As promised, she was resolved to dine with her usurper, if for no other purpose than to exhibit her husband, whom she had fiercely instructed to say, wear, drink, and generallydowhatever was necessary to convince the world he was in the finest possible fettle, in absolutely no danger of dying for the next forty years at least.
Elizabeth’s youngest sisters, put out at being prevented by the weather from walking to Meryton to see the officers, lounged about the house lamenting their ennui. And the delivery of a letter for Jane just after two o’clock ruined any hope of the day being redeemed.
“Where is everybody?” Elizabeth said to Mary upon finding her alone in the parlour.
“Papa is in his library, Lydia and Kitty went upstairs, Mama is speaking to Cook, and Jane went to read her letter in private.”
“A letter? Do you know who it was from?”
Mary shook her head. “She did not say.”
Elizabeth thanked her and went directly to find Jane, confident that any privacy her sister sought would not exclude her. She found her already finished with the letter and turning the folded missive over and over in her hands.
“They are not coming back,” Jane said with a sad smile. “Miss Bingley writes that it is now certain they are all settled in London for the winter.”
Elizabeth’s heart sank. “May I read it?”
Jane handed the letter to her but shook her head as she did so. “You will not find any other meaning in it. They are spending all their time at Mr Darcy’s house, and although she has attempted to spare my feelings by not saying it directly, it is clear Miss Bingley wishes me to understand that Miss Darcy is now the focus of her brother’s attentions.”
Elizabeth sat down next to Jane and read the letter with mounting indignation. “There is nothing in here that convinces me these are anything other than Miss Bingley’s own wishes.”
“Have you read to the end? Mr Bingley sends his regrets for not having had time to pay his respects to his friends in Hertfordshire before he left the country. Those are not the wishes of his sister. He is his own master.”
“But Miss de Bourgh is?—”
“Here to see Charlotte. Please do not look for signs that are not there. I do not think I could withstand any more disappointment. Miss de Bourgh’s visit is unrelated to Mr Darcy or any of his friends, and I shall not torment myself by continuing to hope otherwise. I beg you would not, either.”
Elizabeth did not argue, for it looked increasingly certain that Jane was right, and Mr Bingley was not coming back. Refraining from argument was not the same as withholding her opinion of Miss Bingley, however, and she expressed her dislike with great energy. If her litany of complaints drowned the small and vastly disconcerting voice in her head that whispered,‘Mr Darcy is not returning, either,’then she did not have the least objection to allowing her censure to flow long.
4
“What a delightful observation,” Mr Collins simpered. “The plums are, as you say, glazed to perfection. But then, you are looking particularly radiant yourself this evening, madam. Your charms would outshine even the glossiest of fruits.”
This compliment, absurd—and inaccurate—though it was, might have been better received had it been paid to his betrothed. Instead, it was lavished upon Miss de Bourgh, in keeping with what appeared to be a well-established method.First, Mr Collins complimented her. Next, he complimented himself for having paid her such a pretty compliment. Then, he waited eagerly for some sign that his blandishments had pleased her.
He had so far been waiting three and a quarter hours, which was precisely how long it had been since the soiree began. Miss de Bourgh seemed neither diverted nor vexed and certainly not flattered by his ongoing panegyric. Her attention seemed to be elsewhere entirely, begging the question why she was there at all.
“You have spent your time wisely today, I see, Mr Collins,” said Mr Bennet. “Not only arranging an entire bank of subtle little compliments to please the ladies but taking the trouble to discover what delights were being planned for dinner so that all your praise would be perfectly apt. A day well spent, sir.”
Mr Collins thanked him. “I consider it an imperative part of my duties to be fully prepared to offer whatever encouragements I can that might afford comfort or pleasure.”
Mr Bennet gave a nod of appreciation. “I commend your commitment to your craft, sir.”
Charlotte’s youngest brother scoffed loudly. “Anybody can compare a person to food and call it a compliment. Watch this. Charlotte, you look like a cabbage.”
“Thank you, Timothy,” Charlotte replied drily, “though I do not think you have quite mastered Mr Collins’s finesse just yet.”
“Almost,” Mr Bennet mouthed to Elizabeth with a mischievous expression that nearly ruined her composure.
“Indeed. You look nothing like a cabbage, my dear,” Mr Collins objected, “except that your gown has a greenish shade to it. That is no bad thing, I should add. Miss de Bourgh often wears green and wears it well, too, for it enhances the colour of her eyes.” After casting her an unctuous and toothy smile, he glanced back to inform the rest of the dinner guests, “I take care to mention often that Miss de Bourgh’s indifferent health has, in no way, diminished the magnificence of her eyes and flatter myself that such reassurances are always gratefully received.” He stopped speaking and regarded Miss de Bourgh with all the patient adoration of a puppy.
Miss de Bourgh did not look up from her plate as she replied, coolly, “My eyes are blue, Mr Collins.”
Elizabeth barely stifled a laugh.
“Oh—ah—pardon me,” he stammered. “Perhaps I was thinking of your mother and assumed a family resemb?—”
“Her eyes are also blue.”
