Page 226 of A Question of Character

No one expressed surprise except Bingley himself, who afterward admitted that he had rehearsed his proposal so many times he scarcely remembered what he actually said. Jane assured everyone that whatever words he employed had been sufficient.

When the happy news reached Longbourn, Mrs. Bennet renewed her tears with greater vigor than before, protesting between joyful exclamations that no mother in England had ever been so blessed. Mr. Bennet declared himself thankful that his library possessed a sturdy door, as he suspected it would shortly become the final peaceful place remaining within the house.

Darcy congratulated his friend with unmistakable sincerity.

“I believe,” he said as they walked together through the Longbourn gardens the following afternoon, “that I have owed you an apology in more matters than one.”

Bingley shook his head.

“Your distraction gave me time to court Jane. I cannot think myself ill-used.”

Darcy smiled.

“You are a better man than I deserve.”

Bingley laughed.

“Nonsense. We are merely both fortunate.”

They resolved to marry together, and after comparing the needs of the settlements, the banns, and their families, fixed the ceremony for the Thursday one week before Christmas Eve.

The arrangement delighted nearly everyone. Mrs. Bennet began planning breakfasts, dinners, gowns, invitations, musicians, flowers, and wedding cakes with such energy that Hill privately wondered whether Christmas itself would require postponement until her mistress had finished directing every detail. Jane and Elizabeth bore the bustle with affectionate patience, frequently escaping together for walks whenever discussion of ribbons threatened to consume an entire afternoon.

The approaching season lent an added warmth to every preparation. As the wedding week drew near, holly and evergreen began appearing at doorways and mantelpieces throughout the neighborhood, while anticipation of the coming marriages mingled naturally with the ordinary festivities of Advent. Longbourn had seldom appeared so cheerful.

Mrs. Bennet lamented not being able to share one last festive season with her eldest daughters, but the knowledge that they had secured such notable husbands soon appeased her.

“I suppose,” she announced one evening while examining a length of lace for Elizabeth’s wedding gown, “that it would be selfish indeed to wish either of you unmarried merely that I might enjoy another Christmas beneath the same roof.”

Mr. Bennet looked over the top of his spectacles.

“Particularly when you may spend future Christmases at Pemberley.”

Mrs. Bennet brightened.

“That is perfectly true.”

Elizabeth exchanged an amused glance with Jane. Their mother possessed an enviable talent for discovering consolation with remarkable speed whenever grandsons, fine estates, or distinguished sons-in-law entered the conversation.

During the planning, Mr. Bennet received a letter from his cousin and heir, Mr. William Collins.

The arrival of the letter occasioned little notice at first. Mr. Bennet accepted it from the post with his customary indifference, remarking that Mr. Collins generally required three pages to communicate what another gentleman might accomplish in three sentences. He broke the seal after breakfast while the family lingered over their tea, his expression growing steadily more curious with every line.

“My cousin appears to have found employment,” he observed at last.

Mrs. Bennet showed marginal interest. “Employment? Pray read it aloud.”

Mr. Bennet complied, omitting those portions he declared too tedious for civilized company. Mr. Collins’s style remained as elaborate as ever, every compliment extended until it became nearly unrecognizable beneath its own ornamentation. Nevertheless, one fact emerged with gratifying clarity.

It was with great humor they realized that the man had taken a living granted by Darcy’s aunt, Lady Catherine de Bourgh.

Darcy, who happened to be present when the letter arrived, closed his eyes briefly before allowing himself a resigned smile.

“I begin to pity my aunt.”

Elizabeth laughed.

“I confess my sympathies incline in another direction.”