Page 14 of Mrs Darcy’s Dilemma

Elizabeth did not spend many hours in her bed, as the last of the dancers did not tire until five, and then she could not sleep but took counsel of her pillow.

In her agitated, anxious, troubled mind, there arose thoughts of her two sons, who heretofore had shown no inclination for matrimony but were now both deep in the business.

In neither case could she see much prospect of happiness.

She could not decide whether she was more distressed by Fitzwilliam’s declared suit or Henry’s undeclared one: she did not like her elder son’s choice, but in propriety and eligibility it was no worse than that of the younger—better indeed, in one way, for Fitzwilliam could well afford to take a portionless wife, as he was heir of Pemberley.

So she reasoned, but her heart could not follow her thoughts.

She liked and approved of her niece Cloe, a well-principled, modest young woman, eager to improve herself, willing to work in a humble, indeed distasteful profession, rather than contract obligations to any one else.

Cloe was the daughter she wanted, and she was sure Henry cared for her; yet she did not know how far she wished that his suit might prosper.

He had not spoken, and he would not, in honour, aware as he was that there were serious considerations against the match.

Perhaps his father would consent, but it would cause him pain, and Henry would not seek to press his point until the time was right.

And now, if his brother’s hasty and imprudent marriage went forth, the time never would be right for Henry: he must consider that his own hopes were at an end, for he would not put his parents through double distress, bringing disgrace and ridicule upon the house.

Convinced as she was that Henry’s attachment was sincere—though, in his tender disinclination to distress her, he had never breathed a word of it—Elizabeth was equally certain that Fitzwilliam’s love was the fruit of idleness.

It was no new thing for a man of easy temperament and with plenty of leisure to be attracted by a powerfully determined young woman, bent only upon securing him.

She doubted that he had a suspicion of his Bettina’s real nature, that she was, as Elizabeth thought, a veritable combination of her parents’ worst traits: noisy and vulgar like Lydia, and devious and unprincipled like Mr. Wickham.

Of Miss Wickham’s heart, Elizabeth thought very little, though she tried to believe that there might be no real harm in the girl and that her forward and ill-bred manners might be all that made a match with her worse than one with her sister.

Contrary to the usual ways of mothers, it was impossible for Mrs. Darcy to believe that the young woman was really in love with her son.

Where was the attraction? He was no more than ordinarily well-looking; he was not clever and had few of the qualities of conversation and sympathy that a woman would find beguiling, who had not a marked passion for fox-hunting.

But he was heir to Pemberley, a prize for any girl to seek, and Bettina was not the first girl in the world to try to marry for money.

Mrs. Darcy was not even sure it was fair to condemn her, considering who she was and what she came from.

What future was there for a young woman who did not marry?

If she went out to work, any hope of social and material betterment was irretrievably lost. Women who were forced to such circumstances must be respected, but were far more to be pitied, for the inevitable toil, degradation, and hopelessness involved in their condition.

A married woman might be considered her husband’s property, according to law, but in return, her husband was obliged to care for her, and there could be no doubt that every woman of small means would best be advised to marry and marry as well as possible.

Bettina must do what she could for herself, and she had little enough to recommend her—a handsome appearance, high animal spirits, and a healthy regard for her own interest, and that was all.

She had no fortune, and the highest worldly boast she possessed was her tenuous connection with Pemberley.

Her father could give her nothing, and she had not a clever mother to help her arrange matters.

Elizabeth had felt the lack of the same when she was single and had not grown too old to remember how she had envied girls whose mothers could teach them, help them, and allow them to remain modestly apart from delicate matrimonial manoeuvring.

But Elizabeth and her sisters had been far better off than poor Bettina.

Their father had been able to maintain them, after all; even if they had not married, they would hardly have starved.

The Wickhams, however, were a lamentably numerous family, and apart from their abundance of children, they had nothing.

When she thought of this, Elizabeth could almost find it in her heart to retract her hard feelings about Fitzwilliam’s engagement and pity her niece.

But there was another side to the question—Mr. Darcy’s side.

