Page 8 of Mrs Darcy’s Dilemma
The family party that gathered at Pemberley each Christmas had naturally grown larger with the years; but the increased number did not induce Elizabeth to anticipate the festivities the more.
“I always said I was an unsociable creature,” she told Mr. Darcy, as she sat in her dressing-room on a bright but cold December morning.
A light etching of snow was crusting the brown fields, and the trees were hung with ice.
“I would rather walk in the fields than sit in the warm house, being civil to my relations.”
“You like your walks. So do I, especially when I am with you. But, consider, Elizabeth, how very cold it is! We have had to have fires in the stables the last three nights.”
“So you turn aside talk about my family with talk about the animals,” said Elizabeth playfully.
Mr. Darcy smiled. “Is it so very bad? But you want to tell me more about the prospect of the festivities of the season, and I will listen.”
“Well, my love, to say the truth, the idea of so many guests oppresses me.”
“That is not much like your rational self, to be sure, Elizabeth. It is more like my unsociable self. However, there will be one number less, at least—Henry leaves tomorrow and does not return for a fortnight, the day before Christmas. That will thin your feared crowds.”
Elizabeth turned from the mirror and laid down her silver hairbrush. “But Henry is the most sensible person in this house, besides ourselves, naturally. I am using modest words to say immodest things—but it is true, when he departs, he takes with him most of the sense at Pemberley.”
“It does not strike me for the first time,” observed Darcy, “that you have preference for your younger son over your elder.”
“I should not like it to appear so. But truly, there is something so amiable about him, coupled with quickness of mind—I do find Henry bewitching.”
“And Fitzwilliam dull.”
Elizabeth sighed. “It is not dullness I object to in Fitzwilliam—one can be good, and truthful, and virtuous, even if not clever, but I so often fear he is not what he should be. Think of his attachment to Miss Wickham. It is most decided, and it shows a want of delicacy, even of rectitude, that I find most painful.”
“I did speak to him.”
“I know; and I hope it had its effect. If he does not heed you, he will be absolutely ruined.”
“That is a strong speech, Elizabeth.”
“Perhaps—but at least it had the happy effect of turning my thoughts from my Christmas guests.”
“Well, let us hear who is coming that is so very dreadful.”
“Everyone who has any claim on us, by virtue of relationship by blood or by marriage.”
“Oh, come! I daresay your father will not make the trip at this time of year?”
“No, he is too infirm and does not wish to be travelling. I fear he is declining; Mary writes me word. There cannot be much to hope. She has been very dutiful and will not leave him even for a holiday. I wish I could see them both.”
“We must visit them, in the spring.”
“Yes; that we must. But they will not be here at Christmas, you see, nor anybody else that I really want—such as Bingley and my sister Jane.”
“So far you are only telling me about who is not coming. At this rate the house will be empty. Well, and what keeps the Bingleys away?”
“Why, you must know, they are having company, too, as all the world does at Christmas that is not company themselves—the Gardiners go to them, and Bingley’s sister, and some friends of Jeremy’s.”
“Jeremy! There, Elizabeth, is what will make you less discontented with your own children.”
“Mr. Darcy, I am not at all discontented, you know very well. But it certainly is better to have three children who may be troublesome now and then but are really most satisfying, than one insufferable, spoilt puppy. I am so sorry for my dear sister when I think of Jeremy. She and Bingley—so loving as they are, and with such excellent understanding—but affection blinds reason, I suppose. It is a pity.”
“True. I never see young Jeremy without wishing to kick him. But it seems that I am not to see him, this season. I cannot say I am sorry. Well, Elizabeth: I am still waiting for you to name the fearful list of who is coming to Pemberley.”
“What think you of the Collinses?”
“Our acquaintance with them has been of long enough duration for you to be tolerably aware of my opinion. I have endured your Cousin Collins quite every Christmas for this last quarter of a century. Only tell me, are all the young Collinses coming too?”
“No; only Mr. Collins and Charlotte. There is no occasion for inviting all the children and grandchildren. But there’s one mercy, they do not arrive until after Christmas Day, for Mr. Collins must preach his sermon in Hunsford.
You will delight in him, I know, as much as ever—I am sure you will tell me, as you always do, to beware the man of one book or one idea. That is certainly Mr. Collins.”
“But, Elizabeth, you will be pleased to see your old friend.”
