That afternoon, Darcy found Elizabeth in the little morning room where the best light fell. She stood at the tall window, looking not at the view but at the wavering reflection of the staircase glass in the pane—as if she could catch some echo of the hand that had lifted the knife.
He did not speak at once. He came to stand beside her and gave her the courtesy of silence long enough to decide whether she would speak first. She did.
“I am both angry and ashamed,” she said, still looking outward. “Angry at the insult. Ashamed that I cannot make sense of it—of any of it. And that my father is so unconcerned. I feel as if the house is a riddle and we are all too dull to read it.”
He considered. “We are not dull. We are too close. A riddle is easier to a stranger because he is not obliged to respect the cleverness of the author.”
She laughed thinly. “If these acts belong to a living hand, then the logic is not subtle. It wishes to frighten. and to command attention. It wishes to humiliate.”
“And to separate,” he added, turning to her now. “We all looked at each other in blame when we entered the hall. Just for a moment. It was very small. But I saw it.”
She straightened her shoulders. “It will not succeed. Not if we are stubborn. And we are very stubborn,” she admitted, and managed a smile.
A knock at the door—brisk, cheerful—dissolved the moment. Mr. Bingley’s voice tumbled in ahead of him. “My dear friends! I am a brute to intrude, but I come with news: the musicians are secured, Mrs. Nicholls’s cousin knows the cotillion everyone wants, and Mr. Goulding hasoffered two additional footmen for the night. We shall not lack for candles or chairs or good will. Miss Bennet,”—his tone softened as he bowed to Jane—“you will delight us all.”
Jane flushed prettily and murmured her thanks. Mrs. Bennet rushed in upon Mr. Bingley like a tide. “Mr. Bingley, you are everything that is good. We have had a dreadful morning—do not ask me to recount it—but your ball shall make all right again.”
Mr. Bingley’s eyes darted briefly to Darcy, who gave the smallest of nods that saidlater. Public cheer now; particulars after. Mr. Bingley, with that unfailing instinct for kindness that had caused all prudent people to forgive him everything from the cradle, instantly took command of merriment, praising Lydia’s altered gown, admiring Kitty’s new sash, telling Mary that he relied upon her for a country dance played slower than usual so that Mr. Hurst might keep up. Within ten minutes, Mrs. Bennet was fluttering again, Lydia had forgotten to be nervous, Kitty was vexing herself to discover whether pink gloves would stain, and Jane was happy.
Amid the light, Mr. Collins reappeared, full of pomposity. He had, it seemed, drafted a speech congratulating Mr. Bingley upon his public spirit in hosting the ball and was determined to deliver it in full; the recipient bore itwith saintly gravity. As soon as Mr. Collins took a breath, he turned to Elizabeth and beamed. “Cousin, I have taken the liberty of announcing our engagement for the second set to all the principal personages in Meryton. I find that a public notice often prevents misunderstanding. You must not disappoint.”
“I shall not,” she said, and—because he was insufferable but she was not unkind—added, “I thank you for your forethought.”
Mr. Collins looked at once satisfied and in love. “Ah! The prudence of an amiable woman!”
When he had moved on to rehearse with Mary, who had chosen a hymn as a token of gratitude and been gently persuaded to something more consonant with a ball, Elizabeth exhaled. Darcy, on her other side, did not trouble to disguise a twitch at the corner of his mouth.
“Cruel,” she murmured.
“Accurate,” he returned.
Evening fell, taking the edges of the day with it. Lamps were lit; the house settled into its ordinary pursuits as if the morning had not happened. But Longbourn was no longer ordinary. Elizabeth lay awake that night for a time, listening to the winter wind going about the eaves like a persistent beggar, and promised herself—again—that she would not be ruled by dread. The ballwould come; she would dance the first set with Mr. Darcy. She would dine at his side at supper and end the night on his arm. Between those sets, life might attempt mischief. She would meet it with light.
Chapter Twenty-Five
November 21, 1811
Longbourn
Elizabeth
“Lizzy,mayIspeakto you?”
Mary stood in the doorway to Elizabeth’s bedchamber, her figure framed by the dim corridor light. Her hands twisted in the folds of her apron as though she might wring the unease from her fingers. The seriousness in her expression banished at once any thought Elizabeth had of a casual sisterly chat.
“Of course.”
Elizabeth shifted from her seat on the bed and rose, the book she had been perusing falling closed upon the counterpane. She beckoned Mary inside with a small,encouraging smile. The air in the chamber still held the faint warmth of the fire she had built earlier, and the flames now burned with a steady glow in the grate. Mary shut the door behind her—quietly, as if fearing the conversation might be overheard—and they both settled into chairs before the hearth.
For a moment, the only sounds were the soft ticking of the mantel clock and the occasional pop from the logs. Mary’s gaze dropped to her lap, and Elizabeth could see her marshalling her thoughts like soldiers before a battle.
At last, Mary spoke, her tone both firm and anxious.
“I have decided that Mr. Collins and I do not suit,” she said boldly, though her fingers betrayed her by clenching more tightly. “Mama will disapprove, especially since I was the only sister willing to entertain him as a prospective marriage partner. But I have found in the brief time since his arrival that I cannot approve of his… less than holy behaviors—his insistence that Mr. Darcy is engaged to Miss de Bourgh, for one. It is entirely against Mr. Darcy’s characteristic manner to court another while engaged elsewhere. Mr. Collins has written to Lady Catherine many times, though I know Kitty and Lydia have intercepted the missives.”
Elizabeth smothered a grin. Mary’s sense of propriety clearly bristled at the younger sisters’interference, yet her words carried no true rebuke—merely disapproval born of principle.
“What will you do?” she asked instead, leaning slightly forward, intent upon her sister’s answer.
