Elizabeth caught the implication at once and said warmly, “If you mean to suggest your own interest, Charlotte, you have my blessing. Only know that Mr. Collins has set himself firmly against Mr. Darcy and me. Should you marry him, you may find us on the most civil, but distant, of terms.”
Charlotte tilted her head, studying Elizabeth’s expression. “That is a grave warning. I should hate to lose your company, Lizzy.”
“I should hateit too,” Elizabeth said honestly, “but I would never counsel you against your own advantage. Mr. Collins will inherit Longbourn one day, and you know better than most the security such a position affords.”
Charlotte’s gaze wandered across the room to where Mr. Collins stood, speaking earnestly to Sir William. Her expression was thoughtful, calculating in the way Elizabeth had long recognized—Charlotte’s was a practical nature, inclined to consider comfort and stability over romantic sentiment.
Returning her attention to Elizabeth, Charlotte asked softly, “Tell me then about your courtship. I had heard whispers, but you have said nothing yourself.”
Elizabeth’s cheeks warmed, though she kept her voice steady. “Mr. Darcy and I are…in an understanding. It has not been announced, but it is known to a few. Mr. Collins has been attempting to contact Lady Catherine about it—though, so far, his letters have gone unanswered.” She did not add why those letters had gone astray, nor how Kitty and Lydia’s interception had spared her no small amount of vexation.
Before Charlotte could frame a reply, a shadow fell across them. Mr. Darcy had entered the room and was making his way towards Elizabeth with deliberate purpose, his dark eyes fixed on her.Charlotte, ever perceptive, excused herself with a graceful curtsy, her lips curving in a private, knowing smile. She crossed the floor to where Mr. Collins now stood alone, and with an air of polite interest, began conversing with him.
Elizabeth, from her vantage point, saw Mr. Collins’s posture alter almost at once—shoulders squaring, chin lifting—as if her friend’s attention had revived his sense of importance. Charlotte listened with polite patience, though now and again her glance flicked towards Elizabeth, as if gauging her reaction.
Darcy came to stand beside her, inclining his head in greeting. “Miss Bennet.” His voice was low, meant for her alone. “How are you faring?”
“Well enough,” she said, allowing a smile to touch her lips. “There have been no further…disturbances since the last disaster.”
He studied her for a moment, as though weighing the truth of her words, then inclined his head slightly. “I can only be pleased about that.”
Something in his tone—quiet, sincere—made her pulse quicken. For a moment, the crowded room seemed to recede, and she felt the odd sense of standing with him alone in a quiet, separate space, removed from all the rest.
Elizabeth had not meant to watch Charlotte too closely, but it was difficult not to notice how her friend gravitated towards Mr. Collins through the remainder of the evening. At dinner, Charlotte contrived to take the seat beside him, engaging him in quiet conversation between courses. Mr. Collins, flushed with renewed self-importance, discoursed at length about the duties of a clergyman in an elevated parish, and Charlotte listened with a polite attentiveness that seemed to embolden him.
Elizabeth could only hope her earlier words had prepared Charlotte for the realities of such a connection. Still, she could not entirely fault her friend—Mr. Collins was, at least in the eyes of the world, a secure prospect.
After the meal, Sir William clapped his hands and declared the evening would not end without a proper dance. Servants having previously rolled up the drawing room rugs, the chairs were pushed back, and the small assembly arranged themselves with cheerful anticipation. Mary was coaxed to the pianoforte—her playing, though lacking in brilliancy, was steady and reliable—and soon the opening strains of a lively country dance filled the air.
It was then that Darcy appeared at Elizabeth’s side. “Miss Bennet,” he said, offering his hand with a small, deliberate bow, “would you do me the honor?”
She accepted, her fingers brushing his in a fleeting yet unmistakable way that sent a little thrill up her arm. They took their places opposite one another, and when the music began, they moved in time, advancing and retreating, turning and crossing in the intricate figures of the dance.
Elizabeth found herself unusually conscious of every point at which the steps brought them near—his eyes meeting hers in the turn of a set, the warm clasp of his hand as they passed, the faint curl of his mouth when some remark between them made her laugh.
“I cannot recall when last I enjoyed a dance more,” he said quietly, his gaze holding hers a fraction longer than the step required.
“Perhaps,” she teased lightly, “because you so rarely dance?”
“Perhaps,” he allowed, though his voice had deepened, “but I think it more likely because of my partner.”
Elizabeth felt the words slip under her guard, leaving her with a curious mixture of pleasure and disquiet. She returned her attention to the figures of the dance, but when, at the close, he bowed over her hand, his eyes still held that steady, warm regard.
“Now I have ataste,” he murmured so only she could hear, “of what it will be to dance with you at the Netherfield Ball. I find I look forward to it more than I had thought possible.”
The moment—quiet, private, almost startling in its intimacy—was abruptly broken by the approach of Mr. Collins, who seized Darcy by the arm with the air of a man in urgent possession of valuable intelligence.
“My dear Mr. Darcy,” he began, drawing him aside with scant ceremony, “I have the most gratifying news to share—though of course, you are already well acquainted with the facts. The beautiful and accomplished Miss de Bourgh—so fair, so gentle, and, I may add, born to be mistress of two great estates—remains, I understand, quite prepared to unite her destiny with yours. Indeed, it has long been the dearest wish of her noble mother, my most honored patroness, that such an alliance should take place, thereby joining in one the vast consequence of Rosings and Pemberley.”
Elizabeth, left to stand a few paces away, could not help hearing every word. Part of her was irritated by Mr. Collins’s presumption; another part found the entire scene absurd enough to be faintly amusing. Darcy, to his credit, did not so much as glance towards her, butlistened with patient composure until Mr. Collins paused for breath.
“I had a letter from my relations only the other day,” Darcy said evenly. “Tell me, is your information more current than mine?”
At this, Mr. Collins’s complexion shifted alarmingly from red to a blotchy white. “Lady Catherine has been…uncharacteristically unresponsive to my most recent missives,” he admitted with visible discomfort. “I can only suppose her ladyship’s attention is occupied with matters of great import.”
“Indeed,” Darcy replied, his tone neutral.
Mr. Collins, clearly unsettled, muttered something about seeking out Miss Lucas and shuffled away, casting one last, sulky glance in Darcy’s direction before fastening himself to Charlotte’s side.
