“They cut a fine figure, to be sure,” Mrs. Bennet allowed, fixing her youngest with a stern look that brooked no misunderstanding. “But it never hurts to admire from a distance.”
After securing the young ladies’ agreement—however provisional—to be on their guard, Mr. Bennet changed the subject with deliberate abruptness.
“There is another matter I need to discuss with you, Mrs. Bennet,” he said, reaching for a letter that lay upon the side table. “This came two days ago. I required time to consider what was within, and how best to respond.” He looked toward the girls. “You may leave. Elizabeth, please remain.”
Elizabeth paused, surprised, as her cousins rose and filed out with varying degrees of curiosity and reluctance. Jane cast her a brief, questioning glance before the door closed behind them. When the room was quiet once more, Elizabeth felt a faint tightening in her chest. Matters discussed in her presence alone were rarely trivial.
Mr. Bennet unfolded the missive at last, the paper crackling softly in his hands.
“This,” he said, his voice dry but not without an undercurrent of irritation, “is from my cousin, Mr. William Collins. He is the heir to the estate, as you know.”
Mrs. Bennet’s expression hardened at once. “What could he possibly want?” she demanded. “You are healthy, and he is not likely to take possession of Longbourn for another twentyyears!” She folded her arms, as though daring the letter itself to contradict her.
“While I am gratified by your confidence in my longevity—and your belief that I shall live to see my grandchildren married—my mortality is not assured,” Mr. Bennet replied mildly. “Be that as it may, his letter is of a peculiar nature.” He glanced at Elizabeth, whose brow had furrowed in growing concern. “Let me read it.”
Elizabeth settled herself more firmly in her chair, a quiet apprehension settling over her as her uncle began. Whatever Mr. Collins had written, she suspected it would not be kind—and that it would change more than the tone of the morning.
My Esteemed Cousin, Mr. Bennet of Longbourn,
It is with a sense of duty—rather than affection—that I take up my pen to inform you of a material alteration in my circumstances, which I trust you will receive with the gravity appropriate to its import, if not with gratitude for the condescension implicit in my communication.
I have lately been so fortunate as to obtain the living of Hunsford, in the county of Kent, where I am now settled as rector under the most generous and discerning patronage of Lady Catherine de Bourgh, whose virtues—moral, intellectual, and social—are so numerous and exalted that any attempt to enumerate them must necessarily fall short. Suffice it to say that her Ladyship unites nobility of birth with a vigilance for propriety that would serve as a model to families far better situated than your own.
It was at her Ladyship’s encouragement that I atfirst entertained the charitable notion of extending an olive branch toward my relations at Longbourn. However, upon learning—through no indiscretion of my own—the precise nature of my connection to your family, Lady Catherine was justly shocked, and I was forced to reconsider the wisdom of such a course.
Indeed, cousin, I cannot but observe that the Bennet name has long been associated with a lamentable want of restraint, discretion, and respect for the proper gradations of society. Were it not for the unfortunate alliance that brought your line into connection with that of the de Bourghs, the family might yet remain unblemished by scandal, and Sir Lewis de Bourgh—whose loss we all must deplore—might still be alive, spared the consequences of associations that brought nothing but sorrow in their wake. That a young girl should be deprived of her father is a tragedy; that such a tragedy should arise from imprudent connections is a warning to all who would neglect their duty to rank and propriety.
I must therefore confess—though the admission costs me nothing—that I am heartily ashamed of my connection to your family and exceedingly thankful that I do not bear your name. I consider it a mercy that Providence has allowed me to distinguish myself from relations whose conduct I cannot approve and whose example I must conscientiously avoid.
Accordingly, I shall not seek to renew acquaintance with you or any member of your household. To do so would be to risk offending mynoble patroness, whose opinion I hold in the highest esteem and whose displeasure I would not incur for any consideration. It is my firm intention to maintain a respectful distance, both for my own moral improvement and in deference to Lady Catherine’s just expectations.
Permit me also to remind you—though I regret the necessity—that as the entail stands, and as I am the lawful heir to Longbourn, the day must come when your daughters will no longer have a claim upon that property. It would therefore be prudent of you to prepare them for a future that does not include residence at Longbourn, as I shall not be in a position to offer them accommodation once you have reached your eternal reward.
I offer no compliments to Mrs. Bennet, believing sincerity preferable to empty civility.
I remain, your obedient servant—in duty, if not in inclination,
William Collins Rector of Hunsford Under the Most Distinguished Patronage of Lady Catherine de Bourgh
“Well! What a sanctimonious, proud, disagreeable man!” Mrs. Bennet’s cheeks were red, her breath coming a little too quickly as she pressed her hand to her chest. Elizabeth could see fury radiating from her in waves—hot, indignant, and barely contained. It was the sort of anger that sprang not merely from insult, but from injustice keenly felt.
“I think you share my opinion that such drivel does not merit a response,” Mr. Bennet said dryly, though his raised eyebrowsbetrayed a sharper irritation than his tone suggested. He folded the letter with deliberate care, as though confining its ugliness within neat creases.
“Most assuredly!” Mrs. Bennet exclaimed. “How can he say such things about people he has never met? It is despicable. And the things he implied about our dear Lizzy—” She broke off and cast a pitying glance at her niece, her expression softening only slightly. “To speak so freely of matters he cannot possibly understand! It is cruel.”
Elizabeth smiled weakly, though the effort cost her. The sting of Mr. Collins’s words had not surprised her, but they had settled into her thoughts with disturbing familiarity. “One question I have had for a long time is answered,” she said thoughtfully. “Lady Catherine somehow holds me responsible for her husband’s death. I knew from my aunt’s tales that she never approved of my mama.”
The admission hung in the air, heavy with implication. Mrs. Bennet’s lips parted in protest, but Mr. Bennet spoke first.
“Yes,” he said, his brow furrowing. “It was made clear to me—long ago—that the de Bourghs had no interest in raising you.” His mouth tightened, and for a moment the habitual amusement that softened his features was wholly absent. “I can see it is good we have enough funds to care for my girls should I pass on to my reward. You will get no charity from Mr. Collins.”
Mrs. Bennet drew herself up, determination replacing outrage. “Oh yes, that is very good. With Providence’s help, Jane will soon be married to Mr. Bingley. And the others have dowries.” She nodded to herself, as though ordering the future into place by sheer will. “We shall not want.”
“Do not forget that Netherfield Park belongs to me,” Elizabeth said gently, though there was steel beneath her calm. “You and my cousins will always have a home.”
Mrs. Bennet’s eyes filled, and she reached out impulsively, clasping Elizabeth’s hands. “You are very good, Elizabeth. Thank you.” The gratitude in her voice was unfeigned, touched with humility she did not often allow herself to display.
Mr. Bennet rose then, setting the folded letter aside as though dismissing it from consequence. He crossed the room and laid a steady hand on Elizabeth’s shoulder. “I wanted you to be aware of the contents of the letter to better protect yourself, my dear,” he said. “It is always better to have more information than less.”
