Mr. Collins bustled towards them with Mary at his side, his face set in an expression of self-importance laced with faint censure. “I must insist you show better propriety. It is not right for young ladies to speak with men without a proper chaperone.”
Elizabeth’s smile cooled. “We are hardly unattended, sir. And these gentlemen are known to us.”
Darcy’s pleasant expression vanished. His voice when he spoke was cool as cut glass. “Miss Bennet, will you introduce us?”
“Of course. Mr. Darcy, Mr. Bingley, ourdistantcousin, Mr. William Collins.”
Jane had barely completed the introductions before Mr. Collins surged forward. “Mr. Darcy? Of Pemberley?”
Darcy inclined his head, offering no more than a courteous nod.
“Why, what a remarkable coincidence! I am Mr. Collins of Hunsford Parsonage, sir! Your aunt, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, is my patroness! I had the extreme honor of calling upon her on Sunday, and she and your cousin are in the best of health! Your betrothed, Miss de Bourgh, is a fragile flower—elegant and refined. I look forward to the day when I might officiate your nuptials!”
Elizabeth’s heart dropped like a stone, but Mr. Darcy’s reply was swift and firm. “I am not betrothed to my cousin, sir.”
“But your good aunt assures me it is so,” Mr. Collins protested, clearly scandalized. “Surely, you would not call your aunt a liar.”
Darcy’s jaw tightened, his tone clipped but controlled. “It is a favorite tale she spins—that she and my mother planned such a union from my first moments.In truth, my mother had no such desire. Now, I insist you cease importuning me on the matter.”
“But—”
Mary, with quiet decisiveness, placed a hand on Mr. Collins’s arm. “Mr. Darcy knows his business better than anyone else. If he were betrothed, he would own it, for he is an honorable and just gentleman. We have known him these four weeks at least.”
Mr. Collins blinked at her, perplexed, but inclined his head.
Perhaps there is hope for him yet,Elizabeth thought, though the notion felt tenuous at best.
They resumed their walk towards Longbourn, with the gentlemen accompanying them. Kitty and Lydia trailed behind, sharing a paper bag of sugared almonds and lemon drops, their self-satisfaction evident. Elizabeth suspected they would regret such indulgence long before supper.
Chapter Twenty-One
November 19, 1811
Longbourn
Darcy
TheypausedjustoutsideLongbourn’s door, the late afternoon light slanting across the gravel drive in long golden shafts. The crisp scent of autumn leaves hung in the air, mingling with the faint aroma of wood-smoke from the kitchen chimneys. Inside, muffled voices and the clink of china spoke of tea being laid in the drawing room. Darcy stopped walking, and Elizabeth, still holding her gloves in one hand, turned to look at him, curiosity bright in her dark eyes.
“Miss Elizabeth,” he began, feeling an uncharacteristic tightness in his throat. He had faced parliamentarydebates, magistrates, and the responsibilities of a great estate with far greater ease than he did this small, determined woman. Clearing his throat, he pressed on. “Our beginning was…different, but you graciously gave me another chance to prove my worth. I wish to enter into an official courtship. With you. May I speak to your father?” The words came out in a rush, far less eloquent than he had imagined them in the sleepless hours of the night before, but they were honest.
A slow smile began to grow on her face, softening her features in a way that made his heart stumble. “Yes, I think a courtship sounds very agreeable,” she replied. “I confess, upon our first meeting, I found you to be the most objectionable man I ever had the misfortune of encountering, but my feelings now are quite the opposite. Though our acquaintance is slight, I believe we have much in common.”
He let out a breath he had not realized he had been holding. “Then I may go to your father?” he asked, almost eagerly.
“Yes, sir, you may go to my father. I shall take you there myself.” She looped her arm through his, and together they stepped over the threshold into the warm, familiar air of Longbourn. The hall smelled faintly of beeswax and old roses; sunlight filtered through the fanlight above thedoor, casting patterns on the polished floorboards. They traversed the long hallway, the muted ticking of the tall clock marking each step, until they came to Mr. Bennet’s study. Elizabeth knocked lightly on the door, and Mr. Bennet’s dry voice called for them to enter.
“Why, Elizabeth! And Mr. Darcy…what a surprise.” Mr. Bennet was seated in his high-backed chair behind a desk strewn with books and papers, a half-filled teacup beside him. He raised an eyebrow and gave them a look of undisguised amusement. “You have been keeping secrets from your mother, my dear,” he said to his daughter, his eyes glinting. “I applaud your efforts.”
“Mama is occupied with Jane and Mr. Bingley,” Elizabeth replied with a hint of mischief. “Mr. Darcy would like to speak with you—”
“Yes, I thought as much. Very well, sir, I am listening.” Mr. Bennet leaned back in his chair, folding his hands over his waistcoat, a picture of genial expectation.
Darcy glanced at Elizabeth, silently wondering if this was not a conversation better conducted in private, man to man.
“Elizabeth is the subject of the discussion, Mr. Darcy. She may stay to hear it all.” Mr. Bennet’s lips twitched, and Darcy had the distinct impression he was being toyedwith.
Very well, two can play at this game. Darcy squared his shoulders. “Mr. Bennet, Elizabeth has agreed to come away to Scotland with me.”
