“And so you encouraged Mr. Collins.”
Mrs. Bennet did not blush. She did not lower her eyes. “I allowed the match to proceed. It was never my intention to direct Charlotte toward Mr. Collins, but when it became clear that he meant to offer for one of my sons’ friends—or relatives—it seemed the only reasonable course.”
Lady Lucas’ smile tilted, just slightly. “And I encouraged Charlotte to accept.”
Then she said nothing for a long moment. The silence was filled by the ticking of the mantel clock and the distant sound of one of her younger children—a boy, perhaps, though it was difficult to tell at such a remove—shouting in the orchard behind the house. Sir William was away for the day, having gone to Meryton on some vague errand connected to the town council. The children were under the maid’s indifferent eye.
“You are not unkind, Mrs. Bennet,” Lady Lucas said at last. “But you are not always merciful, I daresay.”
“I am not a mother of daughters,” Mrs. Bennet said quietly. “My sons must make marriages that strengthen their futures. A poor match—a marriage without sense or portion—would hurt them more than it would hurt Charlotte.”
“And Elias?”
“He understands. He does not speak of it.”
“No,” Lady Lucas said, setting her cup down, “but I wonder if he ever will.”
The tea had long since cooled. Outside, the shadows had begun to stretch across the lawn, reaching toward the gravel path in that leisurely fashion peculiar to late summer afternoons. From the orchard came the sound of children’s laughter—young Miss Amelia Lucas had apparently fallen into a patch of long grass and been rescued with exaggerated heroism by her younger brother. Their shrieks echoed through the open windows, unheeded by the two ladies who remained fixed in their chairs, their conversation no longer idle.
Lady Lucas shifted slightly, as though she might rise, but did not. Instead, she leaned forward, setting aside her cup with unusual care. “You know, I once thought Elias would be the safest of your sons.”
Mrs. Bennet turned to her, brows lifted. “Safe? In what sense?”
“In the sense that he seemed content to observe rather than to act. He never courted attention, never sought admiration. He was simply present. Listening, thinking, always so calm. One never expected sudden declarations or wild affections from Elias.”
“No,” said Mrs. Bennet softly, “but it would have been the quieter sort that carried furthest. If he had spoken to Charlotte, even once, even indirectly… I might not have been able to intervene.”
Lady Lucas looked away, her gaze fixed on some distant spot in the garden where a bee hovered uncertainly over a clump of clover. “And yet I wonder,” she said, after a moment, “if they did not say more to each other in their silences than most couples manage with speeches.”
Mrs. Bennet said nothing.
“You do not regret it?” Lady Lucas asked, without accusation.
Mrs. Bennet’s expression did not change, but her voice—when it came—was lower, tinged with something unreadable. “I regret that the world is not kinder. I do not regret protecting my son from hope that could never have borne fruit.”
Lady Lucas sighed. “There are worse things than hope.”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Bennet. “Disappointment, for one. Resentment. A life begun with too little and burdened with too much affection to be borne easily.”
They were quiet again. The room was too still, too weighted with memory for comfort.
It was Lady Lucas who broke the silence at last, tapping her fingers lightly against the armrest of her chair. “Charlotte is content, and quite at peace with the path her life has taken. She has a fine, sturdy boy—Nathanael, a spirited little rebel—and is now expecting another. Mr. Collins writes often enough, though I daresay his time is much occupied, particularly now that he must consider the support of a growing household.”
“As he always has,” Mrs. Bennet replied, her voice recovering a touch of amusement. “With the diligence of a man who believes every thought must be recorded and transmitted, regardless of its relevance.”
“Charlotte says he speaks often of you. He believes himself greatly indebted too.”
“He is not wrong,” said Mrs. Bennet, not without irony. “Though I cannot think my intentions toward Charlotte are ones he would fully comprehend.”
“He speaks now with greater detachment. Lady Catherine is more permissive since her daughter became Mrs. Darcy. The wars over, her ladyship now plans to travel abroad.”
Mrs. Bennet blinked. “Abroad?”
“So Charlotte reports. Something about an Alpine cure and her ladyship’s desire to observe the glaciers personally. I suspect her maid will find the adventure less invigorating than her mistress.”
“That will leave Mr. Collins at leisure to pay more frequent visits to his parishioners—and his relatives.”
“Indeed. He hinted as much. Charlotte believes he may visit Meryton before Michaelmas.”
