A Matchmaking Mother Read online

  A slight shrug was Mr. Wickham’s response, followed by a simple: “Much more than the son of a steward, I am certain you would agree. Had his son followed Mr. Darcy’s wishes, I should have risen to the position held by your father.”

  For some time after, Mr. Wickham regaled them with tales, his words taking him from the subject of Lady Anne, Miss Darcy, the goodness of the elder Mr. Darcy—whom he seemed to believe was the only member of the family who was worth his time—seasoned with stories of the current Mr. Darcy’s offenses against him. By the time they had been standing with him for five minutes, Elizabeth wished him far away. When salvation came in the form of her youngest sister begging him to join her, Elizabeth eagerly relinquished his company.

  “You did not inform me of Mr. Wickham’s interest in speaking of the Darcy family,” said Mrs. Gardiner to Elizabeth.

  “Mr. Wickham did not speak of anything other than the present Mr. Darcy previously,” replied Elizabeth. “I am as shocked as you.”

  “What has he said?” asked Mrs. Gardiner.

  Elizabeth spoke of her history with Mr. Wickham, including the first meeting and the reactions of Mr. Darcy and Mr. Wickham to each other, his subsequent communications, and the absence of the latter from the ball at Netherfield. Mrs. Gardiner listened, not speaking, and the longer Elizabeth spoke, the more forbidding her aunt’s demeanor became.

  “Lizzy,” said Mrs. Gardiner when Elizabeth had related all there was to tell, her tone chiding, “did it not occur to you to wonder why Mr. Wickham made such a communication to you within a day of making your acquaintance?”

  “It did not,” replied Elizabeth, “though, in retrospect, I do not know why.”

  Mrs. Gardiner regarded Elizabeth, her expression remaining severe. “The reason is clear to me. It seems to me your first meeting with Mr. Darcy colored your opinion of him. Furthermore, it is clear to me that Mr. Wickham recognized this and used your existing antipathy for the gentleman to play on your sympathies.”

  “But why would he do so?” asked Elizabeth, unable to keep a plaintive note from her voice.

  When Mrs. Gardiner gave her a significant look, Elizabeth colored, yet defended herself. “I am not in love with Mr. Wickham if that is what you are suggesting. In fact, I do not know him well at all. Since the ball, I have not seen him, nor did I miss his society. Kitty and Lydia have a much closer acquaintance with him.”

  “That is also a concern,” said Mrs. Gardiner, looking over to where Lydia was now dancing with Mr. Wickham. As she watched them, however, she noted that much of Mr. Wickham’s attention was to another side of the room, though Elizabeth was uncertain who or what he was watching. When she pointed this out to her aunt, Mrs. Gardiner nodded.

  “It may be that my concerns are for naught, but I shall speak to your uncle before we leave—perhaps he can persuade your father to watch your youngest sisters more closely than is his wont. Regardless, I urge you to consider what you know of Lady Anne and Miss Darcy, and contrast it with Mr. Wickham’s assertions. If the man is speaking untruths about Mr. Darcy’s mother and sister, can he be trusted when speaking of Mr. Darcy?”

  “You make a very good point, Aunt,” replied Elizabeth. “It is a matter I shall consider with great care.”

  “Good,” replied Mrs. Gardiner.

  Elizabeth was not in her aunt’s company much the rest of the evening, but her words were her constant attendant. Mr. Wickham approached Elizabeth on several occasions but sought more interesting partners when he found Elizabeth more reserved than she had ever been before. It did not seem to bother him—nothing appeared to bother the man. It was another mark against him.

  Chapter IV

  “Lizzy may go to London and stay at stuffy Mr. Darcy’s house. I shan’t envy her a jot, for I would much rather stay in Hertfordshire where I am the center of attention of all the officers.”

  For a change, Kitty did not respond to her sister’s boasting statement, though it was too much to ask that she had grown enough to ignore Lydia’s poor manners. To hope for such an improvement would have been foolish, and Kitty proved her continued lack of maturity by rolling her eyes and glaring at her sister.

