Section I, Next Section
Part One: A Clergyman’s Passion
Posted on Wednesday, 6 April 2005
Few people know that Mr. William Collins had a talent. It was not the ability to deliver a stirring sermon or write a religious treatise. He could offer no new insight into the holy texts, nor could he suggest remedies for the hardships of his parishioners. The talent that he possessed was in no way relevant to his profession.
Mr. Collins was an artist.
He had never received formal training. He remained ignorant of most great masters and their works. To the best of his knowledge, the Sistine Chapel was somewhere north of Lyme, and had you asked him about Da Vinci’s Last Supper, he would have told you that he knows very little of Italian cuisine. He never traveled abroad and had seen the ocean only twice in his life; London, with its numerous cultural attractions, never enticed him away from the countryside.
Mr. Collins discovered his talent on his seventh birthday, when a plump ewe had wandered out of a neighboring field to the garden behind his parents’ house. Something about the beast, grazing peacefully in the shadow of his father’s favorite elm, had compelled Mr. Collins to commit the scene to posterity. For the entire morning he sketched the ewe from different angles, capturing its stiff legs, ragged wool, and guileless eyes. When his parents saw the sketches, they were astonished; after a brief discussion, they decided to set aside a monthly allowance for paints, brushes and other tools of the artist’s trade. Not that they seriously considered the idea of their son pursuing art as a profession. They were merely moved by the simple pleasure his gift gave him, and wished to see how he would develop it on his own.
Lest you suppose that he reverted to painting with his fingers, let me tell you that his talent remained indisputable. What took another painter a fortnight to create, Mr. Collins could coax to life in less than two days. Whereas other artists had to plan ahead, anticipating error, the clergyman could cover the canvas reflexively. He never agonized over his interpretation of a given subject; often he had none. One could have likened him to a looking glass, reflecting what he saw without grasping its meaning or significance. There were only a few circumstances where his personal beliefs, shaped largely by his obsequiousness, influenced his art. Whenever Lady Catherine De Bourgh sat for a spell of sketching, her wrinkles, as if by magic, melted away. Her daughter, Anne De Bourgh, blossomed in his watercolors, the hue of poppies shining from her cheeks.
Lady Catherine can be credited for introducing Mr. Collins to miniatures. She took delight in small paintings; scattered round her home were small-scale depictions of country life and exquisitely detailed portraits of England’s finest faces, her own among them. She was impressed by Mr. Collins’s ability to produce these tiny treasures. Painting a miniature is ordinarily a pain-staking labor, yet he rendered them quickly and without any discernible flaws. He gobbled up the ivory she gave him, casting his luminous layers of watercolor on each fragile piece.
Though he granted her possession of almost all the miniatures he created, there was one he kept for himself, mounting it on a brooch that he affixed to the inner folds of his coat. It was a painting of Lady Catherine’s right eye.
Eye miniatures were popular in those days. The fashion, it was thought, arose when Prince George and his bride, Mrs. Fitzherbert, exchanged rings on which miniatures of their eyes had been mounted. Many lovers, particularly of the covert kind, delighted in receiving an eye miniature from their beloved. It was intimate and anonymous, and could be kept close to one’s body on the end of a chain or as a brooch. However, the enthusiasm for eye miniatures was not confined to amorous relationships. Friends exchanged them on a sentimental whim, and mourners used them to preserve the glance of an eye that would be forever shut; one could identify a mourning brooch from its black enamel frame and symbolic seed pearls, which resembled tears.
Mr. Collins wore Lady Catherine’s eye on his clothing because he esteemed her more highly than he did anyone else. He delighted in secretly plucking it out of his coat and meeting its stern gray glare; it was as if she was always with him, her presence at once humbling and thrilling. When Lady Catherine discovered him one morning during a secret communion with her eye, she was torn between delight and unease. “Mr. Collins,” she decreed, “you must find yourself a wife. At once!”
And so it was that Mr. Collins began his search for a wife.
For a while he made no progress; there was a shortage of suitable ladies in the vicinity, and Lady Catherine often dismissed the eligible ones as too silly or vain. Two full months passed in futile search, until Mr. Collins almost despaired. But his prayers were answered late one Saturday night, when he was in the middle of composing a sermon on reconciliation. Having spent the entire day painting, he was too tired to mine the Bible for cogent examples and turned instead to his own life. What occurred to him then, in a revelation so astonishing he deemed it divinely sent, was that he was the heir to a modest estate called Longbourn, and that some years ago there had been a falling out between his late father and Longbourn’s current master – his cousin, Mr. Bennet.
Who happened to have five daughters.
“Sir, you are a genius!” he cried, standing up so quickly that he knocked over his chair. He spent the remainder of the evening crafting a letter to his estranged cousin, and as he gave wind to his eloquence, he thought of how fine a husband he would make for one of those girls. He had a respectable living, a comfortable home, a patroness who condescended to meddle in his everyday affairs. He knew, from his private forays into art, that he could be passionate to a degree that would shock anyone acquainted with him, Lady Catherine included. And there was one secret pertaining to his person that would titillate even the most cold-blooded matron, and would certainly delight the lady fortunate enough to call herself his wife.
Mr. Collins brushed his fingers through his mat of brown hair and signed the letter with a flourish. Though his sermon the following day proved more aimless than usual, it was a small price to pay for the overture he had made to Mr. Bennet. A reply to his letter came later than he expected, but was amenable to his intentions; before he knew it, he was off to Longbourn, bearing with him the tools of his art and two earfuls of advice from Lady Catherine.
Along the way he constructed several clever compliments that he planned to employ on his cousins. “You speak the way a lamb bleats,” he rehearsed, “gentle and meek. The moon lives in the whiteness of your eyes. I could trek twenty miles and not encounter a comelier lass. When I am near you, my heart is as the bullfrog who swells to bursting.”
Armed with his pretty words, Mr. Collins disembarked at Longbourn’s door, where at the vestibule he was met by the five ladies. Such an enchanting picture they made – gleaming hair, delicate lips, bodies posing in lovely contrapposto. His eyes roamed over their attire, over the capricious dips and swells, straight falling lines and subtle curves. When the butler finally deposited him in his room, he collapsed onto the bed and sighed his gratitude to the Lord.
Preparations for dinner required particular care. He arranged his hair just so, scrubbed his face to a ripe shade of red, and strutted several times before the mirror to confirm that his step was at its graceful best. At dinner, he acquitted himself with sense and wit, no small feat given his distraction. He was seated opposite the eldest and fairest of the daughters – Jane, whose beauty and demure airs drew his mind from the conversation. What stirred him most deeply was her hair – flax, filigree, he knew not what to call it, but had an inkling of how it would feel running through his fingers. Peering at her golden head over the rim of his glass, he felt that it was destiny that had placed him in her path.
At times Mr. Collins thought he heard snickering from other quarters of the table, but attributed it to the wind rustling the trees by the window. By the time the meal tapered off, Mr. Collins had memorized Jane’s face, particularly the expression of her eyes. He did not quite understand what her look meant – it was placid and laced with something that suggested shyness or hesitance. He failed to recognize it as mild alarm and read her look as further evidence of a chaste and self-effacing nature that would suit a clergyman’s wife.
