Page 32 of Mrs Darcy’s Dilemma

It was not left, after this conversation, for Mrs. Collins to say much to reassure or to comfort Cloe. She nervously asked the girl if Lady Catherine had seemed pleased with her, and Cloe replied that she “believed so, except for her family and in particular her sister.”

“Oh! I was afraid that would come up,” said Charlotte, frowning.

“How unfortunate. I have the utmost respect for Lady Catherine—she is a very good woman, and we owe her a great deal, I believe—but, she did not actually say she wished you to leave, did she? It would be very awkward if she did, though you must believe, Miss Wickham, that we think you a very good girl and we do not at all wish to lose you.”

“Perhaps it will be best if you talk the matter over with her; I hardly know what was said or what was intended on that point,” said Cloe. “Indeed, my head is reverberating from it all, as if I were sitting next the organ in church: she does talk so loud.”

“Poor girl! Yes, Lady Catherine has been growing deaf of late, and she always had a fine declamatory tone. Well—suppose you lie down and use some of my lavender water. My youngest sister and I can take the little girls into the garden; and if you remain upstairs for a bit, you will probably not encounter Lady Catherine again before she leaves—which will be wisest.”

Cloe certainly thought that it was, and she took Mrs. Collins’ excellent advice and was soon laid down upon the bed, but sleep did not come, and she found herself revolving in her mind what she ought to do.

To stay at Longbourn did not seem possible; she felt her place in the house was a matter of indifference at best to nearly every person in it; and if that was the natural consequence of being a governess, she might, at least, be better compensated in another position.

Mr. Collins was a close man, as evidenced in many ways, not least of all in the smallness of her own salary, and his wife was too good a manager and wise a partner to counteract his lifelong habits of penury and thrift.

Cloe felt that she was fond of the little girls and had engaged their affections, but she was convinced that they would do equally well with any governess of ordinary good nature, and surely the Collinses were too conscientious as parents to engage any other kind.

The only advantage that Cloe could see in her present position was that she was not amongst strangers, for the Collinses were connections, if distant ones.

There must be some security in this, though when she considered Lady Catherine’s discourse, she did not feel very certain on that point.

She was not ill-treated by her employers; and by having accepted the position, she might be considered obliged to remain as long as she was needed; yet she could not feel that this obligation lay heavy upon her.

Therefore, if she could think of some other way to maintain herself, pleasanter and more productive of a competence, she should take it.

She recoiled from advertising again: it was so cold-blooded a way of doing, and to go to the house of strangers took more courage than she felt she presently possessed, especially as her situation was not absolutely desperate.

She knew she should be thankful that it was not, but when she thought of Mr. Collins and Lady Catherine, a rebellious spirit arose.

How far it should be indulged and given rein she did not know, and feeling uncertainty of what was right, and desiring the possibility of improving her station, and not wishing to seem ungrateful, she sat perplexed.

Though in general being self-sufficient and thinking for herself, as the circumstances of her family life in Newcastle had taught her to do, Cloe felt herself wishing for someone who could advise her—a prudent person, with more experience of the world than herself but partial to her and understanding her situation.

She thought of one, but the thought must be put away as one not to be indulged.

She loved Henry Darcy and knew she loved him, but she had no right to do so.

She could not forget him by simply ordering herself to do it, and the idea darted into her mind, unbidden,—how delightful it would be to talk all over with him!

Reminding herself that this was impossible, her next thought was of Henry’s mother, and here she felt herself on better ground.

Mrs. Darcy was her aunt; she had been unfailingly kind and sound in her judgement, and Cloe could not doubt that she sincerely wished for her happiness.

She felt she could consult her aunt, and to take such a step would even be prudent, for, in her position, Mrs. Darcy must be acquainted with many families and might know of a situation for Cloe that would be all she could desire.

With the first sensation of hopefulness since Lady Catherine had started speaking to her, Cloe wrote a letter, feeling all the awkwardness of framing her request, for it occurred to her, as she was writing, that it might be construed as an application for being invited to Pemberley or putting herself in Henry’s way.

Therefore, she endeavoured to do away with any such implications, and what with her constraint and her anxiety, the resulting letter was short.

Mrs. Darcy’s feelings, on reading it, were as warm or warmer than even Cloe could desire. She walked into her husband’s library, her face in a glow, to set it before him, but only Mary was there, arranging a pile of volumes.

“Have you seen Mr. Darcy?”

“Why, yes: he was in here, but he would not remain. I hope I have not made him feel uncomfortable in his own room. But I happened to ask him if he minded if I put out all the works of Hannah More here, on this little table in the alcove, where everyone may consult them: her wisdom ought to be imbibed every day, you know, and really with Jane in the house, the Essays for Young Ladies ought always to be at hand. It would be far better than having the tables covered with Dickens, and Scott, and Miss Edgeworth. It is not good for young people to read too many novels; they will meet with too much excitement, and I am almost sure Mr. Darcy agreed with me, though he did not say so. Do not you think he did?”

“I don’t suppose he would mind which books you put out, but where, where did he go?” asked Elizabeth impatiently.

