “Unless Colonel Forster has recruited half the county since yesterday.”
“That would improve the county considerably,” Lydia replied.
Mary closed her book on one finger. “A military coat does not necessarily indicate moral worth.”
“No,” Lydia agreed, resuming her place. “But it indicates an officer.”
Mr Bennet’s shoulders moved once behind his book.
Mrs Bennet began listing the families who must be invited, the families who expected to be invited, and the families whose exclusion would be discussed for years. Miss Bingley listened with composed endurance while being informed how many people intended to invade her home.
Mr Collins waited for a pause and failed to find one. He therefore created it by stepping into the centre of the room.
“I trust that a clergyman’s attendance would not be considered inconsistent with the dignity of the occasion. Lady Catherine encourages dancing among personages of established respectability, provided that animation does not descend into vulgar display.”
Miss Bingley stared at him. For one beautiful instant, Elizabeth watched her consider every possible means of denying the heir to Longbourn entry to Netherfield. Lady Catherine’s name removed most of them.
“We should be pleased to receive you, Mr Collins.”
He bowed deeply. “You do me great honour. I am not insensible to the responsibilities attached to such an invitation and shall endeavour to distinguish myself without attracting undue attention.”
Mr Bennet lowered his book. “That should be worth observing.”
Mr Collins accepted the remark as encouragement and continued. “I flatter myself that my dancing, though not fashionable, is conducted with propriety. Lady Catherine once witnessed me participate in a country dance at the Hunsford harvest celebration and offered no criticism.”
“Extraordinary,” Elizabeth murmured. “She had retained consciousness throughout?”
Charlotte’s mouth curved. Mr Collins turned to Elizabeth, uncertain whether he had received a compliment, but Miss Bingley had already addressed Charlotte.
“An invitation will be sent to Lucas Lodge as soon as we return to Netherfield. Now that Miss Bennet has settled the date, we may rescue the household from uncertainty.”
Charlotte thanked her without describing her dancing, her respectability, or Lady Catherine’s probable opinion of either. Elizabeth admired the economy.
Hill offered the refreshments again. Miss Bingley continued holding the same cup of tea, its surface untouched.
Mrs Hurst’s cake remained on her saucer.
Elizabeth had watched both women through several meals at Netherfield and could not remember seeing either swallow anything.
At the time she had attributed this to fashionable restraint.
Fashion had since acquired cold hands, absent mirrors, and a silver punch bowl with emotional difficulties.
Mr Collins reached for the plate before Hill could withdraw it. “Allow me to assist.”
He presented it first to Mrs Hurst. She raised one hand to decline at the same moment he moved the plate closer. Their bare fingers touched above the cakes.