That night Mr. Collins produced a small box from his trunk. Within were three blank pieces of ivory; each had already been cut into an oval and mounted onto a brooch. Two brooches were made of fine gold chased with coiling vines and tiny flowers; the third, made of silver, was plain and smooth. Just prior to his journey, he had purchased all three with gift money from Lady Catherine, and he intended to use them while courting his future bride. On one of the gold brooches he planned to paint the eye of his beloved and present it to her during his proposal. Once the engagement was formalized, he would paint his own eye on the other gold brooch and give it to her as a gift that she would wear upon her dress as an expression of devotion. And lastly, the silver brooch would bear a portrait of both him and his bride, their tiny faces side by side; it would be a perfect gift for the wedding night, offered on the heels of consummation.
No other artist would have affixed blank ivory to the brooches; it was unheard of. Ivory was a vulnerable material, prone to cracking, and until the painting was finished no miniaturist would have mounted it, especially not on such high quality ornaments. Mr. Collins, however, was thoroughly assured of his abilities. It was with complete confidence that he began to carry out the little rituals that always preceded a lengthy painting session.
First he stripped to the waist, discarding his garments in a sticky pile at the foot of the bed. After splashing himself with scented water, he knelt before the mirror and stretched his ropy arms above his head. He gyrated for a few minutes, his upper body moving in shallow circles. Once his muscles were loosened, he lowered himself onto his bottom and spread his legs into a V. It was difficult for him to touch his toes on either side, but he leaned over as far as he could, grimacing with the strain. When his legs had had enough, he pulled in his feet and sat cross-legged. His breathing grew deep and even, and soothing imagery flitted through his head – grazing sheep, Anne De Bourgh nodding off in the barouche box, Jane Bennet bent over her needlework. In a short while even those images faded, until his mind was blank as the ivory. Tranquil, relaxed, he rose to his feet and proceeded with the last, and most important, ritual – the removal of his wig.
The brown, oily mop that sat atop Mr. Collins’s head was not his real hair, but with the exception of those who had been acquainted with him before his seminary days, no one knew this. After the death of his parents he had allowed his real hair to grow long and wore it loose only when he painted or went to bed. He supposed that he could keep his wig in better condition, but caring for his real hair was work enough.
Slowly he removed each pin that kept the wig down. The wig’s displacement revealed straight, fair hair, tied in a knot halfway up his head. With a few dexterous jerks of his fingers it came undone, spilling in golden waves down his back. He toyed with it for a few minutes – running it round his wrists and fanning it over his chest. Why had he let it grow? And why was the secret so delightful to him? Perhaps he had realized, to some degree of awareness, that everyone needs a personal space, carved out of life and kept private. So many of his hours were spent attending to the whims and fancies of other people that his soul might have demanded this secret. The sight of his hair also helped him marshal the strength that he needed to paint for a long time; were he more apt at alluding to the Bible, he would have said that it made him feel like Samson.
Painting a miniature requires sitting for long periods of time with a hunched back, squinted eyes and carefully flexed fingers. Most artists need to regularly break from their work, even up to a day, just to ease the intense strain. Not Mr. Collins. He was able to assume a terrible posture for hours at a time, the fixity of his purpose overriding all physical considerations. As a result, his tall frame had been molded in ways unappealing to the fairer sex; his neck had a tendency to jut forward, and his wide shoulders were stooped. How fortunate he was to possess such lustrous hair, a true gift he could give to his wife. But if she were to know of his secret, she would have to be discreet and respectful of his privacy. Jane possessed those necessary qualities. The image of her, from golden head to dainty foot, spurred Mr. Collins to work.
He labored through the night, resting only when a layer of paint needed to dry. Though by the following morning he was not finished, his progress pleased him; he was convinced that within two days he would have the eye ready for his proposal. With a smile he threw open the window and leaned out to savor the cool air.
As chance would have it, Jane was taking a turn in the garden below, accompanied by one of her sisters. Sighing with pleasure, Mr. Collins prayed that she would turn and glance up at him. “Look at me,” he whispered. “Turn your eyes aloft and gaze upon your destiny.” When Jane’s head did not move, he called out impatiently, “Good morning, dear cousins!”
Both Jane and her sister – Elizabeth, as it turned out – spun sharply and stared. Mr. Collins offered them a delicate wave. After a long pause, both their arms went up halfway in response.
“My, but they seem lethargic,” he murmured. A moment too late he realized why. With a low yelp, he threw an arm across his naked chest and yanked the curtain shut.
The ladies glanced at one another. “I must still be half-asleep,” said Elizabeth, “because I thought I saw… I can barely believe it, but I think I saw…” She broke off into a giggle.
“Perhaps it was too warm in his room,” Jane quickly replied. “And wearing a nightshirt must have been…” She pressed a hand to her mouth and blushed.
“Oh, I was not referring to the absent nightshirt. Did you notice his hair?”
Jane looked puzzled. “What of it?”
“It must have been a trick of the light, but I thought it looked very much like yours.”
“Lizzy!” Jane’s smile was incredulous. “How can you say such a thing?”
Elizabeth tugged her sister behind a nearby tree and gave her laughter freer reign. “At times,” she said, catching her breath, “I believe I am as silly as Lydia or Kitty.”
Jane shook her head indulgently. “I know that Mr. Collins might not be the most… appealing man, particularly for a lady of your disposition, but I am certain he is not all bad. There must be a match for him somewhere.”
“If it were in his power alone, I believe he would choose you.”
Jane paled. “How can you know, after one evening?”
“It was apparent to everyone in the room! Oh, Jane… you had better hope that Mr. Bingley comes to your rescue, and soon.”
The mention of that gentleman brought a glimmer to Jane’s eyes. With a conspiratorial smile, Elizabeth whispered, “He admires you so openly; his devotion is plain to see. Though his family and Mr. Darcy may look down at us in disapproval, Mr. Bingley is nothing short of attentive to you and kind to your less desirable sisters.”
Jane bit her lip. “Lizzy, I have perceived no great haughtiness or superior airs in Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst. At least to me they have always been good.”
“Polite, I should say. Perhaps they see how strong their brother’s ardor is and do not wish to offend him by slighting his beloved.”
A blush that Mr. Collins would have compared to primroses spread over Jane’s cheeks. “I do hope that those are his feelings. But I should not presume…”
“You should. He shall declare himself as soon as may be, and if he does not, he must be duller than either one of us suspected.” Met with Jane’s smiling indignation, she added, “But until he does propose, I suggest that you enjoy the delicate flattery of your other admirer; at least you can have no doubts about the quality of his mind.”
Later that morning Mr. Collins was exceedingly attentive during breakfast, asking Jane if she needed more butter to slather on her buns or whether she desired another slice of toast to nibble on. “And would you like more milk?” he murmured. “It is the color of your moon-white teeth…”
Lydia, the youngest and most ill-mannered of the sisters, groaned at least ten times within the span of as many minutes. Elizabeth, on the other hand, was in constant danger of inhaling her food. Mr. Collins also drew Mrs. Bennet’s attention. Never a simpleton in matters of marriage, she realized that she would have to discourage the clergyman from pursuing her loveliest daughter. In Mrs. Bennet’s mind, Jane was as good as married to Mr. Bingley, and while Mr. Collins was by no means a bad match, he would be better suited for one of her other daughters – Mary, perhaps, or Elizabeth.
She meant to speak with Mr. Collins after breakfast, but at the end of the meal he sincerely, sorrowfully, and regretfully requested their pardon, claiming some urgent business that required his attention. He begged their leave over and over again, bowing and bowing and bobbing his head, until Mr. Bennet gave him one final blessing and urged him to depart. Pleased that he had displayed the utmost politeness, Mr. Collins shut himself in his room and resumed work on the eye.
