Chapter 21

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

S oon after breakfast the next morning, Elizabeth found herself rather inexplicably alone in the drawing room with Mr Collins. She gave him a polite smile but quickly resumed her sewing—hoping that he would go away. Unfortunately, he did not, but instead took his seat upon the chair across from her.

“I arrived at Longbourn with the intention of finding a bride amongst my cousins,” he announced.

She glanced up, surprised. Dear heavens, he cannot be thinking of choosing me? No, no, ’tis impossible. Mama said he is for Mary. Determinedly, she resumed her stitching and pretended she was still alone in the room.

“I am grieved by the uncivil way you have been treated by Mr Darcy,” he said. “I had been told that he was betrothed to his cousin, the daughter of my esteemed patroness, Lady Catherine de Bourgh. Thus, I was surprised indeed by his offer to you, but was of course pleased by the idea of a connexion to him.”

There it was again, a reiteration of Miss Bingley’s tale. Was there another betrothal? Why did I not ask Darcy? But Mr Collins rambled on.

“I promise you, I have stood as a witness to your neighbours against any implication that Mr Darcy did not truly propose. I was here when he appeared in this very room to ask for your company in the garden, and I saw him afterwards closet himself with your father. I did not hear, of course, any of his conversation or the proposal itself—but what other explanation could there be? And so I have informed anyone who infers otherwise.”

Elizabeth closed her eyes, briefly, mortified at his every word. But she clenched her teeth and said nothing.

“I admit, I have formed a satisfactory acquaintance with your sister, Miss Mary. However, in the face of your public humiliation, as the successor to your family’s lands, it remains my responsibility—and she agrees—to throw the mantle of my honour over you, to protect your reputation and your future. Will you accept my name and my devotion, Miss Elizabeth?”

The near hysterical urge to laugh swept through her, in opposition to her previous embarrassment. It was a surreal mockery of a proposal, in comparison to Darcy’s. Still, her cousin seemed to be attempting, in an inept sort of fashion, to do what he felt was right. At last she met his gaze.

“I cannot, Mr Collins. It is out of the question. Pray, do not disappoint my sister Mary by any renewal of these sentiments towards me. ”

“You believe Mr Darcy might return, then? I urge you to reconsider—I find it very unlikely that, having behaved so disgracefully, he would ever show his face again at the scene of his dishonour.”

His words gave her a stabbing pain in the region of her heart, but she could not deny the reason in them.

“I hope that he will come at least to explain himself,” she hedged.

He looked at her with some pity. “I cannot help but believe you are making a grave mistake. I suppose you cannot be blamed for making it. His family is of the highest respectability. I can assure you, it is not at all common to hear of such behaviour from him. However, it is my considered opinion that he, remembering all he owes his cousin, Miss de Bourgh, recovered from his momentary lapse in judgment in selecting a different bride, and will instead take up his duty and obligations to her. I am disappointed in him, and so would his aunt be, were she to know of it.”

The words hit hard. If Colonel Fitzwilliam believed the same, his response to Darcy’s engagement to another made sense. Yet, why would he propose to me? Why not accept my offer of a delay, if he had second thoughts after doing so? Still, to Mr Collins, she shrugged.

“Nevertheless, I shall wait to hear,” she said.

It was no credit to herself that Mr Collins looked relieved rather than disappointed, excusing himself hastily. But Jane entered the room in the wake of his departure, and Elizabeth almost cringed. She had been avoiding her eldest sister. Last night, she had pretended to be asleep against Jane’s softly spoken enquiries. It was unbearable, seeing the sympathy in her eyes every time their gazes met.

Jane said nothing at all to her, however, plopping with rather unladylike heaviness into the chair recently vacated by Mr Collins, leaning back, and staring upwards seemingly at nothing—a very un-Jane-like posture. Elizabeth looked at her sister with some concern, and saw, resting upon her lap, a letter.

“Who has written?”

Jane did not glance her way, but continued her study of the ceiling. “Miss Bingley,” she said dully.

Elizabeth felt a frisson of new anxiety. “What did she say?”

Jane did not reply, handing over the letter instead. Elizabeth read it through. A couple of points were made perfectly clear. The first was that the Bingleys had no intention of returning to Netherfield. The second was Miss Bingley’s complete ignorance of any engagement or marriage between Elizabeth and Mr Darcy; had she any clue at all, she would not have been able to avoid its mention—even if it had been a gloat over his change of mind. Especially at that.

Unquestionably, he had said nothing to the Bingleys of any wedding plans. Rather, Miss Bingley’s only mention of future nuptials was her implication that Mr Bingley would soon be joined in a match with Miss Darcy.

This was it, then. Somehow, for some unfathomable reason, after going to the trouble of speaking to her father and promising to go for a licence…when faced with revealing to the Bingleys his decision, Darcy had not been able to bring hi mself to do it. If he had baulked at telling the Bingleys, he must have quailed at the thought of revealing it to Lord Matlock. There was another woman. Colonel Fitzwilliam’s singular, rude behaviour the night of the Philipses’ party was explained, refusing—albeit without words—to confirm Darcy’s engagement. Doubtless all the villagers remembered it too.

Elizabeth glanced at Jane—whose hopes had also been cruelly disappointed with these tidings. She saw, in her expression, that her sister understood what they meant.

Jane leant forwards, tossing the letter into the fireplace; then she took Elizabeth’s cold fingers in hers. Together, hand in hand, they watched as it burned.

On Saturday afternoon, Lydia and Kitty returned from a foray into Meryton splattered in mud. “What in heaven’s name happened to you?” Mrs Bennet cried. “Your dresses are ruined!”

Kitty looked uncertainly at her sister, but Lydia snapped, “Who cares? I hate this old thing.”

Mr Bennet paused on his way to his book room, peering at his grimy daughters from over the top of his spectacles. “If that is the way you will treat your garments, I shall be in no hurry to authorise another purchase,” he said sternly.

“’Tis not my fault!” Lydia cried. “That uppish Pamela Harrington was laughing about Lizzy, and so I told her that if I had a laugh that sounded like a braying donkey, I would not risk allowing anyone to overhear it, and then…she tripped.” Ly dia smiled beatifically. “She fell, splat, into the mud, right onto her arrogant face.”

Elizabeth raised a brow at this account, which did not at all explain why both Kitty and Lydia were half-covered in filth. Kitty bit her lip, but Lydia stood, defiant, chin raised, as if daring anyone to challenge her version of events.

Elizabeth abruptly realised that Lydia had done much more than simply insult the Harrington girl—and Kitty had joined in. This is my fault. If they are punished, it will be because of me.

But to her surprise, her father considered his muck-spattered daughters for a long moment, and then nodded. “Carry on,” he said mildly, and continued towards his study.

“You are dripping on my floors,” said Mrs Bennet. “Do get out of those clothes, girls, and if you track mud all the way up the stairs, it will be you mopping them and not Bess.”

And that was all, it seemed, that was to be said. Elizabeth swallowed a rather large lump in her throat, and quickly excused herself before she burst into another bout of hated tears.