“Who—Oh! Mr. Darcy. I believe he is writing in the parlour.”

A little checked, Elizabeth ran thither and found Mr. Darcy just blotting his letter. He looked up and smiled.

“There you are, my dear. I have just finished writing to my sister. I hope she will join our family party for the wedding, if she can leave the children; she will hardly want to bring them all. Well: what have you there?”

“It is a letter from Cloe. Look here.”

She showed him the letter, which was to this effect:

“My Dear Aunt,

I hope you may excuse my forwardness in writing in hopes of obtaining your kind advice upon a particular subject, namely, my position at Longbourn.

Please do not think that I am unhappy in my situation with Mr. and Mrs. Collins.

They are always extremely kind, and I am well-treated; and my health is excellent. But Lady Catherine has intimated to me…

(“‘Intimated!’ Mr. Darcy, that is good!” exclaimed Elizabeth.)

…that she is not satisfied with the respectability of my relations—in especial, my sister; and although Mrs. Collins assures me that the circumstance of Bettina’s profession is no impediment to her, I am persuaded that Mr. Collins feels differently.

He will not absolutely dismiss me, but I can see that he agrees with Lady Catherine at heart.

Therefore, while I have been extremely obliged to you for helping me to obtain so eligible a situation, I believe that I ought to look for another—if one can be found where my unfortunate family’s reputation is not regarded as a hindrance.

I would wish to do nothing, however, without consulting you and Mr. Darcy, who have shown me such tender consideration and interest in my well-doing.

I know, Aunt Darcy, how ready you are to invite me to Pemberley, but I believe it will be right for me to remain at my post until actually presented with another, and I am sure you will agree with my judgement on this point.

I would be only too grateful if you would favour me with what advice occurs to you; with your knowledge of the world, superior to mine, and of what is a proper course for a young person like myself to take, I should feel great trust and confidence in whatever you might recommend to me.

My hope is that a position in a family of your acquaintance that I am qualified to fill may become known to you.

I know I need not apologize for the liberty; your kindness has taught me that.

I hope that Mr. Darcy and all your family are well; and I remain, we must be careful how we advise her. I should like to get her to Pemberley—after living in Mr. Collins’ home, it must be what would be best for her.”

“Undoubtedly; but you see she does not want that. Very properly, she seeks employment. It seems to me, Elizabeth—that is, I am no governess-hiring agent—but sometimes these things do not want so much thinking-out as that; in short, something has just occurred to me. Why should she not go to Georgiana? There she would be comfortable. My sister certainly wants help with the children, and she would treat Cloe as an attached friend.”

“She would so truly be one of the family,” cried Elizabeth, her eyes sparkling.

“Oh! Mr. Darcy, what a happy thought. But it is what I should have expected from you. What a clear thinking brain you have, and what a delight that it has been at my disposal these five and twenty years—never have I had better cause to hug myself and you,” suiting action to word.

Mr. Darcy suffered her caress with very good grace; for, though he was formal in public, he showed his wife great fondness when they were alone.

“No use complimenting me over such a very trifling matter. I have not yet closed my letter to Georgiana; shall I put that in?”

“Certainly. There can be no doubt of her compliance with our demands, so good tempered and obliging as she always is, though I suppose I must not write to Cloe until the offer has actually been made.”

“No, but you may be easy. Georgiana is a very ready and forward correspondent, and you will hear very soon.”

It was not three days before the Darcys had Lady Neville’s reply and they were glad to know her as anxious to please and willing to be of use, as she had always shown herself.

All was soon settled. Cloe would be engaged to help with the Neville children; she would live only a day’s drive from Pemberley and only a few miles from her friend Jane, who was excited at the prospect of seeing Cloe again, for Mrs. Darcy would take no refusal.

Cloe was to make a stay at Pemberley for two or three months for a thorough rest before taking up her new duties, which would by no means be as arduous as those in the Collins home.

It was all as perfect as good will could make a plan, but even so, Cloe might have hesitated in consenting, had Mrs. Darcy not taken care to mention that Henry had by now taken up full residence at the rectory at Manygrove and was too busy in his new parish to come to Pemberley very often.

Cloe would be at Pemberley for Jane’s wedding, however, which prospect filled both Jane and her mother with satisfaction, and Cloe admitted to herself that there was great pleasure at not only being so welcomed and loved in the family, as a most important addition to the wedding party, but also in anticipating that she would see Jane’s husband and watch her happiness.

It was, in truth, all very delightful to think of, and in Cloe’s parting with Mr. and Mrs. Collins she was so light of heart and gay in spirits that she had a hard time pretending a proper reluctance at bidding them farewell.

She could not regret leaving their house, and tiresome as was the long journey by rail and by carriage, she felt very few of the jostles, minded not the people staring at her in the rail-carriage, and could even smile at the fat lady in the coach, with so many parcels, crammed in like herrings in a barrel, who insisted on putting some upon her, Cloe’s, feet.

She felt that she was going home, and she had to keep reminding herself that she had no right to think of Pemberley so.