He labored for much of the day and for most of the night, and discreetly caught up on his sleep in church the following morning. During the sermon he closed his eyes and appeared to all the world as one who was lost in serene reflection; Longbourn’s chapel, he later declared, had unusually comfortable pews. It was only that evening in the drawing room that he learned that his efforts amounted to naught. After going around the room admiring each lady’s needlework – Jane’s in particular – he was taken aside by Mrs. Bennet and told in no uncertain terms that Jane was due to form an engagement with a local gentleman.
The ensuing heartbreak was not as acute as one would have suspected it to be, given his private thoughts and public professions. He was upset at the news, but managed to bear it with equanimity; though he felt a sharp pang at the thought of never laying his hands on her hair, what bothered him more than the lost intimacy was the fact that he had wasted a perfectly good piece of ivory, mounted on a splendid brooch. The eye was nearly completed; all that remained for him to do was to add a touch of color here and there, and then mount the thin protective glass over the painting.
He deliberated the change in his circumstances for the remainder of the evening and was at a loss for what to do, until Mrs. Bennet announced that tomorrow might be a fine day for a walk to Meryton. Mr. Collins brightened instantly. The idea dawned on him that he might sell his miniature to one of the local shops and earn, if not a wife, some money for his labor.
Part Two: The Maddening Eye
Posted on Saturday, 9 April 2005
The following morning did prove exceptionally fine, and Mr. Collins – eye tucked securely in his pocket – strolled to the small town with all of his cousins. As their journey progressed, he fell increasingly in step with Elizabeth. Second to Jane she was the prettiest sister, and earlier at breakfast he had perceived a lively spirit in her. Perhaps that was what he needed after all – a girl with a fiery soul to match his own passions for painting and life. Provided that her wit was amenable to curbing by either himself or his patroness, she might be the most suitable wife for a clergyman with an artistic gift.
As the group navigated the narrow country lanes, Mr. Collins attached himself to Elizabeth’s side. Her profile was charming, he decided. And her lips were making all kinds of delightful contortions. True, her hair was a bit blowsy for his taste, but as her husband he would show her how to bind it properly. Only her eyes troubled him; he was uncertain of how to define them. They shifted, sparkled, pierced and probed, never settling in one fixed state. With a pang of unease, he realized that it would be difficult to capture them in paint.
These uncomfortable thoughts, coupled with the unseasonably warm weather, made his head perspire. “The sun is spell-binding today, is it not?” he remarked, attempting to regain his composure.
Half of Elizabeth’s mouth soared up. “It looks to be the same sun that shines every day, Mr. Collins.”
He managed a polite laugh, even as the heat provoked an itch beneath his wig. “I did not suggest otherwise, dear cousin. I was merely commenting upon how surprisingly warm it is today, quite unexpected considering that we are in the month of November.” He scratched under his hat. “But you are perfectly right. Lest some accident befell the cosmos overnight, it is indeed the same sun.”
“Your reassurance puts my mind at ease,” she replied.
His hand fell from his hair to his lips. “It does my heart well, Miss Elizabeth, to know that you have found comfort in my words.”
Her head whipped sharply to stare at him. Seizing the moment, he gazed deeply into her eyes, attempting to name their expression. Alas, she turned away before he could find his answer.
A silence fell between them, and he noticed that she was increasing her pace. His breath came in quick puffs as he struggled to remain at her side. “Do you walk often to Meryton?” he inquired.
“Yes,” came the abrupt response.
“Indeed,” he sighed, scratching his head again, “in such lovely weather one can hardly resist the exercise.” When she did not reply, he added, “I believe, Miss Elizabeth, that you would love the woods at Rosings Park. There would be a great many paths for you to explore.”
“I have yet to explore all the paths in these parts.”
“Ah, but in Rosings Park there is a most felicitous mixture of light and shade, the colors in exquisite juxtaposition to one another. Truly, the Lord’s palette is most apparent there.”
Elizabeth frowned. “You speak like an artist,” she remarked, daring to look at him again.
He nearly gasped at her cleverness. “You will find that there is a great deal about me that you do not know,” he whispered, peering meaningfully at her face.
Her pace quickened even more. After a long pause she said, “In certain circumstances, Mr. Collins, a little knowledge goes a long way.” And with that, they arrived at Meryton.
After several vague and apologetic remarks regarding his business, Mr. Collins parted from his cousins in search of a shop that would purchase his brooch. He soon encountered a cluttered old bookshop that also sold objects d’art. The owner, a grim old man, wasn’t eager to part from his money but was eventually persuaded by Mr. Collins of the miniature’s incomparable quality. The transaction was completed, and Mr. Collins, pleased with his tidy sum, left the shop with a jaunty step.
His cheer faded when he spotted his cousins at the edge of Meryton’s main road, laughing with a pair of officers. A pang of alarm and remorse afflicted his heart; in pursuit of money, he had abandoned his fair relations to the vagaries of the street, where they could be accosted by anybody of uncertain repute. Mr. Collins was about to amend his slight and join them when two gentlemen on horseback trotted down the road in his direction. Never one to intersect the path of those who hailed from a higher rank, he remained deferentially at the side of the road and waited for them to pass.
To his surprise, they steered their mounts to where his cousins stood. Nipped by curiosity, Mr. Collins drew near but hardly had a chance to make out any conversation before the gentlemen were off, one of them wearing a decidedly dark expression. Mr. Collins stared after their receding figures and was recalled to his surroundings only when Jane cleared her throat and introduced him to Captains Wickham and Denny.
It was not long before Mr. Collins developed a dislike of Mr. Wickham… namely the way in which Mr. Wickham stared at Elizabeth. In a grave, authoritative voice he said, “My dear cousins, your Aunt Philips awaits your company, and having heard so much of her from your esteemed mother, I must profess a certain impatience to meet her.”
His distractive ploy only half-worked, for the captains insisted on escorting the ladies to their aunt’s house. Disturbed at the warmth in Elizabeth’s farewell to Wickham, Mr. Collins strove doubly hard to impress her; he spent the remainder of the afternoon regaling his cousins and their delightfully attentive aunt with his witty wordplay and erudite opinions.
The following evening, Mr. Collins once again enjoyed the pleasure of Mrs. Philips’s company, but his efforts to gain Elizabeth’s attention – and observe the nuances of her eyes – were thwarted by Wickham, who monopolized her company. Committed to a card game with his hostess and two other kindly older women, Mr. Collins could only stare at Elizabeth from across the room. When he perceived that she did not turn once in his direction, he shifted his disapproving gaze to Wickham. Wickham glanced at him only once and earned in response Mr. Collins’s version of a thundering glare. The result was private amusement for the captain, and a sense of self-satisfaction for the clergyman, who believed that he had intimidated his sole rival for Elizabeth’s affection.
Now that Wickham was out of the way, Mr. Collins was convinced that there was only one obstacle left to surmount before proposing marriage – he did not know how to paint Elizabeth’s eye. The second gold brooch, which he had designated for the miniature, remained blank, and with the passing of each day he began to fear the loss of his prowess. To distract himself, he rendered his own eye on the silver brooch, creating an ornament that would be worn on his wife’s dress for as long as she lived. He completed the project quickly and was pleased with how fine his eye looked framed in silver. Still, he was not at peace so long as his cousin’s eye remained out of artistic reach.
Then, one morning after breakfast, Mr. Bingley and his sisters arrived to deliver an invitation to an upcoming ball at Netherfield. Though Mr. Bingley strove to distribute his attentions among all the Bennet girls, he could not help but betray his partiality to Jane; in the drawing room he sat nearest to her, and with a faint blush on his cheeks directed most of his speech to her modestly downcast face. While witnessing this spectacle of a man entranced, Mr. Collins reflected on his own prospects and turned his affectionate and, by now, almost pleading glance at Elizabeth. What he saw in her eyes at that very moment struck him deeply. She was gazing at Jane and Mr. Bingley with profound contentment; there was a warmth in her look that Mr. Collins had never glimpsed before. Sensing that his inspiration had finally arrived, Mr. Collins held his breath and leaned closer, memorizing what he could of her eyes.
