“I have already resolved to inform Mr. Collins that this tentative courtship is at an end. I shall tell him he is free to seek his own interests. Mama can have no cause for complaint. You and Jane will marry very well, and so she will have a home when Papa dies.”
Mary drew in a steadying breath, her chin lifting with resolve. “If I am to marry, I would prefer to have a man whose beliefs are more…Christian. Mr. Collins cares too much for Lady Catherine and not enough for his flock.”
Elizabeth’s smile softened into something warmer—more approving. “That is a keen observation. I have pondered his manner and have decided our cousin has a strange mix of pomposity and sycophancy. He believes himself superior while bowing and scraping to those he feels are his betters. Have you noticed how he will defer to Papa but speaks down to us ladies? No, I do not believe that a marriage to such a man would please you. Our father raised us liberally. We are given more freedoms than most women of our station. It would be difficult to lose any of them.”
She reached out and laid a hand on Mary’s arm, the firelight catching in the gold threads of her cuff. “Mama will be made to see reason. And I do not believe our father will force you into a marriage you do not want.”
Mary’s eyes, often clouded with her own reflections, were bright with gratitude. “Thank you, Lizzy. I am pleased I came to you for counsel.” She hesitated, her lips pressing together before a sharper, almost mischievous spark entered her gaze. “Now, if only we could solve Longbourn’s mystery.”
Elizabeth let out a quiet sound of agreement, glancing towards the shuttered window as though it might offer answers. “The mischief-maker grows bolder. Did the desecration of Papa’s portrait not feel…personal?”
“Yes, I thought so,” Mary replied, her brow furrowing. “Up until then, most of the… incidents…felt as though they were designed to inconvenience us. The spilled wine, I believe, was an accident. But the portrait? It has an air of distinct malicious intent.”
“We must be on our guard,” Elizabeth replied. The words were steady, but her mind was already turning over possible motives and opportunities. “I hope soon we might investigate the house. The culprit is surely hiding here somewhere.”
Mary nodded slowly, as if turning over the thought in her mind. “Yes. Do you suppose the old servants’ quarters mentioned in Aunt Phillips’ story still exist? Could the offender be hiding there?”
“I have considered it. Mr. Darcy will join me in a search soon. Right now, we seek to gather more evidence.”
“Perhaps I shall join you.” The determination in Mary’s tone made her seem older, her habitual solemnity transformed into purpose. Rising, she smoothed her skirts with an almost ceremonial gravity. “For now, I go in search of Mr. Collins. I must tell him his… attentions are no longer desired.”
Elizabeth could not help but admire the set of her sister’s shoulders, her back ramrod straight and her step deliberate as she moved towards the door. The swish of her gown against the rug carried a note of finality, as if this decision—long brewing—had at last found its hour. She watched Mary go, thinking that whatever else Longbourn’s walls had seen in recent weeks, they were now to witness a moment of quiet, dignified defiance.
Mr. Collins had the sense—or rather, the pride—to keep Mary’s decision from Mrs. Bennet. Elizabeth suspected it was not consideration for Mary’s feelings that sealed his lips, but rather the unwillingness to appear rejected before the household. Pride, she reflected, was often a subtler silencer than courtesy.
Still, the evidence of his mortification was plain enough to see. At tea that afternoon, he positioned himself apart from the main cluster of chairs, taking refuge near the window as if the weak November light might shield him from observation. His long legs were drawn awkwardly beneath him, knees at stiff angles, and his eyes darted periodically about the room as though searching for a safe conversational harbor. Lacking one, he contented himself with the steady consumption of biscuit after biscuit, each vanishing into his mouth with almost mechanical precision.
Elizabeth watched over the rim of her teacup, the delicate china hiding the twitch of amusement she could not quite suppress. The light from the window glanced off his hair, which had been plastered down with what she suspected was an over-generous application of pomade. It glistened in heavy, precise ridges along his scalp, lending him an oddly amphibious aspect.
Mary, for her part, kept her eyes fixed on Jane, her expression calm and composed, as though nothing in the world could draw her attention away from their quiet discussion of muslin, ribbons, and the particular shade of blue silk Jane was considering for the upcoming Netherfield ball. Every so often, a faint, resolute line would appear at the corner of Mary’s mouth—an almost imperceptible tightening that Elizabeth recognized as her sister’s way of steadying herself when tempted to moralize or scold.