“I cannot tell,” Elizabeth hesitated. “I am afraid that Charlotte is one who has not improved with her years.”
“She never was handsome, and time cannot be expected to have altered that, but you do not refer to her looks. Yet you can hardly complain of her temper, for Mrs. Collins was always a sensible, amiable woman.”
“To be sure, so she was, but I think she is less now. I have lived long enough to observe that when people are thwarted for too great an extent of time, their natures often grow sour, and that may be the case with dear Charlotte.”
“Thwarted? But surely she is satisfied with her marriage.”
“Oh, yes. If Mr. Collins is a piece of absurdity, Charlotte knew it when she made her choice, and she dotes on her fine family of children.”
“Where, then, is the source of the bitterness?”
“I should not say such a thing, but to you,” said Elizabeth, “only I cannot help it, for I feel it. The good Collinses have added half-a-dozen children to their household, yet that house is as small as it ever was. Mr. Collins is my father’s next heir in the entail, but his enduring dream, of inheriting Longbourn, has not come to pass, and in short, the disappointment is keenly felt.
My father still commits the dreadful crime of living, and Mr. Collins has had many years to consider that a gentleman without an estate is like a pudding without suet. He is unhappy and makes Charlotte so.”
“I am concerned to think it, my dear, and wonder if you are unjust. The Collinses have never struck me as designing people.”
“It is just what can never be shown to the daughter of the very person they desire to see in his grave. They must inherit Longbourn, but there is nothing they can do to hasten it short of hanging poor Papa, and until it does fall to them, they must live, cooped up in their inadequate house, in the considerable shadow of their esteemed patroness, Lady Catherine de Bourgh. No wonder they like to visit here at this season, to escape their prison and hate us at close hand.”
“It is well that we can oblige them by having them here,” replied Mr. Darcy, “though I should think it too painful a topic to afford you much amusement. I am surprised that Lady Catherine has not enlarged their house for them.”
“Oh, the more crowded they are, the more satisfaction she has in her solitary grandeur, by comparison. And since her daughter’s death, I believe she has felt herself rather neglected, except for attentions from the good Collinses.
But I will not say a word against Lady Catherine.
She must be getting old at last, poor soul, if it is possible to conceive such a thing. ”
“She must be seventy at least. I am sure she has not changed an atom; age itself could dare make no inroads on Lady Catherine. But we will be able to judge for ourselves, I suppose, as she accompanies Mr. and Mrs. Collins.”
“Yes; and I am glad that at least one of your relations will be here, though it is Lady Catherine; for it consoles me for the intrusions of mine.”
“I have often thought,” observed Mr. Darcy, “that she is more intolerable than the whole dozen or so of them together.”
“You see, I have made you as spiteful as myself. Just in good time for the holiday. Oh! What a Christmas it will be at Pemberley, with the girls coming out. Mr. Darcy, we must make another trip to town, to see about the decorations. Jane has had her gown from London this long time, but I should like to see that my nieces are properly dressed, as well. The dressmaker ought to be able to finish some white gowns in time, but we will have to drive as far as Derby to get proper slippers…”
“Why, Elizabeth, how unlike you to choose me as your confidante about matters of finery—though perhaps with three girls to bring out, it is understandable. But you have not half finished telling me about the party, and I should much rather hear about that. It is a pity that the Gardiners have promised to go to Swanfield instead of to us.”
“Yes, I am sorry for it. So kind and amiable as they are, they would make things go pleasantly, if anyone could. Your sister, dear Georgiana, or General Fitzwilliam, would have a similar soothing effect, at least on my spirits if not on the ball itself, but they are not to be had.”
“Georgiana continues to recover well, I trust?”
“Oh, yes. Lord Neville wrote so kindly, and I have had a note from her as well, now she is able to write, but you know, a confinement at forty, even where there is a fine family of children already, is a very serious matter, and it will take some time for her to recover her strength. No, we must do without dear Lady Neville this season.”
“She will not be well enough to go to London, either, I suppose.”
“I should imagine not.”
“And General Fitzwilliam is still in India. I wish he would retire and come home; I miss my dear old cousin. He will have grown as hoary as myself—hoarier, with the Indian sun, and he is the older of us two. Dear fellow!”
“And he has never married,” said Elizabeth thoughtfully. “I suppose he never will, now.”