When she caught him staring, her tender expression fragmented into bits of glinting light, sharp as glass. But it mattered not; he had absorbed her look. At last he could say that her eye was within his grasp. That night, hair unbound and naked to the waist, he set to work on it, sweat glistening at his temples and fingertips. His artist’s intuition told him that this would be the most difficult painting he had ever undertaken; although the memory of his cousin’s warm regard lingered in his mind, its integrity was repeatedly assailed by recollections of her eyes at other moments – the puzzling looks she gave him, the elusive dance of dark and light that mocked his talent at every turn. He wielded his brush with utmost care and coaxed out the details with a more conscious effort. Often he touched his hair, as if drawing strength from its beauty and length; the feel of it comforted him, reassuring him that his skill was indeed undiminished. And whenever he reached a point of exhaustion, one peek at Lady Catherine’s eye was enough to sustain his spirit.
Mr. Collins completed the painting the morning of the Netherfield ball. With shaking fingers he laid aside his brush and smiled sleepily at the beautiful eye that stared at him from his desk. Having found peace at last, he allowed himself plenty of rest for the remainder of the day. He had claimed Elizabeth’s hand for the first two dances of the evening, and by no means would exhaustion compel him to relinquish her to any other.
When he arrived at the ball, he got most of his compliments out of the way at the receiving line. He admired each one of Miss Bingley’s baubles, attached a string of compliments to the string of pearls around Mrs. Hurst’s neck, and proclaimed Mr. Hurst to be an alert and energetic gentleman. After the hall, the stairwell, and the doorjambs also received their share of his adulation, he slipped into the ballroom and sought out Elizabeth. To his delight, her only company was a friend whom she introduced as Miss Charlotte Lucas; Mr. Wickham was nowhere in sight. “I have frightened him away,” Mr. Collins thought, a triumphant smile wreathing his face. As the music sprang to life, he captured Elizabeth’s hand and strutted proudly to join the other dancers.
His weeklong labor did take its toll, and he stumbled through the first set, the music clipping along at what he considered an alarming pace. To make up for his untimely turns – not to mention his heavy breathing – Mr. Collins apologized regularly and pressed his partner’s hand in solicitude. To his better fortune, the second set involved a slower, statelier dance, and though he still struggled with the order of the steps, he grew inclined to extend his speech beyond “forgive me, Miss Elizabeth!”
Mr. Collins admired his cousin’s flushed cheeks and attributed her heightened color not to mortification, but to the physical demands of the dance. With a knowing smile he said, “Shall we not have a little conversation? Though all dancers are robbed of breath, just as we are, I am inclined to seize the moment and speak with you. It is so rare that I have your company all to myself.” When no reply was forthcoming he added, “It is your turn to say something now, but,” he quickly continued, “if your breath has still not steadied, I shall make the next remark.” His eyes alit upon the vast marble fireplace at the center of the opposite wall. “I have seen finer chimneypieces only at Rosings!” he declared.
Silence was his sole reply. He cleared his throat and forced a smile. “Now that I have commented on the chimneypiece, you might remark, if you are so inclined, on how impeccably the floor has been polished or how magnificent a view the windows would afford were it daytime.”
Elizabeth clenched her jaw. “Do you talk by rule then, while you are dancing?”
He nodded sagely. “One must speak a little, you know. Having given the matter much thought, I have arrived at the conclusion that it would look odd to be entirely silent for half an hour together.”
After a moment’s pause, she muttered, “Have you ever heard of the saying, ‘Keep your breath to cool your porridge?’”
He repeated the words to himself, uncertain as to where she was steering the conversation. “I love porridge,” he finally replied, “particularly when there is honey in it.”
Their talk fell dead after that, but Mr. Collins waited only a minute or two before attempting to revive it. “What is your favorite food?” he inquired.
“Goose,” she said, staring him straight in the eye. “Stuffed goose.”
“Your gastronomical preferences do you credit, dear cousin,” he murmured. “I too believe that goose is one of the finest birds an Englishman can dine upon.” He smiled. “It is my second favorite animal, sheep being most beloved by me.”
“I would never have imagined,” she intoned.
“Perhaps, Miss Elizabeth, our tastes coincide across a wide array of subjects.” Leaning towards her he asked, “Which artist’s work do you most prefer?”
Her brows rose, betraying no little amount of surprise at his question. “Artists, you say? Well, I am sure we do not favor the same ones, nor regard their work with the same feelings.”
Not to be discouraged, he declared, “I admire one of the earliest miniaturists, Nicholas Hilliard. Lady Catherine has an impressive collection of miniatures, and among them are several of his finest pieces.”
“So it is his connection to Lady Catherine that leads you to prefer him?”
“As always, your discernment astonishes me, but… that is not the only reason I take pleasure in his work. His pieces are enchanting, each one an ornament. I find them singular for their starkness and clarity.”
Elizabeth stared at him. “I… I am inclined to agree with you… somewhat,” she finally said, “but I do not prefer his style unreservedly; there is not a great deal of fine shading in his work. If we speak of miniatures, I like Isaac Oliver; he paints with more shadow, more nuance. He distinguishes facial features better than Hilliard does.”
Mr. Collins bowed his head. “Your contrasting opinion is well-taken.” Smiling softly, he added, “Minor points of disagreement are necessary between a gentleman and a lady; their shared lives are far more interesting, that way.”
If his cousin stiffened at his words, he did not notice, and instead pressed her to name a few more of her favorites.
“I cannot talk of paintings in a ballroom,” she said.
“Oh, forgive me,” he soothed. “Of course, a discussion on painting must be conducted in a quieter place where there are fewer distractions present.”
Elizabeth barely heard him. She had just discovered that the hateful Mr. Darcy was staring at her from across the room and would not avert his gaze, not even when she met it forcefully with her own. With a disdainful purse of her lips, she tore her eyes from him and asked of Mr. Collins, “Do you know if Lady Catherine’s daughter is engaged to anybody? I have heard rumors that she is intended for one of her relations.”
Mr. Collins lowered his voice to a reverent whisper. “A cousin, or so my patroness has intimated.”
Elizabeth’s lips curled into a smile. “This gentleman… do you know his name?”
“Well,” he admitted, “I am not acquainted with every root and branch of Lady Catherine’s venerable family.”
“I see.”
“May I…?” he began and cleared his throat. “May I ask to what these intriguing questions tend?”
It took a moment for Elizabeth to reply; Mr. Darcy’s unrelenting stare was distracting her again. “I ask because… one of Lady Catherine’s nephews is at the ball.”
As soon as the words left her mouth, Elizabeth winced at her carelessness. Mr. Collins’s awestruck expression gave her every reason to regret her hasty speech. “One of Lady Catherine’s near relations?” he cried. “Here, within this very house?”
“Yes, it is as I said,” she whispered, attempting to calm him.
He twisted his neck and tripped on his feet. “Which one, which gentleman?”
With a heavy sigh she murmured Mr. Darcy’s name and discreetly pointed him out. “I do hope that you are not going to introduce yourself. He would consider it highly impertinent.”
