“Mr. Bingley, is that you?” Mrs. Bennet’s voice called. “Why, how wonderful to see you, and so early. How are you—” She broke off, then recommenced with, “Ah, I see. You and Jane are still at odds. Well, nothing to be done for that, I imagine. Time will remedy all. While I have you here, and as it seems Jane is staying with us for a time, I must have your thoughts on expanding the front parlor. The dining room as well. I am certain you agree they are both too—”
Mumbled words sounded in Mr. Bingley’s light baritone. The front door opened and closed.
“How rude of him,” Mrs. Bennet’s voice said, closer now. “I can see why you decided to come home, dear.”
“Oh, Mama,” Jane cried, and footfalls raced up the stairs.
Chapter Twenty-Six
The following day, hothouse flowers arrived, and a letter. Jane read the letter, her expression contemplative, and took the flowers to the kitchen to put them in a vase. Elizabeth didn’t pry into what Mr. Bingley had written but took her sister not casting the flowers out into the late November chill as encouraging.
The next day brought an even larger bouquet and an even longer missive. This, Jane read with a small smile, then went to collect ink, pen, and paper. She replied at length. That none of her pen strokes were made in anger or sorrow seemed auspicious as well.
The following day, more flowers arrived, this time requiring two men to deliver them all to the doorstep, and a small brigade of maids to see them in vases and set about Longbourn. Elizabeth had never counted how many vases Longbourn possessed, but she noted that some of the flowers ended up in a pitcher usually reserved for milk, and others in a crock that had, until recently, held pickles, which were served in abundance at their next meal. Soon, as well, they would run out of surfaces on which to display Mr. Bingley’s floral amends.
The delivery was, of course, accompanied by an even thicker letter, which took Jane quite some time to read. She spent the remainder of the afternoon crafting her reply. More often than not, a secret smile graced her face.
The fourth day, the twenty-ninth of November, when a knock sounded once more, Kitty and Lydia did not even trouble to look out the window, and Elizabeth wondered how many flowers Mr. Bingley had sent today. She imagined Jane should forgive him and return to Netherfield Park before he squandered his considerable fortune on hothouse blossoms. And while they could still see each other at meals, for several large vases already adorned the dinner table, the flowers they held taking upconsiderable space. Looking about the room at the amusement on her parents’ and younger sisters’ faces, Elizabeth suspected they agreed.
One of the maids appeared in the doorway. “Mr. and Mrs. Collins are asking if you are at home.”
Silence met that. Everyone, even Mr. Bennet, turned to regard Mrs. Bennet.
“We are not,” she stated flatly, her chin taking on a proud tilt.
“Mr. Bennet, sir,” Mr. Collins’ voice said loudly from out of sight in the entrance hall, “I hold that it behooves you to hear me out, for I will someday be master of this abode, and you cannot, therefore, lightly turn me away, especially as I beseech you most humbly for a moment of your time, to explain at length what is required of you by he who will someday possess all that which stands about us.”
Mr. Bennet removed his spectacles to pinch the bridge of his nose, grimacing.
Elizabeth, as well, felt the strain of sorting out Mr. Collins’ words, though their meaning seemed clear enough. He wanted something from her father.
“Mama, please,” Mary’s voice cried. “Lady Catherine has gone to the bishop and seen Mr. Collins stripped of his living and cast us out.”
Mrs. Bennet’s eyebrows rose at that. Meeting Mr. Bennet’s gaze, she nodded.
Elizabeth’s father huffed a sigh, then shoved his spectacles back onto his nose, set aside his book with a loud thunk, and rose. “Very well. If I must.” He strode past the maid and out.
Mr. Collins’ officious greeting echoed in the entrance hall, his droning dwindling as the two sought Mr. Bennet’s office. Elizabeth took in the interest on her sisters’ faces and the battle on Mrs. Bennet’s. Out of sight in the entrance hall, feet shifted, a skirt rustling.
Then a quick patter of boots heralded Mary appearing in the doorway, where the maid still lingered. “Mama, please, you must let Mr. Collins and myself reside in Longbourn. It will be ours someday, no matter what you and Father do, so there is no keeping us out.”
Mrs. Bennet regarded her middle child with pursed lips, tipped her nose up, and looked away. “Please bring tea for five,” she called, addressing the maid.
“Wait.” Jane turned to their mother. “Mama, you must at least offer Mary tea.”
“And I want to hear what happened,” Lydia said, sitting forward eagerly. “What Mr. Collins did to get them in trouble.”
“Mr. Collins did nothing wrong,” Mary cried. She stepped into the room to level a glare on Elizabeth. “Lady Catherine received a letter from Mr. Darcy declaring in no uncertain terms that he would not marry Miss de Bourgh, and she came to the parsonage raging about how Mr. Collins had tricked her into paying off the wrong strumpet. She refused to believe Mr. Collins when he assured her that he had not conspired with Elizabeth and Miss Bingley, and she cast us out. It is all Elizabeth’s fault.”
Elizabeth sighed. “I truly must stop ruining your life, mustn’t I?”
“You believe it is amusing that you ruin everything I care for? You never helped me buy new music, you put all our futures at risk with your hoydenish behavior, and now you have somehow misled Lady Catherine into turning on a man who could not be more dedicated to her, and into tearing my new home away from me.” A hiccupping sob left Mary. “And do not think that I do not know that you have done so on purpose, in vengeance.”
In the doorway behind Mary, the maid looked down, shrinking against the frame, obviously uncertain if she should fetch tea for five, or six, or at all.
“Vengeance? You truly believe that I would seek vengeance for your pettiness?” Sorrow stabbed through Elizabeth at her sister’s hatred and misery. “But then, you would construe such motives to me, for you can only see others as behaving how you would behave.”
Jane cast her a sharp look.
