For Once In His Life
By Laura Schiller
Based on Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen
"I cannot accept you!"
Elizabeth Bennet stormed out of the dining room and slammed the door, leaving a bewildered William Collins still kneeling on the floor. At the same time, the door behind him flew open to reveal a whole flock of eavesdroppers: Mr. Bennet, smirking to himself; Mary and Jane, looking blank; Kitty and Lydia, giggling shrilly; and Mrs. Bennet at the front, her hands jammed at her substantial hips, glaring after Elizabeth with a look that could peel paint.
"Headstrong, foolish child … !" she grumbled. "Don't worry, Mr. Collins, I'll soon bring her to her senses! Lizzie! LIZZIE!"
Mrs. Bennet hurtled out the door, looking and sounding not unlike the squawking flock of geese milling around the gate. William collapsed into an empty chair, the mother's shrieks and the daughters' giggles making his ears ring.
"Maidenly delicacy, eh?" said Mr. Bennet, chuckling. "I'd say that when a girl turns you down three times, it's a little more than that."
"I am beginning to agree, sir," he muttered, hardly knowing what he said. "If you would excuse me, I am feeling rather – I would like some fresh air."
Mr. Bennet's smirk fell right off his face, making William wonder just how miserable he must look and sound. He had always done his best to preserve a dignified appearance, as befitting a clergyman under the patronage of Lady Catherine de Bourgh; this was not dignified. Therefore, he had better make his exit.
He picked up the thistle he had tried to give Elizabeth; the little purple flower reminded him of her, prickly and independent, with a subtle beauty apparent at the second glance rather than the first. She had flinched away from the flower as if it were a snake.
He escaped through the open garden door, walking in the opposite direction from Elizabeth and her mother, and tossed the flower onto the vegetable patch.
William Collins was no stranger to humiliation. His father had abused him as a child, both verbally and physically; later on, his peers at the seminary had (in a manner quite unfitting for future men of God) had often made fun of him for his poor family background, small stature, prominent ears and awkward demeanor. No matter how hard he tried (and he did try very hard indeed), he could never manage to say the right things, let alone find someone who would actually care about him. This rejection by Elizabeth, family audience and all, only compounded further the image he had of himself: Lady Catherine's protegé, who aside from that position, was of no value to anybody in this world.
It was in this mood that he spotted a tall lady in gray walking by; intending to pass him on her way to Longbourn, she stopped instead at the sight of his pale, tight-lipped expression. "Mr. Collins," she asked, in a low, pleasant voice filled with concern. "What is the matter?"
He recognized her from the Netherfield ball, and several other occasions since; it was Elizabeth's friend, who had listened to his glowing descriptions of Rosings Park so politely that he couldn't help but be grateful. He had never needed a good listener so much as now.
"Good day, Miss Lucas," he said, with a small bow. "Do not be alarmed. There is nothing very serious the matter with me; it is only that Miss Elizabeth – with her customary perception and intelligence – has seen fit to refuse my offer of marriage."
She clapped her hand to her mouth to disguise a sudden cough (or was it a laugh?), but her green eyes looked down at him with genuine sympathy. "I am sorry," she said. "Lizzie can be somewhat quick in her judgement at times. I hope she was not uncivil towards you."
Privately, William was hurt by Elizabeth's behavior, and her family's more so, but since they were also his own relations, he replied haughtily: "Miss Elizabeth's behavior was all that was proper and appropriate to the occasion."
Miss Lucas raised an eyebrow at him, but did not comment. Instead she turned and – to his surprise – began to walk down the lane away from the house, in the direction of the woods; the same direction he had been about to take.
"Pardon me, Miss Lucas, but were you not intending to call upon the Bennets?"
She shrugged, a wry half-smile appearing at the corner of her mouth. "I daresay they have enough to be getting on with at present."
"In that case, might I have the pleasure of escorting you to … er … wherever it is you are going?"
Miss Lucas' half-smile blossomed into a real one as she linked her arm through his. "You may."
