Page 24 of Elizabeth and Mrs. Bennet

“Perhaps, now that I am a landed clergyman, I could seek higher than Mrs. Bennet,” Mr. Collins continued, taking the silence as sufficient encouragement to continue. “Though she married a gentleman, as a widow she has not the same position in society. Was not her father a solicitor? Certainly not a gentleman.” He spoke as though Mrs. Bennet were not in the room; and, I suspect, if she arose and left he would continue unabated.

“I have forgiven Miss Elizabeth’s temerity in contradicting my guidance in warming the Longbourn parlour to an acceptable level. But, when she becomes the daughter of a clergyman, she must learn restraint, lest her behaviour reflect badly on myself and my station. Lady Catherine would certainly instruct her in more becoming behaviour.”

I felt myself growing more angry with every moment. Certainly, I was about to abandon every attempt to speak with composure. Before I could speak, Mama interrupted Mr. Collins’s address.

“Cease, sir! You have said quite enough. I perfectly comprehend your feelings but they are misdirected. I have just come out of mourning a very dear man, and have no desire to remarry. I am quite content with my life, apart from repining Mr. Bennet’s absence. You, Mr. Collins, could never be the man that he was. Shall I describe him to you? What he meant to me and my daughters? A man possessing honour, a strong sense of duty; who comforted me in the loss of our babies Mary, Catherine and little Lydia; who held my hand when I needed gentle companionship; who listened attentively when I read to him of an evening; who was everything I have ever desired.”

Mama’s tears overwhelmed her. She stood, clasped my hand, then fled the room. Mr. Collins regarded her with an expression of mingled incredulity and self-satisfaction. He went on.

“A woman of such sensitivity!” he exclaimed. “So overcome with my proposal, that she seeks to refresh herself, to save my embarrassment at her diverted appearance.”

“Mr. Collins, you are grievously mistaken. I assure you, Mrs. Bennet harbours no desire whatsoever for your declaration—indeed, she would as soon wish for it as an infant would welcome the affliction of a boil.”

I saw him start at this—perhaps my metaphor was overdone. He appeared confused, bewildered that his proposal had been dismissed.

“Believe me, sir, that you could not have made Mrs. Bennet an offer in any possible way that would have tempted her to accept it. She has no desire to marry; she has fortune enough with Hathaway House. Her daughter Mrs. Bingley is married to a kind, honourable man. What could you possibly offer her which she does not already possess?”

To this he made no reply, undoubtedly believing that the superiority of his suit was self-evident. I arose and left the room. If he wished for accommodation at Hathaway House then he would be disappointed. I left instructions with James that he should remain in the room with the man, and with Mrs. Hill that he should be shown no further courtesy. When he tired of sitting alone, he should be encouraged to leave the house. He had come without any luggage, which suited me perfectly, for he could not suggest he should stay. The inn at Meryton was perfectly agreeable—yet, I had no concern whatsoever for his comfort.

I hurried away to Mama’s room, and found her sitting calmly on her chair by the window, looking out over the garden. We sat quietly together, until Mrs. Hill came to inform us that Mr. Collins had departed. Supper was a subdued affair, but once retired to the parlour, I sat at the piano-forte, and sang some of Mama’s favourite arias. The evening lightened—occasionally, we would catch the other’s eye, both diverted by Mr. Collins’s absurdity, and the naivety of Mr. Denny and Mr. Wickham.

* * *

Chapter 11

The Lakes

I had felt suffocated by being forced to wear mourning clothes; Papa would have been shocked by the cruelty of it. Before he was afflicted by his arthritis, my memory of him was of a jovial man inclined to whimsy, his humour sometimes a little too biting—particularly when commenting on the pretensions of our neighbours. Yet he was always able to laugh at himself, and his humour within the family was gentle and restrained. Certainly, he would not have condoned Mama and me wearing full mourning, with its strict social isolation, censured for taking part in the normal entertainments of the community.

