“And Mary would preach him into a stupor, though perhaps a clergyman might enjoy that. Kitty and Lydia are too young.” Mrs. Bennet’s eyes fixed upon Elizabeth with sudden purpose. “It must be you.”
Elizabeth’s eyebrows rose. “I beg your pardon?”
“You heard me. If Mr. Collins means to choose one of my daughters, it must be you. You are the one practically running the estate already. It makes every sense. You know the tenants, the accounts, the repairs. If you married the heir, Longbourn would remain with us, and all this misery of the entail would be at an end.”
“If the man is as foolish in person as he appears in his letter, Mama, there is no possible way.”
“Foolish! What is foolishness compared to being mistress of Longbourn? You are always so determined to have your own way, Lizzy, but in this you shall do as you are told.”
“No,” Elizabeth said.
Mrs. Bennet pressed a hand to her chest. “No? No? There it is. Ungrateful daughters. Ungrateful, headstrong, selfish daughters! My nerves, my poor nerves, are never considered. I shall be turned out of my home, and you will all stand about moralizing while I am left to starve in the hedgerows.”
“You will not be turned out into a hedgerow, Mama.”
“How do you know? Are you mistress of fate now? You may laugh, but when your father dies, that odious man may cast us all out before the funeral meats are cold.”
“He is not yet here,” Jane said softly.
Every eye turned toward her.
Jane flushed, but continued with the gentle courage that so often succeeded where Elizabeth’s sharper truths failed. “We do not know what Mr. Collins is like. His letter is very formal, but perhaps he is better in person. He may be kind. He may truly wish to make amends. It would be better to wait until he arrives before deciding anything.”
Mrs. Bennet sniffed. “That is because you are an angel, Jane, and always think well of everybody.”
“I think we should be fair.”
Elizabeth gave her sister a look of disbelief. “You cannot be encouraging this.”
“I am only saying that you may come to care for him if he is kind.”
“I may also come to care for boiled turnips if forced to eat them long enough, but I should not choose them for dinner if there were any alternative.”
Kitty giggled. Lydia laughed outright. Mary frowned. Mrs. Bennet declared such levity cruel to her nerves.
Jane reached for Elizabeth’s hand. “Lizzy, promise only that you will give him a fair chance. Not that you will accept him. Only that you will not decide before he arrives.”
Elizabeth looked at her sister.
Jane was pale, tired, and still too warm about the eyes, yet she sat there pleading for peace because peace was the language in which she loved them all. Elizabeth wanted to refuse. She wanted to declare that no man who wrote such a letter could possibly hold her future in his hands. She wanted to be left alone with her work, her hurt, and the miserable certainty that Darcyhad already shown her how little gentlemen’s admiration was to be trusted when family and fortune entered the matter.
Instead, she sighed. “Very well. I promise to give him a fair chance.”
Mrs. Bennet immediately brightened. “There, Jane, you see? She can be reasonable when pressed. Oh, Hill! Hill must know at once. Lydia, do not sit there laughing. Kitty, stop coughing into the cushion. Mary, you may choose something improving to play after dinner when Mr. Collins arrives. Lizzy, you must look through the stores and see what we may serve.”
Elizabeth looked down at the stack of papers waiting beside her.
Of course she must.
By the time the household quieted that night, Elizabeth felt as though Netherfield belonged to another life. Jane was settled, Mrs. Bennet had exhausted herself with preparations, Lydia had speculated whether Mr. Collins might be old, ugly, or secretly handsome, and Mr. Bennet had not emerged from his study again. Elizabeth had reviewed the most urgent accounts, answered two notes, ordered linens for the guest room, and made a list for Cook that might satisfy both economy and Mrs. Bennet’s pride.
When at last she climbed into bed, her body ached with fatigue, but her mind would not rest.
Mr. Collins.
The heir to Longbourn.
A clergyman with an elaborate letter, a grand patroness, and perhaps an intention of choosing a Bennet daughter as his olive branch. The thought should have been ridiculous enough to laugh at. It would have been ridiculous a week ago.
