“And?” pressed Elizabeth, her impatience rising.
“And possible only there. In my father’s house, such notions could find no root—a circumstance you never perceived.”
“Perhaps.” A shadow crossed Elizabeth’s countenance.
“Not perhaps—assuredly. Tell me, how was it when Mr Collins came to your house?” Charlotte asked after a moment’s hesitation, blushing deeply, for they spoke now of the man who had been her husband these two months.
“My mother told him at once that Jane was betrothed—”
“And only then did he request your hand?”
Elizabeth regarded her friend, the truth settling upon her at last—that their relationship had fractured somewhere between Mr Collins’s proposal to her and his subsequent one to Charlotte. Since that time, they had spoken only of trifles.
“Yes, he did, and I refused him.” For an instant, she was tempted to confess that Mr Collins had attempted to kiss her, persuaded her refusal arose from modesty rather than sincerity, convinced she secretly desired to be his wife. Still, observing Charlotte’s downcast look, she was silent.
“You refused him, and your father was not offended; none compelled you to accept him.”
“No, it was wholly my own choice. And with you—how did it pass?” She already knew, for their discourse had led inevitably to this.
“He asked my father, and I was informed onlyafterwardsthat I was engaged.”
∞∞∞
Elizabeth passed the whole of that day in a joy whose reason she did not see until evening, when alone in her chamber. It was not the conversation with Charlotte that occasioned it; far from renewing their former intimacy, it had relatively fixed boundaries painful to acknowledge within so old a friendship. No, it was something else entirely; the revelation came as they ascended to their rooms, she, following immediately after Mrand Mrs Collins. With a father other than her own, she might have stood in Charlotte’s place. Though the thought, for a fleeting instant, brought her near to sickness, once alone in her chamber, the joy returned, illumined by gratitude for her family as it was.
She seated herself at her desk to write, allowing the emotion to overflow, and indeed she shed more than one tear of affection.
My dearest Papa,
I take advantage of being fifty miles distant from you to write what I should scarcely have dared to utter in your presence, particularly for fear of that sardonic smile which would, I am certain, have settled upon your countenance and silenced my courage to confess the present state of my heart.
I am happy, Papa, and at the same time deeply grateful. Glad that I did not marry Mr Collins, and thankful to you, who reared us in that rare liberty to determine our own destinies—liberty most uncommon in a world where marriage is often the sole conceivable fate of a gentlewoman. The gift which your education has bestowed upon us is, in this light, beyond estimation. I speak of all five of us—your delightful burdens, as you so affectionately name us—each receiving, in her own fashion yet with equal strength, that noble inheritance of freedom.
I begin with myself, for I am perhaps the most conscious of its value, not only in sentiment but in reason. The mere idea that I might remain unwed, should I not encounter a partner worthy of both affection and esteem, fills me with the most exhilarating contentment. Do not be anxious; I am confident I shall discover some respectable means of living, and even of enjoyment. I should dearly love to teach—to educate—not as a governess, but as a tutor, though such an office is not yet opento women. Who knows? Perhaps I shall invent it, or else turn to writing books; you have so often declared that I possess an eloquent pen.
Naturally, I continue with Jane, my gentle, radiant sister, who dreams only of love. I am certain she, too, cherishes the liberty to love, though it has brought her pain. That pain will pass, and she will rise stronger and more resolved in her pursuit of happiness. For her, I have no fear.
Next comes Mary—my sister who, with some refinement of manner and redirection of her self-assurance, might yet become a model of female learning.
Kitty is entirely under Lydia’s influence, a circumstance neither you nor I can commend; yet I hope that once Lydia marries—which I suspect shall not be long delayed, considering specific aspects of her conduct—Kitty will turn her attention to the example set by the rest of us. To be easily influenced may, in time, become a virtue.
And finally, our wild Lydia—often most unfit in conduct for one so young—is nevertheless full of mirth, possesses a lively understanding, and will, I am sure, find contentment in whatever path she chooses. Let us hope her impetuosity does not bring sorrow upon us all; yet, in the end, each of us will pursue her own way, according to her own choice.
Thank you, Papa
Lizzy
Having read it once more and being satisfied with the result, Elizabeth folded the letter with great care, well aware of her father’s fastidiousness regarding correspondence—not merely in style but in presentation—for in his eyes an ill-sealed letter was scarcely less offensive than an inelegant phrase.
Then she seated herself in the armchair by the window, her gaze fixed upon the distant view. A peculiar gladness stoleover her as she perceived that her prospect included Rosings. At once the thought of every other matter vanished, for the anticipation of meeting Mr Darcy seized her with a force she had not foreseen—a mingled throng of emotions among which a small mischievous pleasure assuredly held place. For, despite her promise to Charlotte, she knew that if provoked, she would reply—for such was her nature. Mr Darcy remained that singular being who roused in her not only intellect and knowledge but likewise wit and irony; for she knew no greater delight than to engage in combat within the realm of ideas, transformed by discourse into the elegant skirmish of society.
Chapter 2
Elizabeth waited with curiosity and a bit of interest for her meeting with Mr Darcy. She was satisfied that upon this occasion she might prepare herself for the encounter—ready to smile more, and to bury her sarcasm beneath sufficient layers, as only he would discern its true meaning. She delighted in being spirited and unaccountable, yet on this occasion she resolved to introduce only such subjects as engaged her own interest, and not to suffer the conversation to sink into the commonplace or the expected. All she required to prepare herself properly was a few solitary walks in the morning mist, gathering inspiration from the beauty of the neighbourhood and a resolution not to let him triumph in their debates.
Then, she was resolved, through a discourse conducted with the utmost delicacy, to discover what had passed in November, and why Mr Bingley had quitted Netherfield, leaving Jane in tears and despondency—at least insofar as Mr Darcy might be privy to the matter. For her father had often remarked that gentlemen were not accustomed to share their confidencesas freely as ladies. Yet, in some quiet recess of her mind, she nurtured the suspicion that the Miss Bingleys and Mrs Hurst had played a decisive role in their brother’s sudden departure, while Mr Darcy, even by his silence alone, had revealed his reservations concerning the society around Netherfield.
Elizabeth hoped that their meeting, taking place under different circumstances, would prove at least diverting, if not altogether enlightening. One matter alone had she failed to foresee: that Charlotte, ever apprehensive of Mr Darcy’s opinion, had, from anxiety, delayed informing her of his arrival until the very last moment.