A light-hearted Mr. Collins dismissed her cautionary remark. In the two hours leading up to the meal he crafted a speech, and as everybody gathered in the dining room, he crept up to Mr. Darcy, took a steadying breath, and said, “My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how happy and honored I am that you have condescended to favor us with your presence.”
At first he had lacked the courage to look higher than Mr. Darcy’s cravat, but once his speech was underway, his eyes slid to the gentleman’s chin. “Good sir,” he continued, “my patroness is Lady Catherine De Bourgh of Rosings Park.” His gaze moved to Mr. Darcy’s lips. “You can imagine my utter delight when I discovered, just this evening, that she is your noble aunt. The surprise rendered me quite speechless; I could not find, and still cannot find, any adequate words to describe my pleasure.” He sighed and stared at Mr. Darcy’s nostrils. “I thank you as well for the distinction you conferred upon my cousin, Miss Elizabeth Bennet, when dancing with her earlier. Your benevolent and magnanimous nature is most in keeping with your aunt’s character, for she is… she is… I…”
His words trailed off into astonished silence. Having just allowed himself to meet Mr. Darcy’s gaze, he found he could not look away. The intensity of the gentleman’s dark eyes – molten brown, infused with penetrating light – stole the clergyman’s breath away. His mouth opened and closed several times before he murmured, without a shred of awareness, “If I were ever to make a miniature of your eye, I am convinced that the ivory would shatter to pieces, mere moments after the final stroke of my brush!”
A short distance away, Elizabeth, Jane and Charlotte Lucas watched the spectacle unfold. Although they were unable to overhear Mr. Collins’s monologue, they could see its outcome, as Mr. Darcy turned on his heel and stalked away from his humble admirer. Jane excused herself to get some wine, while Elizabeth escaped with Charlotte to the other end of the room. “What must he think of my family now?” she grumbled. “My cousin, a source of unending mortification…”
Charlotte looked closely at her friend. “Why are you concerned about Mr. Darcy’s opinion?”
Elizabeth did not have a good reply to that question. “I do not want him,” she said at last, “to have yet another reason to look down upon my relations. He is haughty enough as it is… not to mention heartless and unfeeling.”
“Eliza,” Charlotte whispered, “I hope you do not readily believe everything Mr. Wickham says. You have not known him very long.” When Elizabeth said nothing she added, “Mr. Darcy is a gentleman of high standing; it would be foolish to spurn him merely on the basis of Wickham’s account.”
“High standing,” Elizabeth scoffed. “Charlotte, there must be more to a gentleman than his breeding or his money. Mr. Darcy lacks any admirable qualities.”
Charlotte smirked. “You are perfectly right. Ten thousand a year is not merely admirable; it is awe-inspiring.”
Elizabeth’s head tipped back in laughter, and several moments passed before she could compose herself. “Charlotte, a lady must look not only for material comfort when seeking out a husband. A fine home and some pin money are not everything. For a respectable station in life, would you violate your feelings?”
“My feelings? Eliza, not everyone has the same idea of matrimony as you.” Charlotte glanced at her feet. “Not everyone aspires to a love match, or can aspire to one. I am not a romantic, you know.”
A slow smile spread up Elizabeth’s face. “On the contrary, I believe you are, a little.”
“Oh, dear… what nonsense awaits me now?”
“Do you recall,” said Elizabeth, with a giggle, “the name of that novel you read… the one Jane lent you, that had the knight-errant as its hero, and that infernally whining damsel as his love.” When Charlotte bit her lip, Elizabeth’s eyes twinkled all the more. “The name of the book escapes me, but I do remember what you said of it afterwards.”
“And what is it that I said?” Charlotte inquired, feigning innocence.
“That, although you had found the story rather silly, it did speak to your preference for long-haired men.”
Charlotte was red now. “And you take this comment of mine, a mere joke I said in passing, to be an indication of my tastes?”
“The question is, was it merely a joke?”
When Charlotte did not reply, Elizabeth sensed that she might be uncomfortable and relented. “Whatever your feelings may be,” she said, steering the conversation back to the topic at hand, “mine are that matrimony must be rooted in more nourishing soil than the husband’s outward respectability.”
Part Three: Principles and Preference
Posted on Wednesday, 13 April 2005
After breakfast the following day, Mr. Collins retired to his room and rehearsed his proposal of marriage. He had every reason to believe that a respectable and talented individual such as himself would prove irresistible to a gently bred lady, but because proposals were the required preludes to betrothal, he thought it best that he acquit himself with more than his usual level of eloquence. Yesterday’s encounter with Mr. Darcy had reconfirmed the notion that a well-phrased speech could leave an unforgettable impression.
Aside from his pretty words, Mr. Collins had his art, and he planned to use it to his fullest advantage. After making one final adjustment to his wig, he sought out Mrs. Bennet, who spared no time arranging for him to be alone with her second eldest. The two were ushered into the drawing room, where Elizabeth sank onto one of the sofas and took up some needlework, her eyes averted from his face. Thinking her the most charming picture of feminine modesty, Mr. Collins embarked upon his marital oration.
Even before he began to speak, Elizabeth knew why she had been forced into the same room with him; her mother, she suspected, was standing guard at the door. She was stuck and could do nothing about it but hope with all her heart that the business would be concluded as swiftly and painlessly as possible.
Swiftness, however, had never been one of Mr. Collins’s strong points, and he spent a good amount of time telling her why he wished to be married. Hands clasped behind his back, he paced before her with the air of a stuffy schoolmaster delivering a lesson on grammatical form. Marriage, he informed her, was important for a number of reasons. To begin with, all clergymen should be married, and those who were not were to be greatly pitied. Secondly, and perhaps most importantly, Lady Catherine had insisted that he find a wife, and he believed that Elizabeth’s vivacity would please her, so long as it was tempered with proper reverence and humility. Thirdly, but perhaps second in importance, was that his affections were violent. Alarmingly violent. In fact, so fervent was his attachment that he was willing to overlook her small dowry and unimpressive station in life. Furthermore, because Longbourn would pass to him upon her esteemed father’s death – an event he hoped would not occur for many countless years, at least fifteen or twenty – it would be advantageous for her to have a share in the inheritance.
“In all respects we are perfectly matched,” he concluded. “And lest I dwell too long on material considerations, let me return to the loveliness of your person and the overwhelming attraction that your spirit holds for me. You see, Miss Elizabeth, your passion for life, your appreciation of Nature’s bedazzling canvas, your fondness for art and in particular, miniatures, suit you especially well for a man such as myself, who –”
To his great surprise, she interrupted him. A noise that sounded suspiciously like a giggle erupted from her throat. “You are too hasty, sir,” she managed at last, before promptly declining his proposal.
Mr. Collins started, colored, and was silent. He knew his own worth, and though it did not compare to Lady Catherine’s exaltedness, he believed himself to possess an abundance of admirable qualities. Staring at his cousin, who was drumming her fingers on the sofa, he decided that she was merely being modest. An elegant lady, he believed, initially refuses the proposals of a man whom she secretly admires; through her coyness she seeks to capture his heart more firmly.
“My dear cousin,” he said, taking a seat opposite hers, “I am charmed by your womanly hesitance, but rest assured that there is no need to doubt my devotion. If you are merely in a state of disbelief in regards to your good fortune – for what lady in your position would not consider my offer fortunate? – I urge you to accustom yourself to the reality of my steadfast attachment.”
When Elizabeth repeated her earlier response, he was more astonished than before. After another exchange – his speech full of insistence and hers full of refusal – a cold doubt took possession of his mind, as he realized that she might be serious.
