Chapter 20

The Library

Longbourn

6 th November, 1811

Mr. Bennet closed his library door behind himself and hobbled over to the leather chair with its dips and hollows perfectly fitted to his body. He lowered himself carefully down on the soft brown leather with a groan and stretched out his leg in front of him, leaning his cane against the oak desk. It had been a rough night again; his knee and thigh had pained him all through the night, aching and cramping and keeping him awake.

He reached for the bottle of brandy on his desk and one of the clear crystal glasses, pouring himself a measure and tossing it eagerly back. The only way to alleviate his constant pain was to either imbibe laudanum or enjoy the soothing burn of alcohol, and he preferred the latter during the day as the laudanum clouded his mind. He stretched down his hand, massaging his knee as he waited for the alcohol to do its work. A book was ready and waiting in front of him, but his mind was unable to focus on the words until his agony subsided somewhat.

The clock on his mantel had ticked out some fifteen minutes before the stabbing cramps had reduced enough to allow him to think. Mr. Bennet sagged back in his chair, scowling absently out the window. His thoughts dwelt darkly, once again, on the unsatisfactory state of his life. How had he come to this? Married to a tiresome woman with no sense, no charm, nothing to appeal to a great mind like his own. She had not even managed to present him with a son, but only useless daughter after useless daughter until, after the fifth unwanted girl, he had given up in disgust. Foolish woman! Perhaps had she produced a son, she and her girls would not be homeless vagrants when Mr. Bennet finally gave up the ghost. It was of little worry to him, at any rate; he was master of Longbourn until his own death, and then the driveling family he had been cursed with would be no more his concern.

Nonetheless, he would as soon not live out the rest of his days surrounded by twitterpated women. It exasperated him every time he did the budgets and had to reckon in food for six women, and allowances for six women, and pin money for six women, not to mention the governess's wages … it was high time that his daughters started being married! Lydia and Kitty were too young yet, he supposed, but Jane and Elizabeth really had no excuse for not having garnered an offer yet. Both were pretty enough, and accomplished enough, that any fool-headed young man should be willing to marry them.

Yet here he sat, day after day, paying a governess and music masters to teach the girls to make a tuneful noise rather than a cacophonous one, melodies that were nonetheless distracting from his own books and his own pursuits. He was too concerned about the opinion of his neighbors to keep his daughters from improving their accomplishments, and he would not force them to run around in rags like tenant wenches. Sir William Lucas always spent a reasonable amount on the clothing of his womenfolk, and the younger Lucas girl actually took harp lessons from a master. No, there was nothing for it but to spend the money. But he eagerly looked forward to the day that they would wed and move out of his house and leave him in peace.

He resented looking out his library window and seeing his womenfolk, all with unblemished faces, striding about so easily, no pain or limp, no thought given to each step lest their knees buckle and collapse them to the ground. He had come to dread glancing out and spotting Elizabeth's dark head as she strode along the trails or walked around the stable yard and gardens.

Mr. Bennet grimaced as he thought of his second daughter. He had come to truly dislike her, and most wished for her, of all his daughters, to be married off and living far from Longbourn. Were he to admit the truth, she reminded him far too much of himself, the way he once was, the way he would still be were it not for that cursed horse that had caused him such a dreadful accident. She was beautiful, and vivacious, and athletic, and clever . None of his daughters were actually stupid, but Elizabeth so plainly outshone them all in her intelligence, and he detested it.

She derived great enjoyment from the paths across the land that he had once so enjoyed, even though the servants no longer kept them in quite so good of order as they once had. She would bring her books into the sitting room in the evenings and become raptly absorbed, poring over the written pages with blissful enthusiasm.

In another life, where no terrible fall had occurred, perhaps Elizabeth would have been his favorite daughter. He would have invited her into his library and his studies. They would have played chess and laughed at the vagaries of their foolish, gossiping neighbors, and walked the paths of Longbourn together in enjoyment. But that was not this life, and he resented her, and wished her gone. Maybe it was not fair to her, but he did not care. If she were truly so clever as all that, she would accept that it would be far better for everyone for her to find a husband and leave the home of her birth.

There was a soft tap at the door, and Bennet suppressed a groan. The last thing he wished was to be interrupted in his dark musings. Perhaps if he ignored...

There was another tap, louder this time, and Bennet barked, "Come in!"

The door opened immediately, and Mr. Collins bustled in, a broad smile on his plump face. "Mr. Bennet! I do apologize for interrupting you, sir, but I must speak to you on a matter of great importance!"

Bennet's sourness gave way to hope. He had encouraged Collins to pursue Elizabeth as a bride, and the man seemed eager to acquire a wife from among his cousins.

