The Arithmetic Of Survival

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife. But it is a truth less often spoken, though far more deeply felt, that a single woman in possession of no fortune, plain features, and seven-and-twenty years, must be in want of a miracle—or a very practical strategy.

I stood near the edge of the assembly room at Meryton, my back straight, my expression arranged into the pleasant, unthreatening mask I had perfected over the last decade. The air was thick with the scent of cheap lavender water, warm wax, and the desperate, frantic energy of mothers attempting to secure their daughters’ futures. Sir William, my father, was presently engaged in recounting his presentation at St. James’s to a captive audience of a newly arrived subaltern, who looked as though he would rather be facing French artillery.

"Charlotte," my mother whispered, materializing at my elbow with the stealth of a seasoned campaigner. "Do stand a little more in the light. You are entirely in shadow here. And pinch your cheeks, for heaven's sake."

I obliged, stepping half a pace forward and pinching my cheeks until they stung, though I knew it would make little difference. A little extra color could not disguise the squareness of my jaw, the dullness of my complexion, or the simple fact that I was not Elizabeth Bennet.

Elizabeth was currently across the room, her dark eyes sparkling with some private amusement, her fine features animated as she conversed with Jane. They were a study in contrasts—Jane, all serene, angelic beauty, and Elizabeth, sharp, vibrant, and entirely captivating. It was no wonder the gentlemen gravitated toward them. Even the newly arrived Mr. Bingley, a man whose income was rumored to be four or five thousand a year, had scarcely taken his eyes off Jane since the dancing began.

But my attention was drawn not to Mr. Bingley, but to his friend. Mr. Darcy.

He was a tall man, undeniably handsome, with a bearing that spoke of ancient lineage and immense wealth. Ten thousand a year, the whispers had already concluded. Yet, he stood apart from the crowd, his expression one of haughty disdain. He looked upon the Meryton assembly as one might look upon a pen of particularly uninteresting livestock.

I watched as Mr. Bingley approached him, gesturing toward the floor. I could not hear their words over the din of the fiddles, but the pantomime was clear enough. Bingley was urging him to dance; Darcy was refusing. Then, Bingley gestured toward Elizabeth, who was sitting out the dance just a few yards away.

Darcy turned, his gaze sweeping over Elizabeth. I saw the slight curl of his lip, the dismissive shake of his head. He said something—a brief, cutting remark—and walked away.

Elizabeth’s spine stiffened. She had heard him. I saw the flash of indignation in her eyes, quickly masked by a bright, brittle laugh as she turned to speak to her friend, Mary King.

I felt a twinge of sympathy for Elizabeth, but it was quickly swallowed by a wave of cold, hard pragmatism. Elizabeth could afford to be indignant. She had youth, wit, and a certain unconventional beauty on her side. She could afford to wait for a man who would appreciate her fire.

I could not.

At twenty-seven, I was already considered an old maid by the uncharitable gossips of Hertfordshire. My father’s knighthood brought us prestige, but precious little income. We were respectable, but we were not rich. And when my father died, the estate—such as it was—would be divided, leaving me with a pittance barely sufficient to keep me in tea and ribbons, let alone a roof over my head.

Marriage was not a matter of romance for me; it was a matter of survival. It was an economic transaction, a contract in which I would trade my youth, my labor, and my obedience for a respectable establishment and a guarantee against starvation.

I scanned the room, my eyes moving past the handsome, penniless officers and the young, foolish squires. I was looking for something specific. I was looking for a man who needed a wife more than he needed a beauty. A man who valued order, respectability, and a quiet, uncomplaining companion.

My gaze settled on Mr. Collins.

He had arrived at Longbourn only the day before, the heir presumptive to the Bennet estate. He was a tall, heavy-looking young man of five-and-twenty, with an air of grave propriety and a tendency to bow far too low. He was currently engaged in a ponderous conversation with Mrs. Bennet, who looked as though she was trying very hard not to scream.

He was a clergyman, possessed of a comfortable living at Hunsford, under the patronage of the formidable Lady Catherine de Bourgh. He had a home, an income, and a desperate desire to marry. He was, in short, the answer to my prayers.

But he was currently setting his sights on the Bennet girls. It was only natural, of course. He felt a certain obligation to the family he was destined to dispossess, and the Bennet girls were undeniably attractive. He had, I knew from the local gossip mill, initially fixed upon Jane, but upon learning of Mr. Bingley's interest, had quickly transferred his affections to Elizabeth.

It was a foolish choice. Elizabeth would never have him. She was too proud, too romantic, too demanding of intellectual equality. She would look at Mr. Collins and see only a pompous, obsequious fool.

I looked at Mr. Collins and saw a house with a solid roof, a respectable position in society, and a life free from the terrifying specter of poverty.

I watched as he finally managed to extricate himself from Mrs. Bennet and made his way toward Elizabeth. He asked her to dance. I could see the reluctance in her every movement as she accepted, her smile strained, her eyes darting around the room as if seeking an escape.

As they took their places in the set, I moved closer, positioning myself where I could observe them without appearing to do so. Mr. Collins was a terrible dancer. He moved with a stiff, jerky awkwardness, constantly apologizing and bowing, entirely out of time with the music. Elizabeth bore it with gritted teeth, her usual grace entirely compromised by her partner's ineptitude.

When the dance finally ended, she practically fled from him, seeking refuge beside me.

"Charlotte," she gasped, fanning herself vigorously. "If I am ever forced to endure another twenty minutes in that man's company, I shall surely expire. He is the most insufferable, pompous, tedious creature I have ever encountered."

"He is certainly… unique, Eliza," I replied mildly, keeping my voice carefully neutral.

"Unique! He is a walking apology, a sycophant of the highest order. Did you know he spent the entire dance enumerating the many virtues of his patroness, Lady Catherine de Bourgh? I believe he mentioned the glazing on her carriage windows no less than three times."

"He is a clergyman, Eliza. He owes his position to her. It is only natural he should feel grateful."

Elizabeth rolled her eyes. "Gratitude is one thing; worship is quite another. I pity the woman who becomes his wife. She shall have to share her marriage bed with the ghost of Lady Catherine."

I offered a small, noncommittal smile. "Perhaps he merely lacks social grace. He has lived a rather isolated life, I understand."

"He lacks sense, Charlotte. And that is a defect no amount of social grace can remedy." She turned away, her attention caught by Mr. Wickham, a handsome new officer who had just entered the room. "Now, there is a man who knows how to conduct himself."

I watched her walk away, her step light, her future seemingly full of endless possibilities. She could afford to dismiss Mr. Collins with a witty remark and a toss of her head.

I remained where I was, my eyes returning to the clergyman. He was standing near the punch bowl, looking slightly lost, a large, awkward man in a room full of people who found him faintly ridiculous.

He was not handsome. He was not clever. He was not charming.

But he was available. And he was solvent.

I took a deep breath, smoothing the skirts of my plain, serviceable gown. The arithmetic of my life was simple, and the solution was standing by the punch bowl. I just had to be patient. I had to wait for Elizabeth to break his heart, or at least his pride, and then I would be there to pick up the pieces.

Not for love. Never for love. But for survival.

I stepped forward, arranging my features into an expression of gentle, encouraging interest, and began the slow, deliberate walk across the room.