Mr. Collins leaned back in his seat, color draining from his face. He recalled all the solitary nights of the past week, when he had labored over his art as never before, pouring into it an unprecedented effort. There had been times when he thought that all was hopeless, and that he had wasted the ivory and the brooch to which it was affixed. And what fears had he been forced to fight off! Not a single day or night had passed without at least one moment of grave concern, when he wondered whether his powers were leaving him.
Trembling, Mr. Collins rose and paced the length of the room twice before speaking. “Permit me to show you something,” he said and, reaching into his pocket, produced the miniature of her eye.
Nothing could have prepared Elizabeth for the sight of her perfectly rendered eye, mounted on a lovely gold brooch. She stared at it for several moments before flicking her glance to his mutely imploring face. All the signs she had failed to connect now coalesced in her mind; his remark about the woods at Rosings, his interest in what artists pleased her… it suddenly made sense. She pressed a hand to her mouth, suppressing an incredulous laugh.
“As you can see,” Mr. Collins continued, “I possess an artistic gift, and I can assure you, Miss Elizabeth, that once we are married you shall be a frequent object of my art. What admiration my poor words might fail to convey shall be expressed in the renderings of my brush.”
Sighing at the return of his confident tone, but feeling somewhat sorry for him as well, Elizabeth looked at Mr. Collins with the kindest expression she could muster and said, “Your talent truly surprises me, Mr. Collins, but I’m afraid I must disappoint you. As grateful as I am that you have chosen to share your gift with me – for truly, it is unexpected – I have already made my decision and have stated it several times now in no uncertain terms.”
Mr. Collins’s fingers clenched tightly around the brooch, and he stuffed it back into his pocket. “Young people,” he said at last, “and particularly young ladies who have led a sheltered life, are not always inclined to act on behalf of their best interests, and so must rely upon others who are wiser and better acquainted with the ways of the world. Perhaps, as we seem to be at an impasse, Miss Elizabeth, I should press my suit to your esteemed parents in the hopes that they will convince you to take a sensible course.” Before Elizabeth could reply he added, “My own blessed parents once prevented me from committing a grievous error. For a short period in my youth I had begun to seriously entertain the possibility of becoming an artist by profession, and I would have acted upon that foolish impulse had my father and mother not pointed out the perils of an artist’s life – the penury, obscurity, scant opportunities. After some struggle, I heeded their counsel and have not once regretted it. I am still a young man, but have been favored with early preference, a respectable position, and a home of no small comfort; in short, I have little to complain of. I offer it all to you, my dear cousin, a young lady who, despite her attractions, will likely not receive another proposal of marriage. I do not wish to speak harshly, but you must know that your condition in life will not attract many suitors. And so, despite your repeated refusals, perhaps you will see the merits of my petition once your wise parents speak with you, and impart to you some advice as valuable as my own parents gave me when I was poised to make a terrible mistake.”
Elizabeth touched her fingers to her temples and rose. “It seems that I cannot convince you of my resolve. Because you refuse to see me as a rational creature speaking the truth from her heart, nothing else remains to be said between us on the subject. I wish you a good day, Mr. Collins.”
In horror, he watched as she made for the door. A cold rush of impotence assailed him. Unmanned by her determination, and mindful that his powers of art and persuasion had failed him, Mr. Collins moved to intercept her in one last desperate attempt to sway her mind. “If you will grant me but a moment more,” he murmured, “I will show you yet another gift that I made for you to wear as an ornament upon your lovely form.”
“Mr. Collins,” Elizabeth began, but fell silent as he produced another item for her to view – the silver brooch, depicting his own eye. As she stared at the gray, fishy-looking thing, Elizabeth found herself in danger of bursting into laughter. It was all too much; the ridiculousness of his proposal, the unexpectedness of his artistic revelation, the contrast between his gift and the rest of his attributes all conspired to undo her composure. A helpless giggle escaped her and, fearing that her mirth would wound him, she forwent a polite farewell and fled to her father’s library.
It took Mr. Collins a while longer to comprehend that his suit was a failure. Though Mrs. Bennet would have compelled her daughter to see reason and accept him, Mr. Bennet was determined to remain aloof from the disaster. As Mr. Collins sat alone in his bedchamber, at the desk where he had labored so hard to create a likeness of Elizabeth’s eye, he found it a bit difficult to breathe. His pride ate at him, giving him no rest; not only had he been unable to persuade a country girl with few prospects to marry him, his art had in no way furthered his cause. He had expected gratitude and awe, heartfelt appreciation for his condescension and generosity. Instead he had been met with refusal and a disparaging giggle or two that even now still echoed in his head.
As the minutes ticked by, breathing did not become easier. Mr. Collins tugged at his cravat and threw open the windows. He took his hat from the dressing table and waved it at his face. Faintly he could hear Mrs. Bennet in another room, berating Elizabeth; the words “headstrong girl” and “obstinate girl” floated up to his ears. He fanned his face with greater vigor and began to pace; still, his throat was constricted, and the veins at his temples throbbed. After glancing one last time at his paints, which he had left in disarray upon his desk, Mr. Collins made a half-strangled sound and stomped out of the room.
Not knowing where he meant to go, Mr. Collins burst out of Longbourn and bore himself into the countryside, allowing the paths and lanes to carry him where they would. He needed to be out of doors, alone, free of everything, away from Longbourn and its capricious denizens. His pride as both man and artist affronted, he scarcely paid attention to anything but his own indignant reflections, until he found himself one step away from a stream.
He did not know where he was – a forest, water gliding past him – but he sat down at the stream’s edge and hugged his knees to his chest. The idea of being lost both intensified his mortification and yet soothed him at the same time, giving him a martyr’s sense of satisfaction. The surrounding forest faintly recalled the woods around his parsonage, the groves at Rosings; his breathing slowed, and his heartbeat steadied. How he missed Rosings; how he wished he could be there now, strolling the lanes with Lady Catherine, the air around them resonant with birdsong. Or he could be alone, tramping through the wilder lands surrounding Hunsford, his sketches tucked under his arm.
A weak peace came over him. After a quick glance around, he took advantage of his privacy as well as the soothing environs in order to go through the motions of his artistic ritual. The familiar series of actions never failed to calm him and bolster his strength. Though he left his shirt on, he removed a few other garments – coat, cravat, and waistcoat – and pulled off his shoes. As the breeze whistled in his ears, he sighed and stretched, gyrating in small circles and then spreading his legs out before him. All thought fled from his mind, leaving behind the pleasant blankness that always preceded the removal of his wig.
This time, something went wrong. As he reached up to remove the first pins, he heard a strange grunting from a nearby clump of shrubs. The sound was unfamiliar, and he could not think of a creature to attribute it to. Slowly he rose and tried to peer through the leaves, but could make out nothing. The sounds climbed in pitch, growing ragged and more primal. Mr. Collins flinched and struggled back into his clothes; all manner of imagined beasts popped into his mind. After a final look he scampered off, praying that whatever was in those bushes would not follow him.
By chance he was able to find his way back to Longbourn. Upon entering the drawing room, he discovered that Mrs. Bennet and Elizabeth were still in heated discourse, while the rest of the family was noticeably absent. Only one other person kept the unhappy mother and daughter company, though she sat at a discreet distance from them and toyed with the leaves of a book. He remembered her from yesterday’s ball – Miss Lucas, he believed she was – and though he had no particular desire to be in anyone’s company, he reminded himself that a clergyman must be civil at all times.
He removed his hat and said, “Good day to you, Miss Lucas,” before dropping into a deep bow.
Charlotte set aside her book and rose to reciprocate the greeting. They both sat down then, she with hands folded primly on her lap, and he with his fingers absently stroking his hat.