“Will you accompany us to Lucas Lodge this evening?” Mrs. Bennet inquired, her tone brisk but cordial. She had been in excellent humor all morning, no doubt owing to the prospect of another evening’s social engagement and the opportunity for her daughters to be seen and admired. “Sir William has a wonderful soirée planned. It would be an excellent opportunity to practice dance steps, as he usually orders the rugs rolled. And though Mary is often prevailed upon to play, I am certain Elizabeth could be persuaded to take her place.”
Mr. Collins’s eyes flicked towards Mary, his lips pressing together in what Elizabeth privately deemed a parody of dignified reflection. “I do not believe I shall be inclined to dance this evening,” he intoned, each word delivered with the weight of solemn importance. “Instead, I shall mingle withSir William’s guests. They are to be my future neighbors, and I must come to know them.”
At least he keeps silent, Elizabeth thought. If Mama discovers Mary has put him off, she will fly into a rage… or a fit of nerves. She took another sip of tea, hiding the upward curve of her mouth behind the cup’s rim.
In the corner of the room, Kitty and Lydia sat side by side with the former’s ballgown spread across their laps in a froth of fabric and ribbon. Since Lydia’s gown had been deemed essentially new—owing to its recent destruction and complete reconstruction—the sisters had decided to turn their attentions to making over Kitty’s favorite. Their method was both ruthless and creative. They had dismantled two older gowns entirely, taking the overskirt from one and affixing it to the other, trimming away a row of passementerie here, adding a cluster of ribbon rosettes there. The two bent industriously over their work, heads nearly touching, their chatter punctuated by the occasional snip of scissors or the rattle of a needle against a thimble.
Elizabeth, glancing at their progress, could not deny that the end result would be charming. Kitty’s pale green silk, now adorned with a scalloped overskirt of white figured satin, had an elegance it had never possessed before. If only the same energy and cooperation could be applied tohousehold duties, she thought wryly, Longbourn would run as smoothly as any great estate.
Mrs. Bennet, however, had no eye for their needlework just then. She was intent upon plying Mr. Collins with attentions, leaning towards him in her chair, her voice lowered to a syrupy sweetness that she no doubt believed persuasive. “Another biscuit, Mr. Collins? Or perhaps one of Cook’s almond cakes? They are especially fine today. And tell me, have you heard from Lady Catherine of late? She must be most eager to hear your impressions of Hertfordshire.”
Her guest mumbled something noncommittal, his expression caught between discomfort and self-importance. He accepted another biscuit, though with less enthusiasm, and soon his shifting in the chair grew more frequent. At last, with a faint clearing of the throat, he rose.
“I shall just go to my chamber to see to some correspondence,” he announced, brushing crumbs from his waistcoat. “Lady Catherine insists I write regularly. I have not yet had a reply to my last…” He trailed off, perhaps recalling too late the sensitive nature of the subject, and with an awkward bow to the assembled company, left the room without another word.
From the corner came a muffled snicker. Lydia’s shoulders shook; Kitty covered her mouth with one hand, her sewingneedle poised in the other. Mary cast them a swift, disapproving glance—one which plainly communicated her opinion of unseemly mirth—but she refrained from voicing her censure.
Elizabeth silently thanked her for it. For now, their united efforts to keep Mr. Collins from writing to Lady Catherine about her nephew’s supposed engagement—and thereby interfering in matters infinitely more important—remained intact. The fewer ripples in that particular pond, the better.
Sir William Lucas’s drawing room was already a pleasant chaos when the Bennets arrived—candles glowed in every sconce, laughter rose above the gentle scrape of chairs, and a set of musicians were tuning in the corner. The rugs had indeed been rolled up, and the polished boards gleamed under the light, ready for the evening’s dancing. Mrs. Bennet swept forward with Lydia and Kitty in her wake, eager to greet Lady Lucas and claim the best position for observing the proceedings. Jane was soon claimed by Mr. Bingley for a turn about the room, and Mary gravitatedtowards the pianoforte, speaking quietly with one of the Lucas daughters.
Elizabeth, meanwhile, found herself beside Charlotte near the refreshments table. Charlotte, with her usual clear-eyed assessment of a room, glanced over Elizabeth’s shoulder and remarked in an undertone, “Your cousin is not hovering near Mary this evening. I confess I thought them very much in company at Mrs. Phillips'.”
Elizabeth allowed herself a small smile. “That was before Mary informed him they would not suit. She was forthright and quite unshaken in her resolve. I believe his pride is still mending.”
Charlotte’s eyebrows rose, a spark of interest lighting her eyes. “Indeed? I had thought him rather… attentive. And now that his affections are unengaged—” She trailed off delicately, as if weighing the import of her next words.
