Page 16 of Fortuitous Encounters

“Woe to the rebellious daughter who spurns her parents' commands and follows her own sinful inclinations. A woman's role is to submit meekly to authority.”

“Mary, had I spent a twelve-month studying Fordyce, I could not have come up with a more offensive or misguided quote; though most of his writings are similar drivel, so I suppose it is to be expected,” Elizabeth snarled. “What else do you have?”

“Let the women learn in silence with all subjection. A proper young lady accepts her parents' guidance without protest, however unpleasant she may find it.”

With a low, seething voice, Elizabeth said, “I will not meekly submit to my cousin, parents, or any other person. Mr Collins, you must look elsewhere, as I will die before I marry you, nor will I ever submit to an interfering and ignorant old busybody like Lady Catherine. Based on that strongly stated desire, I must request you release me from those first two dances. As you can clearly see, Mary would be a far better choice for you, and Lady Catherine would find her vastly preferable to me.”

Would Mary gasp in shock and finally recognize the hypocrisy of her position?

Her sister surprised her yet again. “You are a shameful, sinful, daughter, Elizabeth. I would jump at the chance to accept the proposal you so spurn.”

“AHA! Problem solved!” Elizabeth yelled triumphantly. “Mr Collins, you have found your perfect helpmeet. Release me from our first two dances, and you may acquaint yourself with your future bride.”

“NO!” he snarled. “I shall not have my hand turned at the first obstacle, nor have my life dictated by an obstinate-headstrong girl. I understand it is the practice of elegant females to first deny a match they will ultimately accept, to increase their suitor’s love by suspense. I will lead you to the altar ere long! I will not give up the privilege of the first set! That is how a gentleman publicly stakes his claim. Lady Catherine herself could not advise otherwise. I shall dance the first with you and remain by your side the rest of the evening.”

Jane looked paler than she had in the worst of her sick days at Netherfield, while Kitty and Lydia giggled, Mary looked at her disapprovingly, and Mrs Bennet looked ready to jump into the breach.

“I will not dance with you! Not now! Not ever!”

“Then you shall not dance at all. Those are the rules of propriety, as you would well know had you a better upbringing, but I believe I am up to redressing the lack in your understanding of your place in the world once we are married and under Lady Catherine’s tutelage.”

“Do you plan to allow him to speak to you like that?” she seethed at her father, barely keeping her temper in check.

“He seems to be speaking to you.”

“And what do you have to say about his extraordinary claim that my wishes are of no importance? That he will somehow browbeat me into kowtowing to the wishes of a brute? That my life will be plagued by his senile patroness?”

“I daresay you will survive two dances with the man. Should he ever propose, then I will decide your fate at the time. Do not mistake my customary laxness with weakness. You will submit to my will in the end.”

“FINE!” she bellowed in a tone suitable for Lydia.

With a huff, she snatched her father’s walking stick from his hands and bashed the top of the coach about twice as hard as necessary, then continued banging away relentlessly until the coachman came to a panicked stop, while the rest of the occupants were briefly stunned into silence.

The second motion ceased, she yanked the door open, jumped to the ground, turned around, and yelled furiously at the top of her lungs.

“As I said, I will not dance with Mr Collins…not now… NOT EVER! There is no point going to a ball where I not only cannot dance but will have to put up with such a despicable man—despicable men—all night.”

“You will not!” Mr Collins screamed, and he dragged himself out of the seat, as if he meant to reach out and return her by force.

The cleric was a tall, heavy, balding man, though he looked more like a man of forty around the middle than his twenty-five. He was certainly far bigger and stronger than Elizabeth. He may well have managed to drag her back in had she not slammed the door on his face, breaking his nose and setting up a ruckus to end all ruckuses.

She yelled at the top of her lungs. “DRIVE ON! NOW!”

There were well over a hundred yards between herself and the coach before anybody had a chance to react, by which time she had taken off towards Meryton, running as if chased by wolves, as Mr Collins cursed loud and long using very un-cleric-like language, and her family looked on with expressions suitable to their natures.

It said quite a lot that running headlong down a gravel drive, an hour after full dark, in a ball gown and dancing slippers, in late November with a thin cloak, substantially improved her situation!

The Netherfield Ball

Mr Collins was still cursing while trying to stanch the bleeding in his nose when they arrived at the Netherfield ball.

Their arrival turned into a melee exiting the coach—or at least it was for most of the occupants. Entirely put out and worried sick, Jane jumped to the ground and ran headlong into the house before the footman even placed the step. She arrived at the receiving line before the rest of her family even reached the stairs. She had no thoughts for her appearance, as she just wanted to get away from them and was exceedingly worried about her sister.

Her head was full of nothing but dark thoughts, to the point where she barely curtsied to the Bingleys before entering the ballroom at as close to a run as she could manage, while the Bingleys looked at her in various states of confusion or derision.

Where would Elizabeth go in the middle of the night? What would her father do? What would Mr Collins do? Could she somehow get Lizzy to her relatives in London, and if so, what then? What happened to reverse her father’s two primary characteristics: indolence and cruelty? Most confusingly, why was his professed favourite being treated worse than Lydia? Why so suddenly?

She was so distraught she could not even find the wherewithal to be embarrassed when she ploughed straight into some man. She would certainly have fallen, which would have just been the cherry on the plum pudding, had he not caught her by the arms and pulled her back upright.