“How do you do, Mr. Collins?” she inquired, and he was struck by the gentle sympathy in her voice.
“I am well, Miss Lucas. Considering, of course...” He cleared his throat.
She nodded quietly in reply, encouraging him to continue. “A clergyman,” he said, after drawing a deep, long-suffering breath, “must not dwell at length upon his misfortunes; he must resign himself to the evils and follies of the world. I flatter myself to think that I have an excessive amount of tolerance for the faults of my fellow men… and women. Excessive tolerance.” He snuck a glance at Elizabeth, but quickly turned again to Charlotte; her eyes, their mild blue depths, intrigued him. His voice gained strength. “Life is comparable to a palette, Miss Lucas. Dark hours blend with hours of light. Blue skies unfold when the clouds shrivel up. Some mornings are green, others are yellow; one’s dreams may be orange or purple or gray. When one is as attuned to the inflections of life as I strive to be, one can accept misfortune with forbearance, wisdom, and peace.” That said, he bestowed the sunshine of an emergent smile on Charlotte and awaited her response.
She stared at him with slightly parted lips, one brow elegantly raised above her left eye. “You speak… at length,” she finally said, and though her voice held neither admiration nor condemnation, he took her remark as a compliment.
“I thank you,” he replied, briefly pressing his eyes shut. “After a day of madness and folly, it does me well to hear good sense.” He leaned forward. “But I am being most impolite in unburdening my reflections all at once. How is your family? Are they in good health? I had the pleasure of meeting your father at the meal last night, and he struck me as an estimable gentleman.”
As Charlotte obliged him with detailed answers to each of his questions, he took increasing delight in her company. She spoke well. She was sensible. Her age – more advanced than that of his younger, foolish cousin – gave her an air of gravity. By the time she made her farewells, his wounded pride had been partly repaired. Only when he returned to his chamber and discovered that Elizabeth’s eye was missing, did his day take an unfortunate turn once again.
Both the gold and silver brooch had been in his pocket when he had set out on his uncharted trek through the forest. What Mr. Collins did not know was that, after he had removed his coat, the painting of Elizabeth’s eye had tumbled out. And even if he had been able to find his way back to the stream and look among the shrubs and roots, he would have arrived too late.
A certain officer had already discovered the brooch.
Part Four: An Officer and Two Gentlemen
Mr. Wickham loved the forest. He relished the privacy of the shadows, the secrecy of the thickets and rampant undergrowth. The morning of Mr. Collins’s sojourn in the woods, Mr. Wickham was happily exploring the shrubbery with a serving-girl from the local inn, and when she tired of the activity and bade him farewell, he remained behind in the dirt, terribly thirsty from his exertions. A nearby stream beckoned, and as he availed himself of it – scooping handfuls of water into his mouth – a glint caught the corner of his eye.
Mr. Wickham loved gold even more than he did the forest. Appetite whetted, he narrowed in on the shining object and snatched it up from where it lay among the roots of a willow. At first he thought it was only some silly art, but when he appraised the brooch itself, his disappointment burgeoned into promise. He could sell it, he believed, for a neat little sum; given the debts that he had incurred at several of Meryton’s less reputable establishments, having some money in his pocket might fend off an amputated thumb, a broken leg, or any other misfortunes that tend to befall a man who has failed to pay his dues.
After tucking his shirt in and brushing the dirt from his pants, he set off to town. He knew of a wheezy old book and art shop that would suit his purposes; the proprietor, he had heard, was living comfortably off inherited money and ran the shop more out of personal pleasure than necessity. Surely he would be able to pay a good amount for the charming ornament.
When Mr. Wickham arrived, the proprietor could not immediately see him, and so he remained by the door and waited impatiently for his turn. Had he known that his enemy would soon be on the premises, he might have chosen to return at another time. As it was, he remained rooted in place until the door opened and nudged his bottom. He stumbled forward and scowled.
“Take care, you –” he began to grumble, but fell silent when he saw that it was Mr. Darcy.
For what seemed like a long time, the two stared at one another. Mr. Wickham was the first to recover from his surprise and flashed an insolent smile. Mr. Darcy, whose face was generally framed into one unpleasant expression or another, retained his initial look of disgust.
Neither noticed Mr. Bingley straggling in. Glancing from Wickham to Darcy, he cleared his throat, mumbled something about browsing for books and, with a sigh, disappeared among the shelves.
“Good day to you, Darcy,” Wickham began. “You are looking to be your usual cheerful self.”
Darcy’s dignity would have forbidden him from initiating a conversation with the scoundrel, though once provoked, he had no qualms about retorting. “And, unsurprisingly enough, you look rather untidy.”
Muttering a soft oath, Wickham raked a hand through his hair and dislodged one or two of the several leaves that had remained in his black curls. As Darcy made to pass, he said, “I may be the man with leaves in his hair, but you have always been the wooden one – stiff as a tree and just as animated.”
With the air of a lion scratching at a flea, Darcy replied, “Wood is a finer substance than fungus.” When Wickham turned red, he added, “If you are searching for a book, go waste your hours elsewhere. The few texts that you do trouble yourself to read would not be found in any respectable shop.”
“I have no need of books,” Wickham sneered. “While your knowledge remains in the theoretical realm, I am – and always shall be – truly accomplished.”
“Why, do the woods in these parts provide adequate concealment?”
“You recall my habits well,” Wickham ground out.
“I have not yet blotted out all memory of you. Not yet.” Darcy stared at the golden object in Wickham’s hand. “I sincerely hope that you did not acquire that item through theft.”
“No, Darcy, this little token is mine and mine alone.” With an extravagant flourish, he waved the brooch a few inches before the gentleman’s eyes.
And then watched, in amazement, as Darcy turned white.
Indeed, Darcy may as well have received a blow to the stomach. He recognized the eye that gazed at him from the brooch; he knew its counterpart, as well. Unwillingly, he had spent hours meditating on their fineness, and on the fineness of the lady that they belonged to. He had witnessed that warmth in her eyes as she discovered a moving passage in a book or tenderly gazed at her elder sister. Now, to see that loveliness dangled from Wickham’s oily fingers was too much for him to bear. He was not unacquainted with eye brooches; he had received several from ladies who had hoped to secure him as a husband or a lover. The implications of Wickham possessing such an ornament made him ill.
“Is that…” he whispered. “Is that truly Miss Bennet’s eye? How did you come in possession of it?”
Wickham’s brows shot up. Whose eye? He stared at it, the fine, lush warmth of it. Bennet, he thought… but which of the sisters? It dawned on him then that Darcy might be referring to Elizabeth. The whole town was abuzz with talk of how he had danced with her the evening before, singling her out from all the eligible ladies. Wickham’s breath hitched in disbelief; on a whim, he opted to have a little fun.
“It is a pretty eye, is it not?” he said, though, truth be told, he would have preferred a piece depicting one half of a different anatomical pair.
“Answer me,” Darcy insisted, his voice shaking with anger.
Wickham maintained an infuriating air of mystery. “I am under no obligation to confide in you, Darcy.”
Darcy’s fist tightened around his Malacca; were it not for the customary grip that he retained upon his composure, he would have brought the walking-stick down on Wickham’s head, over and over again, and relished every moment of it. He forced himself to consider whether Elizabeth would ever settle upon a scoundrel such as Wickham. To his dismay, the answer was far from definite. Had she not rebuked him at the ball for losing Wickham’s friendship? Had she not expressed some sympathy for the dog? Darcy’s breathing grew uneven.