  “It is fortunate you are not to go, then,” said Mr. Bennet from behind his morning newspaper. “Though we have given you leave to consider yourself out in Meryton society, in London you would be deemed too young.”

  Lydia scowled at her father’s reference to her still young age, but it was fortunate she said nothing, for Elizabeth did not know if she could avoid snapping in response. As they continued their meal, Elizabeth considered the two girls, giggling and carrying on as they always did. The feeling which had grown since Lydia had come out the year prior—and even before—was becoming ever stronger. Kitty and Lydia, if left unchecked, were on a path to ruin the Bennet family name.

  The question was, what to do about the situation. Mrs. Bennet would be no help, for she was not the best behaved herself and encouraged them in their antics. They did not listen to Mary, who, though much better behaved, was not one to provide an example regardless, and the two youngest Bennets ignored their eldest sisters’ admonishments—why should they listen when they had their mother’s support?

  That left Mr. Bennet as the only one who could affect their improvement. Elizabeth loved her father, had always esteemed him as an intelligent man, one whose affection for her had always counteracted Elizabeth’s more difficult relationship with her mother. Even so, Elizabeth was not blind to his faults, and the lack of guidance for the youngest girls and his wife was an oversight which had always caused her grief. But Elizabeth could not go to London without making the attempt.

  As always, Mr. Bennet listened to her concerns with more gravity than he would if it were any of her sisters. When she completed her recitation, of the evils of allowing the girls to continue unchecked, Mr. Bennet sat back and regarded her.

  “Yes, Lizzy, I understand your concerns, though I do not believe the danger as great as you suggest. None of these poor officers will risk their positions, and Lydia cannot be an object of prey, given her lack of a fortune.”

  “There are other ways for a girl to disgrace her family, Papa. I doubt any of these men would take Lydia, even if she had ten thousand pounds.”

  “You are hard on your sister, I think.”

  At Elizabeth’s severe look, her father shrugged and said: “I cannot say you are incorrect. Do not concern yourself, Elizabeth, for I shall attempt to limit the amount of damage your sisters can do to the family name.”

  And with that, Elizabeth was forced to be content, for it was the best she could do. She suspected her father considered the matter a joke. As there was little she could do, Elizabeth decided there was no reason to make herself unhappy, and instead focused her energies on her preparations for her own upcoming amusement.

  There was one more event of some import to occur before their departure, for late in January, Mr. Collins returned to Longbourn. Over the past several weeks, Elizabeth had attempted to determine where the gentleman’s interest in her had waned. What was certain was that it had happened at the ball, but try as she might, Elizabeth could remember nothing that might have happened to put him off. When she had exhausted her recollections, Elizabeth determined not to think on it. There was little to be gained in considering something which, in her estimation, was in her favor.

  Though Mr. Collins’s attentions to Mary were unabated, his first duty seemed to consist of speaking of his patroness. “Lady Catherine has, I assure you, heard of your invitation to London, and though she had some concern that you might have imposed upon her sister, I have reassured her, not only of your worthiness but of her sister’s immediate liking to you and subsequent invitation.”

  “That is a great relief, Mr. Collins,” said Elizabeth. The parson did not understand the dryness of her tone—though her father snorted in his attempt to refrain from laughing—and nodded in vigorous approval.

  “Therefore, as Lady Catherine and her daughter are
to attend events of the season, I am certain Lady Anne will introduce you to them. What an honor it shall be for you, my dear cousins, to be so favored by two daughters of an earl and their families. With these delights, your sojourn in town will not only be highly enjoyable, but I cannot help but think Lady Anne means to introduce you to men who might suit you. What credit you will be to your dear family should you return to Longbourn engaged!”

  Though Elizabeth was not at all certain of Mr. Collins’s speculations, there was little reason to debate the matter with him. Along with Jane, Elizabeth thanked him for his words and allowed him to turn his attention back to Mary. Then, within two days of his arrival, Mr. Collins proposed. The result, however, none of them could have predicted.

