She knew of young women who had married for fortune or for station. Charlotte, whom the world already called old, had not even been asked her opinion upon marrying Mr Collins. It struck Elizabeth as almost comic to imagine herself saying yes to Mr Clinton, merely that she might preside over a girls’ academy, which was, in truth, her secret dream. Could she renounce love itself to pursue another kind of happiness?
Alas, she had no one with whom to share such thoughts. In her new character of Mrs Collins, Charlotte was no longer the friend of her youth, and her advice had lost its value; too often it was shaped by Mr Collins’s way of thinking, which she seemed in great measure to have adopted. In other households, the ladies were known to moderate the decisions of their husbands. Yet after only two months at the Parsonage, Charlotte seemed wholly governed by her husband’s opinions, whose single object, both as a clergyman and a man, was to serve Lady Catherine. From such a confined view, Elizabeth could derive no counsel worth receiving.
∞∞∞
That same evening, they took leave of Mr Clinton, who again invited Elizabeth to visit his Academy, now with a particular insistence that astonished her; he even wished to learn where her uncle and aunt resided.
“I would gladly remain longer,” he declared, “but I have received a letter summoning me to the Academy upon some administrative matters... You can scarcely imagine how difficult it is to conduct such an establishment where the pupils are boarded.”
Elizabeth was sincerely sorry for his departure. He was, without doubt, the most engaging gentleman in that little society. With Colonel Fitzwilliam, she often walked and conversed pleasantly upon light and cheerful topics, while her meetings with Mr Darcy resembled only too well his morning visit to the Parsonage. Upon one occasion, they had spent nearly half an hour debating the meaning of near and far—Mr Darcy maintaining that Kent was close to London. At the same time, she contended that every distance above forty miles must be accounted great.
In the days that followed, she did all in her power to avoid Mr Darcy. When avoidance was impossible, she employed every contrivance to shorten their walks. If at first she had fancied that Mr Darcy admired her, she was at length convinced that he did not. How else could she explain the weariness that seemed to seize him whenever he beheld her?
Yet again, this was not a subject she could venture to discuss with Charlotte.
∞∞∞
When, after Mr Collins’s departure, Elizabeth made her reckon of the visit, she admitted that, upon the whole, the journey had not been disappointing. She had met persons of greater and lesser interest, yet the entire society of Rosings had been worth meeting, if only to learn that the wealthy and the titled were troubled by much the same concerns as the people of Meryton or Longbourn.
And if she had found many agreeable among them, even those such as Mr Darcy or Lady Catherine, who displayed a particular pride, might at length be accepted upon the notion that pride was but a failing like any other. Her mother gossipedwithout restraint, Lydia, not yet sixteen, flirted without shame, and their father was not adept at managing an estate. Thus, faults might be enumerated without end; nobody was perfect, and at last she ceased to demand perfection even of Mr Darcy.
She only regretted that he had grown so dull towards the close of her stay that she had been led to avoid him altogether. The true advantage of her visit had been, beyond question, her acquaintance with Mr Clinton. His last words had left her somewhat perplexed, for he had declared, with remarkable plainness, that he would seek her out, even should she not visit his Academy. There was something in the steadiness of his look, and in the resolution of his manner, that compelled her to consider seriously whether indeed she wished to meet him again.
She even thought of returning at once to Longbourn, that she might deprive him of the opportunity of seeing her, for she was uncertain how she might refuse his proposal of marriage...for of that, it could scarcely be doubted, he had been speaking. Yet she was still determined to wait for that true love they had always dreamt of with Jane.
Her departure was approaching with swift steps. In her last letter to her aunt, she requested the carriage which Mr Gardiner had promised to send for her. She had but a few days remaining, and believed that her visit would conclude without further event...but she was mistaken.
Chapter 7
Elizabeth rejoiced when, on the following morning, she encountered Colonel Fitzwilliam. She had seen him from a distance, and though she might have avoided him, she chose not to do so, for he remained the only gentleman with whom she could converse with ease. In a short time, they were jestingly lamenting whose condition was the harder—that of a younger son of an earl, without inheritance or title, or of a young woman without dowry.
“We are both, it seems, denied the indulgence of a great love leading to a happy marriage. An heiress for me, and an heir for you—such are our parallel destinies,” observed the colonel with playful humour.
“No, you are mistaken,” replied Elizabeth firmly. “I expect no heir.”
“And so? Will you marry one like myself, who must work for his livelihood, yet could not offer you the manner of life to which you are accustomed?”
“How do you know what my manner of life is?” she asked, smiling; though she was serious in thought and word, the atmosphere between them remained delightfully easy.
“How do I know? I look at you, at your elegant gown—”
“It is Jane’s. Nearly all I have worn since I came away was chosen by my sister, who packed my trunk herself, taking more from her own wardrobe than mine. Afterwards, I stopped with my aunt in London—”
“It is not the gown I meant, Miss Bennet, but the elegance no gown can bestow while reading Plato in peace! I would not grieve for my coats by Mr Steward of Bond Street, but I confess I should lament Mr Steward himself when he takes my measure—the shoemaker who tries on my boots, the daily visits to my club, the sandwich that only Everett knows how to prepare—”
“Why should you no longer go to your club?” she asked, genuinely puzzled.
“A subscription of twelve guineas a year is a trifle to a gentleman of fortune, yet ruinous to a poor colonel. And everything there costs—even a sandwich, let alone a glass of cognac or a bottle of good wine. I may contrive to afford something, but not all the little pleasures that make life pleasant. No, it is plain enough—I must have an heiress.”
“And I must have a lawyer or a vicar—”
“You say nothing of a colonel,” he interposed with a laugh.
“No, because the army sends you to every corner of the kingdom. I should like a home of my own...something settled.”
“But you might find an heir whom you could like.”
“What are the chances? I must be reasonable. The wealthy generally possess a kind of arrogance that offends me.”