Pleased with the pain that had worked its way into his enemy’s hauteur, Wickham opted to sell the eye on another day and, whistling nonchalantly, departed from the shop. Darcy did not know how long he stood by the door, staring at a nearby shelf without seeing a single item, but it was long enough for Bingley to make his own discoveries and covert acquisition.
Earlier that morning, when the excitement from the ball still tingled through his body, and memories of Jane Bennet swelled his heart, Bingley’s ballooning hopes were unexpectedly deflated. In what had appeared to be a concerted effort, his sisters and Mr. Darcy assailed him with objections to any alliance with Jane that he might have been considering. Her family was a peg above commoners, Caroline had remarked. A tradesman and a barrister for uncles, and Meryton’s coarsest gossip as an aunt. Darcy had added that, even if one were to disregard her low connections, one could look at her immediate relations for confirmation of ill breeding. A father with an alarming unconcern for his family. A mother who rivaled a harpy in sense and volume. A middle sister who possessed great pride but no talent to match. And as for the youngest two, their existence could be summed up with a shudder and a sigh.
Little of this mattered to Mr. Bingley, but it had still been disconcerting to hear objections from his sisters and, more importantly, his friend. He considered Darcy an eminently sensible man, one who could always be depended upon for good advice and a nudge in the proper direction. Defying Darcy’s opinion was something that Bingley was loath to do. And yet his resolve would have held out longer, had they not led him to doubt Jane’s affections. “You might love her,” Louisa had cried, “but do you know for certain that she loves you?”
The fact of the matter was, he did not, and Darcy and Caroline had immediately jumped into the fissure splitting his heart. They had pointed out her reserve as well as her loyalty to her family, which would compel her to act for their benefit rather than follow her own inclinations. Then, as the killing blow, Darcy had compared his current infatuation to all the other short-lived loves in Bingley’s past.
Was it so? Bingley wondered as he absently roamed the shelves. Were his feelings for her that shallow? He did not think so. There was something grand and inarticulate in what he felt for Miss Bennet; it was something that ran wider and deeper than any other affection he had experienced in the past. What he felt was both thrilling and reassuringly right. Of his affections Bingley had no doubt; he was truly in love, as besotted as any young gentleman can be.
But as for Jane’s feelings… pain squeezed his heart, and he paused along a stack of books whose titles he could not read. Caroline and Darcy wanted to leave for London tomorrow, and perhaps he would never see her again.
Bingley had intended to purchase a few books so that, like Darcy, he could claim to care for his library. This was difficult to do with an aching heart and restless mind. He threaded through the narrow aisles, running his fingers across countless spines, his gaze directed at the floor. Soon he found himself not among books but in a smaller section cluttered with trinkets and tiny works of art. His listless eyes traveled over them all. There were figurines of soldiers and shepherdesses, a Rococo jewelry box, a drab still life that a widow might hang upon her wall, and a beautiful eye, mounted on a gold brooch.
The eye – now that was peculiar! – the eye would not let him look away. It stared at him, and he stared back, caught up in strange communion with it. A good while passed in this silent exchange before he picked it up from its low, cobweb-ridden shelf. He thought it the most perfect eye he had ever seen.
As was usually the case with Bingley, his heart was a step ahead of his mind. After several moments passed, and he convinced himself – largely with success – that he was not going mad, Bingley could admit that he knew the eye quite well. It had met his gaze during several dances, peered at him shyly over the rim of a wineglass. He closed his fingers around it, like the wings of a bird sheltering her egg. A tingle danced up his arm. “My angel,” he murmured, and hardly remembered his awkward trot to the shop’s counter, where he purchased the brooch for a sum that would have made a duke pause.
With the transaction completed, Bingley glanced around in fear of finding his friend’s disapproving face hovering nearby. But Darcy, pale as a clam and sealed as tightly, had remained rooted by the door, his eyes seeing nothing.
The ride home was silent, and when Caroline met them in the front hall and effused over how well the packing was progressing for their journey to London, Darcy surprised them by saying that he wished to postpone the trip for a little longer. Without another word, he relinquished his outer garments to the butler and bounded up the stairs; later on he took supper alone in his room.
Neither gentleman slept well that night. Bingley nestled the eye on his pillow and lay gazing into its gentle depths. His discovery was not mere chance, he believed, but a sign. As the hours wore on, he found himself less inclined to follow the advice of his friend; something resembling a purpose stirred within him. However, by the time he fell asleep, neither compliance nor defiance had won out. Any newfound determination that he had gained was still undermined by powerful doubt. He was not certain of the depth of Jane’s feelings; if she did not love him, then heeding Darcy’s counsel was the wisest course to take. Yet how would he ever know her heart if he never saw her again? The conundrum gnawed at him, even as he slept, the eye brooch in repose by his head.
In a nearby room, Darcy was also in a state of unrest, but rather than a beautiful eye for company, he had a carafe of wine. His self-disgust was acute; he imagined how he looked, splayed on the seat with liquor on his lips. All because of that damned Wickham. And that impossible Elizabeth Bennet. For days he attempted to deny his powerful attraction to her. A passing fancy, he called it, a passing interest in a girl with a flashing gaze and a wit to match; she was a diversion to his mind and senses, and nothing more.
Darcy took another sip and wiped his mouth with the back of his fingers. Who was he trying to fool, really? He had long declared to anyone who had challenged his honesty that he was a man who abhorred disguise of any sort. Yet here he was, deluding himself. What irony – the man who despised deception, transformed into the greatest deceiver of all. The thought was humbling and revolting – revolting perhaps because it was humbling.
As if self-reproach was not enough, he also had to contend with the thought of Wickham and Elizabeth in love. How else had Wickham acquired the eye? Darcy groaned, not wishing to think of the woman he was attracted to as the future wife of his worst enemy.
Or anyone’s future wife, really.
He crawled into bed and pressed his face into his pillow, as if doing so would expunge the horrifying thought from his head. As the hours passed, and he tossed around in his sleep, the pillow slipped from under his head and came to rest against his chest. For a short while he dreamed it was Miss Bennet herself, clutched against his heart where he most wished her to be. Then morning came and with it, rational thought. He immediately denied the night’s yearnings.
What Darcy did conclude was that any respect and admiration that he bore for Miss Bennet warranted that he immediately caution her of Mr. Wickham. It was his duty, and he would set aside his pride and sense of propriety to help her. A woman so clever and kind and lively and pretty and principled deserved better than Wickham… much better, Darcy thought, violently ringing the bell for his valet.
Gaining access to her might prove difficult. He sensed that he was not a favorite at Longbourn and that his reception there would be cold, his access to Elizabeth limited. The only solution he could think of was to take Bingley with him to ease the way and draw some of the Bennets’ attention away from himself. Exposing his friend to Jane one last time would surely do no harm; yesterday Bingley had seemed to take his persuasion to heart and by now had likely given her up as the passing fancy that she was.
When Darcy approached his friend after breakfast and suggested a ride to Longbourn, he did not know that Jane’s eye was secured to Bingley’s shirt, and that with every breath that Bingley took, it was rubbing intimately against his chest. Such was the beauty of multiple layers of clothing; a man like Bingley could harbor a secret at his breast without having to make a special effort to conceal it.
Bingley accepted Darcy’s suggestion as calmly as he could and did not inquire into the motives behind it; he was afraid that an ill-timed question would make his friend reconsider. As he raced up the stairs to ready himself, thanking the Lord for this unexpected opportunity, he decided that today he would put his beloved’s heart to the test; if she gave him no sign of her affection, he would resign himself to parting from her forever.