  One day in late January, Henry Bennet was enjoying a morning in his study. The earliest part of his day, he had focused his attention on the estate ledgers, a task he detested and had put off for far too long. As usual, he found upon doing the accounts that his wife had spent more of his income than he wished, necessitating another conversation with her about the need to practice economy. Bennet had little notion this time would be any different than the last, but he knew it must be done. But it did not follow that he needed to do it at once, and after a time bemoaning his wife’s lack of anything resembling restraint, the lure of his books called, and he yielded with little resistance.

  It was some time later when a knock sounded on his door, almost diffident, meaning it was neither Elizabeth—who was much more confident—nor his wife—whose knock sounded like a sledgehammer’s blow. Curious as to the identity of his visitor, Bennet set his book down and called out permission to enter. When Mary opened the door and stepped inside, Bennet looked on her with shock, for Mary did not often come into his room.

  “Yes, Mary?” asked Bennet when his quietest daughter paused in the open door. “May I help you?”

  This seemed to provoke Mary to action, for the girl stepped in and closed the door behind her. “Papa, may I have a moment of your time?”

  “Of course, Mary,” said Bennet, attempting a smile to set her at ease. It was a miserable failure as evidenced by the girl settling gingerly on a chair, her hands rested on its arms, and then clasped in her lap—though she did not wring them, Bennet thought it was a near thing. It was some few further minutes she sat there saying nothing. Mary not speaking was nothing unusual, but sitting in his study was, rendering the situation more curious by the minute.

  “Did you have something of which you wished to speak?” Bennet tried after a few more moments of this.

  “Mr. Collins proposed to me.”

  “Ah, then I will own I had some inkling of his intentions,” replied Mr. Bennet. Inside he laughed, though he was careful he did not show it to his daughter, for even if she wished to marry his foolish cousin, it was no surprise it would cause any woman to pause and consider what they were about to undertake.

  “Then have you come for my blessing?” asked Mr. Bennet. He fixed his daughter with a grin and added: “If so, this is quite unusual, for it is the suitor’s duty to approach the father for permission.”

  That his jest made no impression on Mary was no surprise, but her next words were beyond anything Bennet might have expected. “I do not wish to marry him, Papa.”

  Bennet gazed at her with unabashed astonishment. “Have I heard you correctly, child? Are you saying you do not wish to marry Mr. Collins?”

  Finally, Bennet saw a little spirit, for her gaze hardened, and she glared at him. “I am aware I am not the prettiest of my sisters, and I know my prospects are dim, but I would hope I have the right to expect more than a ridiculous twit for a husband.”

  “Nor did I say you do not,” said Bennet, suppressing a snort of laughter. “My surprise is not because I think you unable to attract the attention of any man other than Mr. Collins, but because you have not given the man any reason to doubt your acceptance.”

  “Should I have?” asked Mary. “If I had, how do you think Mama would have reacted? Since it was not certain he would propose, I saw no need to create an incident unless it was necessary to do so.”

  This time Bennet could not suppress the snort of laughter. “Yes, I can well understand your desire to avoid your mother’s paroxysms on the subject, though I cannot imagine we will be free of them now.”

  “Papa,” said Mary, her tone as serious as ever, “do you mean to make me accept him?” When Bennet paused in surprise, Mary continued, saying: “I have not given him a response, as I informed him I wished to think on the matter before answering. But I doubt we have long, for I suspect Mama will learn of the matter soon, and when she does, she will consider it a fait accompli unless I refuse him first.”

  Right on cue, a shriek sounded from somewhere further in the house, and given the clarity with which Bennet heard his wife’s outburst through the door, he suspected it must have been deafening. Ignoring that for the moment, Bennet studied his middle daughter, wondering how well he knew her. Mary took his silence as a prompt to speak again.

  “I hope you do not make me marry him, Papa, though I shall do so if you require it of me. He is a silly man, with little but his patroness on his mind and entirely too much deference for her opinions. His knowledge of the Bible is sketchy at best, he does not often bathe or wash his hair, and I am certain his attachment to me is imaginary, for all he claims a deep and abiding affection.”

