Chapter 15 #2
Then the driver snapped his whip and brought the horses into motion, the carriage disappearing gradually down the frosted lane while the Gardiner children waved enthusiastically from the windows until they turned the corner and were gone.
Though the winter winds found their way persistently through every corridor by January, the true coldness seemed to arrive with the Gardiners’ departure.
Mrs Bennet’s temper showed no sign of improvement.
If anything, the removal of her brother and his family, who had at least provided variety and distraction, seemed only to concentrate her displeasure more fully upon Elizabeth.
She complained of Charlotte Collins’s good fortune with an indignation that sharpened daily rather than diminishing.
Charlotte would already be established comfortably at Hunsford Parsonage now, she reminded them at regular intervals.
Charlotte would have the parsonage, and Longbourn in time, and a husband with a living and prospects.
Charlotte had behaved with sense, while Elizabeth had behaved with romantic nonsense.
She had heard the harangue so many times that the words had nearly ceased to carry meaning.
What exhausted her now was not her mother’s anger precisely, but the relentlessness of it.
There was no hour of the day that felt entirely safe.
Breakfast might proceed peacefully enough, only for some small thing, a mention of Kent or Lady Lucas passing on the lane outside, to restore her mother’s grievance to full force.
Elizabeth learned to listen for the particular quality of silence that preceded such outbursts, a tightness in the air not unlike the stillness before the weather turns.
Jane bore it better than anyone, or at least appeared to.
But Elizabeth sometimes caught her sister’s expression in unguarded moments, a faint shadow of strain around the eyes, a careful steadiness to her voice that was not quite naturalness, and understood that Jane’s composure cost considerably more than it appeared.
The cold deepened through the second week of January.
Frost coated the windows each morning, and the roads turned treacherous enough that even Mr Bingley’s visits became less regular for a time.
Elizabeth felt his absence more than she expected to, not for her own sake but for Jane’s.
The brightness that came into her sister’s face whenever his carriage appeared at the gate was the nearest thing to uncomplicated happiness that Longbourn contained at present.
When Mr Bingley did come, the atmosphere of the house altered almost immediately.
Even Mrs Bennet became animated and purposeful in his presence rather than despairing.
Elizabeth watched Jane move through those evenings with a quiet certainty that had grown over the past weeks, unhurried and increasingly secure in what she felt and what Mr Bingley felt in return.
It was a very good thing to witness. It was also, on certain evenings when despair pressed most heavily, difficult to watch.
Gradually, her father’s absence had acquired the quality of something almost habitual, though she still refused to think of it in those terms. Every morning began with the same involuntary hope, the slight quickening of attention when she heard wheels on the gravel drive or unfamiliar footsteps in the hall.
Every evening ended the same way. The hope did not diminish so much as settle into the ordinary texture of the days, unremarkable because it was always present.
She wrote to the Gardiners twice, once each to her aunt and uncle.
Mrs Gardiner sent her love and encouragement.
Mr Gardiner replied kindly, but with no new information to offer.
The trail remained cold in London. He spoke of connections he was pursuing, of patience.
Elizabeth read the letters gratefully and answered with more cheerfulness than she felt.
The house grew quieter after Kitty’s cold confined her to her room for a fortnight. Even Lydia’s noise subsided somewhat. Mary practiced hymns in the mornings, solemn pieces that drifted through the corridors and suited the mood of the house rather too well.
Elizabeth spent a good deal of time in the upstairs sitting room with a book open in her lap. Often, she was not reading. The fields beyond the garden offered nothing of interest, but they required nothing of her either, which answered well enough.
It was on one such grey February morning that a letter arrived, addressed in a tidy hand.
Charlotte Collins.
The name still looked strange. Elizabeth carried the letter upstairs unopened at first, intending to read it privately later. But curiosity defeated her before she had even fully closed her bedchamber door behind her.
Charlotte’s tone, at least, remained perfectly familiar.
She wrote sensibly. Even cheerfully. Hunsford, according to her account, suited her exceedingly well.
The parsonage was comfortable, Lady Catherine infinitely condescending but tolerably generous, and Mr Collins deeply satisfied with every aspect of married life.
Elizabeth paused there. “Deeply satisfied.” Of course he was.
Feeling nothing so much as resignation, she continued reading.
Charlotte spoke pleasantly of her neighbours and of the duties of a parson’s wife.
She described Rosings Park in affectionate but unmistakably amused detail, and devoted nearly half a page to Lady Catherine’s opinions regarding chimney placement, poultry management, and female accomplishments.
Despite herself, Elizabeth laughed quietly once or twice while reading. Charlotte had not changed. Then she reached the true purpose of the letter.
Charlotte wished Elizabeth to visit them in Kent during the spring.
Elizabeth stopped reading. Visit them? At Hunsford? Inhabiting the same house as Mr Collins?
Her first instinct was absolute refusal. She resumed reading with increasing disbelief.
Apparently anticipating her reaction, Charlotte addressed the matter directly.
Elizabeth need feel no awkwardness whatsoever regarding Mr Collins.
He was now entirely content in his marriage and had convinced himself that all former misunderstandings between himself and Elizabeth arose merely from mutual confusion and excessive delicacy on both sides.
Elizabeth stared at the sentence in open astonishment. “How extraordinarily convenient for him,” she muttered aloud.
Charlotte continued with calm reassurance. Mr Collins spoke of Elizabeth now only as a beloved cousin whose happiness he had always desired. Indeed, he appeared perfectly comfortable in believing events had unfolded exactly as Providence intended from the beginning.
Elizabeth scarcely knew whether to laugh or despair. Yet beneath the absurdity of Mr Collins remained Charlotte herself, writing warmly and sincerely. She wanted Elizabeth with her. That much was obvious in every line. The invitation no longer seemed entirely impossible.