William could hardly believe his good fortune, nor the impulse that had driven him to say that. This lady was the first person to treat him with anything like kindness in a long time (aside from Mrs. Bennet's greed for a son-in-law and Lady Catherine's condescension towards a humble dependent), but was that any reason to get so close to a near stranger? Was he being rude? Imposing on her in any way? Should he drop Miss Lucas's arm and make himself scarce, or would that be even more rude?
"You will forgive Lizzie, won't you?" she asked, proving that she did in fact wish to talk. "She is your cousin, after all."
"Certainly," said William automatically. "I would be a poor Christian if I did not forgive."
"She's a Bennet," Miss Lucas continued, with a sort of rueful admiration for her friend. "Nothing can induce them to do what they do not wish, especially as it concerns matters of the heart."
That did it. William's temper, kept in check throughout the entire embarrassing scene with Elizabeth, finally snapped. Bennets, indeed! He had spent his childhood listening to his father's drunken slurs against that branch of the family, and was beginning to think the old b – the old fellow had been partly right.
"I do not understand it!" he burst out, not even noticing the tight hold he had on Miss Lucas' hand. "How could she be so – so obstinate? I offered her a home, and protection! That is something to be thankful for, is it not, Miss Lucas?"
"Indeed." She looked away, and then back at him.
"We cannot all afford to be romantic," he continued bitterly. "Handsome people may be as fastidious as they please in selecting a spouse; others do not have this privilege."
He looked over at her face beneath her bonnet – thin, freckled, with a sharp nose and wisps of stringy brown hair escaping from its bun. He remembered that she must be about thirty, and still single. Confound it; now he had put his foot in his mouth again!
"N-not that I meant to imply, dear Miss Lucas, that your appearance is in any way displeasing – "
She held up one hand to shut him up. "Please, Mr. Collins. I know perfectly well I am no beauty."
Anxious to please, as usual, and to make perfectly sure he had not hurt her feelings, William said the first thing that came to mind: "You are a lady of good sense and kind nature, and these are qualities far superior to mere fairness of face."
Miss Lucas dropped her eyes and blushed – actually blushed. He had not supposed that possible in a woman of her age.
"You are the first man to tell me that," she said.
William made a habit of thinking out elegant things to say in his head, gallant compliments to smooth his bumpy road to social acceptance. This compliment to Miss Lucas was, for once, completely unrehearsed – yet it had worked.
"My dear Miss Lucas," he said, beaming, "I merely spoke the truth."
The next look she gave him was steady, thoughtful, as if taking his measure. Her eyes were more hazel than geen, he noticed, with little flecks of gold in them. Her freckled cheeks were still pink.
"Do you know," she said, "After seven-and-twenty years, I am quite tired of being known as Miss Lucas."
That puzzled him.
"What other name would you prefer, madam?"
She stopped walking, tugged at her bonnet strings nervously, and took a deep breath. "Suppose you called me Charlotte?"
It was his turn to blush, and quite intensely. Her Christian name?
"Er – you do me great honor, Miss Lucas, however – that is to say – we should have to be on much more intimate terms for such a form of address to be – to be appropriate."
"Exactly." She nodded, dropped his arm, and instead held both his hands between hers, all the while keeping her hazel eyes firmly fixed on his face.
"I know this is all rather – untoward, Mr. Collins," she said, "But if you leave, I may not have another opportunity. We each have what the other most needs – I need a home; you need someone to look after it. Marriage would be a reasonable solution for us both, would it not?"
Lady Catherine would have been outraged by the sheer impropriety of Charlotte Lucas's proposal; the Bennet family would have been convulsed with laughter over the pragmatism, so at odds with the romantic idea of marriage as the result of passionate love. William Collins did none of these things. He prayed his thanks to the Lord, kissed Charlotte's hand, and for once in his life, managed to say the right thing.
"Charlotte Lucas, please do me the honour of accepting my hand in marriage."
Once more, he got another sight of her plain face illuminated by a smile.
"I will."