  “Mary,” said Bennet, when he could finally speak over her torrent of words, “why do you think I will force you to marry Mr. Collins?”

  “The entail,” his daughter said without elaboration.

  “The entail is what it is. I would not have forced your sister to marry him if he proposed—why should I force you?”

  “Lizzy is your favorite,” argued Mary, a statement of fact rather than an accusation.

  Bennet smiled, amused the girl was finding reasons for him to insist on her marrying his cousin. “I would not insist on any of you marrying where you do not wish. Surely you have seen the state of my marriage with your mother.”

  It seemed to Bennet that Mary relaxed ever so slightly, again causing him much amusement. But it was sobering at the same time, for this neglected and overlooked daughter had declared herself willing to sacrifice her future for the family if he required it of her. Bennet did not think Elizabeth would have been so selfless as this.

  “Then you will not make me marry him.”

  “No, child,” said Bennet. “I will not. Whatever you decide, I will support you.” Bennet paused and grinned. “Your mother will make a fuss about it, but I am prepared to endure her reproaches. I hope you are similarly resolute.”

  Mary shook her head. “Why you think Mama’s displeasure would affect me, I cannot say. When has she ever paid me the slightest hint of attention? I am sure she will lament my refusal and return to it over the coming months, but I shall soon be out of her thoughts, as I ever am.”

  The matter of fact words shamed Bennet, for he realized that he was no better than his wife. Kitty was more noticeable than her elder sister, for she attempted to follow Lydia to gain some of the praise her mother lavished on her youngest, but Mary almost never drew attention to herself. She truly was the forgotten Bennet.

  The sounds of his wife approaching his sanctum reached Bennet’s ears, and he knew he must speak quickly, for he doubted she would remember to knock, though he had instructed her many times over the years. To her credit, Mary did not look concerned in the slightest at the coming confrontation.

  “Very well, Mary. I shall speak to your mother and Mr. Collins on the matter, for I know it will be a trial for you. However, if you will . . .” Bennet paused, uncertain how to say what he wished. In the end, he decided it was best to come out with it. “If you are interested, Mary, I should like to discuss . . . whatever it is you are reading at present. I only ask you to leave Fordyce out of it.”

  Surprised though she was, Mary soon recovered and nodded, favoring him with a shy smile. “I believe I should li
ke that too, Papa.”

  True to form, the door swung open in that instant, and Mrs. Bennet rushed into the room, her countenance alive with excitement, mixed with puzzlement. “Mr. Bennet, do you know what has happened in our house this morning? Mr. Collins has proposed to our middle daughter. We are saved!”

  “If you had allowed me to speak,” said Bennet as Mary slipped from the room, as always unnoticed by her mother, “I would have told you I have, indeed, heard this news. There is, however, the necessary conversation Mr. Collins must have with me, and I should be very much obliged if you would call him in and leave us in peace.”

  Mrs. Bennet responded with a vigorous nod and an excited: “Of course! I would not keep you from it, Mr. Bennet!”

  Then she darted from the room, exclaiming as to the family’s good fortune and calling for Mr. Collins all at once. Bennet grimaced, not at all eager for the coming discussion with his dullard of a cousin. He had no notion Collins would understand why he was being refused and suspected it would offend him.

  “Come in and close the door, Cousin,” said Bennet when the man himself appeared. Mr. Collins complied and entered, lowering his heavyset frame into one of the chairs in front of Bennet’s desk, causing an alarming creak. Bennet made a mental note to have those chairs replaced before turning his attention to Mr. Collins, who regarded him with a beatific smile as he wallowed in his imaginary regard for Bennet’s middle daughter.

  “I have spoken to Mary, Mr. Collins,” said Bennet, “and she has informed me you have made her an offer.”

  “I have, and I cannot be happier that this matter has been resolved in a satisfactory fashion for all. As you know, it was the particular advice of my patroness, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, who told me to seek a bride from among your daughters with alacrity. And while I thought to act when last I came, there arose matters . . . Well, let us simply say I cannot be more satisfied with today’s events, for I shall obtain my happiness, while this olive branch will strengthen the ties between our families.”