The pride of the Darcys was undoubted; and although his marriage had softened him much, Darcy could not rejoice in the prospect of this insolvent, indecorous young woman for his daughter.

That she should succeed Elizabeth herself as chatelaine of Pemberley, assume the headship of the Darcy family, and be lady of all the surrounding countryside was a painful prospect.

Was it improper, unjust pride that gave weight to such considerations?

No, decidedly not: for the marriage of Mr. Darcy’s heir affected more people than only the young man himself.

Perhaps it was unfair to suppose that Bettina would not be a model of charity, a careful custodian of Pemberley, a fitting steward of the Darcy fortune, but Elizabeth felt the conviction that she was far more likely to be on the side of extravagance, a propensity for gadding about, and a London life.

Contemplating the dilemma in sober sadness, Elizabeth resolved that the engagement, if not totally broken off, must be discouraged.

At the very least, the young people must be made to wait for as long as possible, to see if their affection would be as short lived as it was ill-judged.

It would never do for Miss Wickham to remain at Pemberley and be treated by the family as a daughter-in-law elect.

She must go at once, and Elizabeth contemplated an opening by way of Lydia, to tell her that as they were to leave for London so soon, the house party must be broken up: Mrs. Wickham and her daughter would return to Newcastle, at Mrs. Darcy’s own expense.

As for Cloe, Jane would want to claim her companion, but if Miss Wickham could not be got rid of without her sister, then Cloe must go, too.

Mrs. Darcy rose with her mind made up and sat in the breakfast room, toying with her bread and coffee, and appearing, to her husband and guests, more silent and out of spirits than they had hardly ever seen her.

“Are you well, my dear Elizabeth?” asked Mrs. Collins anxiously. “You have not overtired yourself, sitting up late? I am sure you ought not to have come down so early this morning, after a ball.”

“I am perfectly well, thank you, Charlotte,” said Elizabeth, rousing herself. “I cannot sleep late. It is more pain to do nothing than something.”

“I am the same way precisely,” said Mr. Collins, “and it is an excellent thing, too. A country clergyman cannot have the late hours that his city brother may be allowed to indulge himself with. There is too much to be done. The farm to attend to—petitions from one’s neighbours—an infinite amount of business.

I hope you will remember that, Mr. Henry, and not think you can lie in a bed of ease, now you are a clergyman. ”

“I never thought so, indeed, Mr. Collins,” replied Henry.

“That he never has,” said Jane indignantly. “Henry is always up ever so early, and he walks out and does a great deal of writing before breakfast. And Lord Frederick is the same. Are you not, Lord Frederick? Were you not in the garden hours ago?”

“You know I was,” he answered with a smile. “You were kind enough to show me all your favourite plants. I know of nothing more enjoyable than taking a lesson in botany from such a knowledgeable young lady as yourself.”

Jane blushed and turned to Mr. Collins. “No, we are all early risers here. It is only Fitzwilliam, you see, who is the lie-abed. Look now: it is near ten o’clock, and where is he? He is not downstairs yet.”

“Is it ten?” said Elizabeth, surprised. “Fancy, and it is a maxim with him that the sleepy fox has seldom feathered breakfasts. I have heard him say it a hundred times.”

“He ought to be here,” said Mr. Darcy, in some displeasure. “I have a particular wish to talk to him this morning, and he knows it. Sykes—will you send a housemaid to call Mr. Fitzwilliam? He must have gone back to sleep. I cannot comprehend it on such a morning.”

“Oh, Mr. Darcy,” said the manservant, “Mr. Fitzwilliam is not in his chamber at all; when the housemaid went to call him this morning, he was already gone.”

“Gone? What—has he taken his horse out?”

“I couldn’t say, sir. Shall I make inquiries?”

“Fitzwilliam and his early rides,” said Jane, “at least I was unjust in calling him a lie-abed, and on the morning after a ball, too. This is excessive energy, to be sure. And he does not like to miss his breakfast, as a general thing.”

“But he is not the only one missing breakfast,” added Lydia. “Oh! No! There is Lady Catherine and Betty.”

“I hardly think they are together as you have bracketed them, ma’am,” observed Jane, with a smile.