Page 23 of The Gossip War
Darcy said, “I will send those copies to my aunt, a patroness of Almacs, The Times, and anywhere else that seems useful.”
Even Miss Bingley gulped at that. She, at least, could understand what was at stake. The Darcy’s would be mortifiedand humiliated, but it would be forgotten in a year or less, while the Bingleys would never be welcome in London again—something Lizzy would welcome, but Miss Bingley thought a fate worse than death.
Darcy said, “We obviously will no longer associate with you, but if you sign, leave Netherfield forever, refrain from any further compromise attempts, and never move against us—we will not cut you. We will mostly ignore you. I will even take over the lease of Netherfield.”
Miss Bingley said, “I, for one, will not sign.”
Darcy shrugged and rang a bell he had arranged on the side table when nobody was looking.
His valet, who was standing guard, opened the door instantly.
“Call for the express rider, Fletcher.”
“Easily done. He is but ten yards away.”
Miss Bingley turned white as a ghost, and her brother showed the first bit of sense I had yet to see.
“Let us not be hasty! Will you allow us to… confer?”
“Certainly.”
I could be magnanimous in victory, which was what this was starting to smell like.
Longbourn Drawing Room, 4 PM, Mrs Bennet
It was four o’clock when one of my husband’s little jokes went askew.
Under ordinary circumstances, I suppose I might have thrown a fit about the man withholding news of his cousin, Mr Collins’ visit, but that day I could not be bothered by such minor inconveniences. In the first place, I had a new son who abruptly ended all my fears of starving in the hedgerows, and in the second place, I was in too much suspense about what happened at Netherfield to bother with some clergyman.
Still, I imagine he did me a favour, little though he knew it at the time. I would have spent the previous fortnight fretting about the visit had I known, to no purpose whatsoever.
As it was, I had no attention to spare for the entirely superfluous heir, and it was not as if it were difficult to host one guest. Five words to Mrs Hill would suffice.
Mr Collins was an oddity. He was around five and twenty, tall, a bit rounder in the middle than one might hope in such a young man (especially given the latest addition to our family), and thinner in the hair than ideal. I realise it is unfair to compare Mr Collins to Mr Darcy, and to be honest, few men could compare favourably with my new son; especially when he unleashed that devastating smile that probably slew my cleverest daughter. We all have our limits!
Beyond all that, the man could talk! I doubt anyone ever boasted of my silence or meekness, but I felt quite out of my league with Mr Collins. He could talk… and talk… and talk. At first, I thought it unfair that I only gave him a tenth part of my attention; but it did not take long to see that was more than enough, since he said ten times as much as necessary.
After an hour of almost ceaseless chatter, I knew he had a decent living (earned quite early based on his age and apparentskills), had what was probably the most ordinary parsonage in the world, did the customary duties of a parson (which is, I suppose admirable since a lot of parsons took the living and delegated the work to some penniless curate), and had what sounded like the most overbearing patroness in Christendom.
Mr Collins made me wonder, for perhaps the first time, if that was how other people saw me; and I did not find the idea comforting. I resolved to ask Jane—no, not Jane. Despite her recent proclivity for mayhem, I would have to ask someone with both discernment and honesty. I thought my new son might be prevailed on to give an honest answer—or even Charlotte Lucas.
Through the fog of Mr Collin’ blather, it eventually became clear he had come to admire his future home, his future plate, his future lands, and his future wife.That I could not allow!No sister of Fitzwilliam Darcy would wed such a pathetic example of manhood.
That said, I thought it prudent to keep the bird in the bush near momentarily, in the unlikely case the bird in the hand went off, but not too nearby. The question was how to engage him without having to listen to his blather, and without him trying to pick out a future wife.
In the end, the solution was obvious. It had to be someone who could match his verbosity but would not excite any wild flights of romantic fancy. My two youngest daughters would just laugh at him and flounce off to Meryton or offend him. That left only one real choice for someone to occupy him without exciting matrimonial aspirations.
“Mr Collins, may I present my third daughter, Mary.”
They bowed, curtsied, and said five times the number of words needed for a simple introduction, and I became even more uncomfortable with the idea that I may have been like that. I remembered I tried to encourage the then formidable Mr Darcy to dance with Lizzy, and he had simply turned and walked away.
I supposed I would have to think about it, much as I despised deep thought.
“Mr Collins, I have some important household matters to attend to, not the least of which is ensuring the guest room is comfortable. Perhaps Mary can show you the garden.”
They both agreed the scheme, Mr Collins eagerly, and Mary resignedly. In the first week of December the garden was nothing much to look at, but I imagined they could argue over Fordyce or some such.
I got them out the door just in time for the rest of the party to arrive bearing the wonderful news that our troubles were over.
