As everyone tended to their work, Elizabeth remembered her mother. Papa often lamented that she had not lived to see the estate, but Mama had always seemed so happy with her life as the wife of a general, even a lieutenant general. The men had adored her, and she loved being loved. She had brought colour and beauty to what was at its heart an ugly enterprise, and Elizabeth realised that it must be this, as much as the food she served and the compassionate care she offered that had made her mother so beloved. She and Mama may never have seen eye to eye, but the older Elizabeth became, the easier it was to forgive her less admirable qualities and respect the good ones.
Would Mama have wanted Jane to marry Mr. Collins? She doubted it. Mama was fond of saying that Jane was too beautiful to throw away on anyone less than a colonel. She might have expected Lizzy to marry him, though, to keep the estate in the family and provide for her sisters, though if Papa opposed her, Mama would have given way. It was difficult to know, but Elizabeth determined that since her mother was gone, there was no point in believing anything but the best of her.
Darcy’s head hurt.Watching Mr. Collins ride a horse was painful. Watching Mr. Collins try to walk after having ridden a horse was worse.
True to his word, Bennet had shown his distant relation the estate. A great deal of the estate, which meant that much of the tour was conducted in darkness as the day grew later, with Bennet offering discourse on it all as though they could see everything.
“I must say,” Bennet grumbled, “either the man is too stupid or too stubborn to complain, but he did complete the ride without falling off his horse. I suppose I must put him up for the night.”
“Lofty expectations indeed,” Fitzwilliam said.
“You could still send him to the inn,” Darcy said, rather hoping that Bennet would.
The older man sighed. “I wish I could, lad. No matter how ridiculous he is, the man is indeed my heir presumptive and a distant relative. If I turn him away, there would be talk.”
Fitzwilliam joined them after he handed his mount off to a groomsman. They all three observed Collins waddle painfully towards the house.
“What amazes me,” Fitzwilliam said, “is that he has never once asked your name, Bennet. He does not have a curious bent, does he?”
“He has decided I must be the steward, and therefore has not bothered to inquire further,” Bennet said. “Poor Mr. Gilbert. He is a far better steward than I will ever be.” He sighed. “I do not have the lifelong connection to Longbourn that my cousin had, but I have grown fond of it here. Many families depend upon the good financial standing of the estate, so I must take this opportunity to evaluate his abilities and his character.”
Fitzwilliam rubbed the back of his neck. “I do not envy you the task.”
“Your best chance for Longbourn’s solvency is to outlive the man,” Darcy grumbled.
“You know, Bennet,” Fitzwilliam said thoughtfully, as Mr. Collins disappeared inside, “you might find yourself a smart younger woman to wed and produce an heir of your own. It must surely be easier than teaching that man all he will need to know.”
“There is no guarantee any child would not be another daughter,” Bennet said quietly, “and I am not a young man.”
Fitzwilliam nodded, and he and Bennet struck out for the house.
It was interesting, Darcy thought, that Bennet had not simply rejected the idea out of hand.
Because there had been no message about Lydia and Kitty remaining above stairs, Elizabeth was surprised to see Mr. Collins at the dinner table. She had believed her father would send the man packing, but then, Papa was anything but predictable. She bobbed a shallow curtsy when it was her turn to be introduced.
Mr. Collins was nothing less than flabbergasted by an introduction to her father. It confused her, for had they not just spent several hours together? The man’s face was the colour of a ripe strawberry, and he did not seem to be able to catch his breath. For a moment, Elizabeth was concerned that Mr. Collins might truly be ill.
“Youare Mr. Bennet?” Mr. Collins sputtered. “You told me you were the steward!”
Elizabeth felt her temper rising. Was this man calling her father a liar? In his own house, at his own table?
“I never told you I was the steward, Mr. Collins,” Papa said, his voice calm. “I simply did not correct your erroneous assumption.”
“What possible reason could you have to do such an unmannerly thing?” the parson asked, aghast.
Elizabeth was slightly mollified to see both Mr. Darcy and Mr. Fitzwilliam press their lips together to prevent saying anything. They were as incensed as she.
“To teach you not to assume, Mr. Collins,” Papa told the infuriating man. “It is as simple as that. If you are to be master of an estate one day, making assumptions about the state of your accounts or the loyalty of the people around you could be a grave error.” Papa nodded at Jane, who signalled the servants to serve the soup. “I could go over the entire list of the assumptions you have made from the first of your letters, but I hope you will agree that it is something best done in private. Darcy, Fitzwilliam, would you mind joining my daughters tonight after the meal so that Mr. Collins and I may have that conversation?”
“Of course, Bennet,” Darcy said, and Fitzwilliam agreed.
Elizabeth did not always understand why her father behaved how he did, but he always had a reason. Here, he had allowed Mr. Collins to hoist himself with his own petard.
The soup came, and as they were served, Elizabeth caught Lydia’s eye from her position at the other end of the table. She lifted an eyebrow when she thought no one was marking her. Lydia’s eyes widened dramatically in reply. Then they returned to their soup as though nothing had passed between them.
Lydia’s horror at meeting Mr. Collins had been comical. The poor girl had half convinced herself that the man was not as bad as her sisters had painted him, but meeting him had destroyed any such illusions.
That was nothing to what came next. Elizabeth had only just lifted her first spoonful when she was interrupted by a terrible sound.