"Please sit down, Mr. Collins," he suggested, gesturing toward the chair across from his own.

The gentleman did so with alacrity and said, "Mr. Bennet, I have the honor of informing you that only fifteen minutes ago, I asked for the hand of your daughter in marriage, and she has accepted."

Bennet grinned back. "Congratulations, Cousin! I assume the daughter in question is Elizabeth?"

Collins's smile disappeared, to be replaced by uneasiness. "No, sir. Assuming you give us your blessing, I intend to wed my Cousin Mary."

Bennet's first feeling was of disappointment. Mary was the only one of his daughters who was not exceptionally pretty, and he rather liked poking fun at her looks in order to feel better about his own scarred countenance.

"Mrs. Bennet suggested that Miss Mary would prove a superior wife to a rector compared to my Cousin Elizabeth," Collins continued nervously. "She is devoted to the Scriptures, and I understand she spends a great deal of time with the tenants. She will thus be an excellent wife for a parson like myself."

This was, Bennet admitted to himself, true enough. Moreover, his greatest desire was to reduce the number of people in his household, and Mary's departure would help in that respect.

"You are quite correct, Mr. Collins," he replied, though not with any marked enthusiasm. "I daresay Mary will do very well for you. You have my permission and my blessing."

Collins's expression shifted from uncertain to delighted. "Thank you, Mr. Bennet. When Mary and I spoke this morning, we were in agreement that we would like to wed soon, if that is permissible."

"The sooner the better," Bennet agreed. "Now, if that is all, I wish to return to my book."

"Of course!"

/

Lucas Lodge

The Next Morning

7 th November, 1811

Lady Lucas's drawing room was very full of skirts. The three Lucas ladies were present, and young Maria was giggling in the corner with Lydia and Kitty, supervised indulgently by Mrs. Montgomery. Elizabeth listened briefly to the younger girls' discussion, the word lieutenant catching her ear and her attention. Maria had, apparently, gone out in company with her mother to several parties and teas where the militia officers had also been in attendance. Lydia and Kitty were both listening raptly to their friend's descriptions of charming men in red coats, and Elizabeth took a moment to thank God for Mrs. Montgomery. The sensible governess would keep the youngest Bennets from comporting themselves foolishly around an influx of strange men.

Jane, seated close on the couch, pulled Elizabeth's attention back to the conversation at hand by passing her a scone from the small rose-patterned plate on the table. Elizabeth smiled her thanks, listening to the discourse between the matrons and the elder daughters.

"My dear Mary," Charlotte enthused, "I am so very happy for you. I am confident that you will be an excellent parson's wife."

"Thank you," Mary said shyly. "I do feel most honored at being Mr. Collins's choice."

"Yes, it is quite astonishing!" Lady Lucas said. "To have the third daughter married before the first two is quite an accomplishment, my dear. You must be very pleased and proud, Mrs. Bennet; Longbourn will stay within the family!"

"I am pleased for Mary," the mistress of Longbourn replied and took a sip of her tea, "and I am proud of all my daughters. All I want is for them to be happy, and Mary is an intelligent, sensible girl. I am confident she will do well in Hunsford and eventually as mistress of Longbourn."

"I am certain she will," Charlotte agreed and turned toward the bride to be. "Have you decided on a wedding date?"

Mary blushed and said, "Not completely, but it will be soon. Mr. Collins is speaking to Father about the marriage settlements, and then my fiancé will return to Hunsford for a few weeks to make the appropriate arrangements for my arrival at the parsonage. We will have the banns called here and at Hunsford and wed shortly after the third calling."

"How lovely! That will give you enough time to prepare for the wedding breakfast, Mrs. Bennet," Lady Lucas said.

"Quite," her neighbor agreed. "I do not think it will be an enormous affair..."

The ensuing conversation ranged over the foods for the breakfast, with Mrs. Bennet planning for hams and pies and biscuits and perhaps a bowl of oranges as a highlight. Elizabeth and Jane chimed in regarding their sister's wedding clothes. It was agreed that Mrs. Anderton, the dressmaker in the village, would make up three dresses in dark greens and blues and maroon reds that would hide stains and dirt. Mary did not wish for frills, but held to more sober styles, as would befit a parson's wife, with only small trimmings to flatter her complexion and coloring.

Even just the discussion itself was flattering Mary's complexion, Elizabeth thought as she sipped her tea and watched her sister. Mary was becomingly flushed, and her eyes sparkled as she spoke of her upcoming nuptials. Longbourn was not a happy home to the third Bennet daughter, and she was plainly anxious to escape. As Mary talked eagerly of her new home in Kent, Elizabeth found herself sincerely pleased for her sister.