But now we had returned to society, I felt even more smothered. Certainly no longer isolated, but now drowning in the attention paid to us by the single men of the neighbourhood. It could have been borne, but for the reality that Mrs. Bennet’s status as an unmarried woman of independent means, not answerable to any man, placed her in an awkward position with the other ladies of our acquaintance—before her widowhood, her friends and confidantes. Now, there had arisen an undercurrent of envy, barely hidden by polite conversation and the sipping of tea from delicate porcelain. There was a measure of jealousy also, that she might attract the eye of a wandering husband—connubial virtue no longer in need of protection, allowing her, perchance, more freedom than either an unmarried woman or a married lady, particularly in such a small community as Meryton.

If I had not been related to her, I would have made an altogether appropriate companion, preserving proper decorum and ensuring absolute discretion. But for a daughter to play that role? Perchance, if Jane and Mr. Bingley lived in the same house, it might have been perceived differently. But there was always a rustle of unease—that an apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, that the proclivities of the mother must necessarily be inherited by the daughter, that when gentlemen called, both mother and daughter would use their arts and allurements to draw in the menfolk of the town.

“Hattie, whatever are we to do?” Mama and I sat in Aunt Philips’s parlour taking tea. “While everyone is polite, and seems to welcome our visits… Oh, do they not understand? I miss Mr. Bennet so very much; I have no interest in marrying again.”

“‘Tis most unfair, Fanny. They mean well—indeed, they would be most upset if they realised how their behaviour affects you and Elizabeth. Even Mrs. Goulding said to me that she thought her husband’s eyes lingered too long on you at the Longs’ card party.”

“Surely not!” I said, perhaps a little too emphatically. “Mr. Goulding is hardly the most handsome man of my acquaintance.”

“Lizzy! That is mean.” Mama took my arm. It was certainly not mannerly to say so, even if it were true.

“No, Fanny. You know that Elizabeth has the truth of it. Mr. Goulding, for all he is a good neighbour, is not a particularly handsome man. It was common knowledge that Mrs. Goulding, before she married, had set herself to fix Mr. Bennet—he had attended university with her brother. I believe she has always harboured a little resentment that you, Fanny, secured Bennet, leaving her to make do with Goulding. She never was a charming woman, and poor Mr. Goulding often suffers for it.”

Mama pursed her lips, unsure that her sister should talk of such things in my presence. “Oh, very well, Hattie. We should introduce Lizzy to the realities of society. There is much which is left unsaid, with little enough to amuse the ladies of Meryton apart from taking tea, embroidery, seeing their daughters married, and gossip.”

We continued our discussion, but nothing was resolved until Mr. Philips came in from his office, which adjoined the house, and we sat to supper. The Philipses always practised economy, and served a simple meal of cold meats, savoury pie, cheese, bread, and butter.

“I must say,” Mr. Philips remarked, “that I have never known such a flutter of bachelors in Meryton as there is this season. It is as if every unattached gentleman within twenty miles has decided that the society of our little town is all that is required to secure his happiness.”

I coloured and glanced at Mama, for we both suspected the cause of the sudden influx of single gentlemen.

“It is a peculiar thing,” Aunt Philips said, “and I cannot help but think it must be the novelty of the situation which draws them so. A widow with a comfortable jointure is, I suppose, a temptation too great for some men to resist.”

“Or a daughter with her mother’s wit and beauty,” Mr. Philips added.

“Oh, please don’t remind me,” I said. “Mr. Denny and Mr. Wickham cannot decide whether to seek my attention or that of Mrs. Bennet. Fortunately, Colonel Forster and Mr. Robinson find me a little too young and flighty.”

“And the gossip!” exclaimed Mama. “I am sure many of the townsfolk have a permanent eye set on Hathaway House’s door. No doubt, even the butcher’s boy entering through the kitchen would be remarked upon. I cannot imagine what they would talk about if we were gone for a while.”