He paused, considering her words with earnest reflection. “Not contentment entirely, Miss Bennet—only that a clear sense of purpose makes even uncertainty bearable.”
Jane smiled softly, her gentle eyes warm with approval. She thought how sincerely spoken the words were, and how little they sought admiration.
Kitty, wide-eyed and attentive, nodded as if she understood every word, though Elizabeth suspected otherwise.
Lydia, however, could restrain herself no longer. “I should like to hear of something far more diverting than books,” she declared. “I want to know when I shall be allowed to go to a real ball.”
Kitty drew herself up with the air of superior wisdom natural to one a year older. “You cannot go to balls yet, Lydia. Mama says young ladies must be of a proper age—and you are certainly not.”
“And you are scarcely so very much older!” Lydia retorted, with spirited indignation.
“Girls!” Mrs. Bennet interposed at once, though not without animation of her own. “Balls are not matters for children to dispute over. Proper conduct must be learned before one is introduced into company. Young ladies must be prepared—accomplishments are well enough, but connections, situations, prospects—these do not arrange themselves!”
Mr. Bennet, observing the exchange with serene detachment, merely lifted his glass once more. “A most improving Christmas dinner,” he murmured, “in which everyone learns precisely what they already believed.”
William Collins smiled quietly at this, feeling himself—perhaps for the first time—less a visitor than a part of the scene itself.
Elizabeth caught Jane’s eye, both suppressing smiles at their mother’s familiar refrain.
“I believe, madam,” William replied, undaunted and with quiet gravity, “that when duty is pursued with steadiness, suitable prospects often present themselves in time.”
“Well said, sir.” Mr. Bennet regarded him with rare and open approval. “A sentiment worthy of the season.”
The conversation drifted naturally to the morning’s Christmas service, the family still warmed by the memory of carols and candlelight.
Mrs. Bennet, who had been laboring under an unsatisfied delight, could contain herself no longer. “And we must speak of how very handsomely Mr. Collins distinguished himself in church! Such a voice—clear, reverent, and affecting. The vicar himself complimented me afterward, declaring it a credit to the parish. Lady Lucas was quite overcome too!”
William colored deeply, lowering his gaze to his plate. “If my humble efforts gave pleasure, I am truly glad.”
Mr. Bennet raised an eyebrow. “You sang without ostentation, sir—and therefore to real purpose. A rare virtue.”
“The hymn was most suitable to the season,” Mary said, nodding vigorously. “Sacred music, rendered simply, elevates the soul and invites reflection on divine goodness.”
“The congregation was remarkably attentive—more so than to many a sermon, I daresay,” Elizabeth added lightly.
Lydia leaned forward mischievously. “And some of us noticed certain young ladies listening very attentively indeed!”
Kitty dissolved into giggles, and even Jane hid a smile behind her napkin.
Mrs. Bennet beamed. “Lady Lucas declared it a performance never to be forgotten. Sir William nodded through the entire verse!”
At the mention of the Lucases, William’s expression softened unmistakably, his eyes lifting with quiet hope. “I should be honored to renew my acquaintance with Sir William and his family, should the opportunity arise.”
Mr. Bennet’s tone was dry but kind. “It will arise, Mr. Collins. Sir William is ever eager to extend civility to those who combine good sense with good conduct.”
Elizabeth observed the subtle change in William’s countenance—the fleeting warmth, the momentary abstraction—and thought, Oxford has given him learning, but something else has touched his heart today.
As the plum pudding was brought in, flames dancing blue over its crown, laughter and chatter rose anew. Lydia teased Kitty about mistletoe, Mary offered a solemn grace over the dessert, and Mrs. Bennet, surveying her table with radiant satisfaction, thought to herself,‘This is the merriest, most promising Christmas Longbourn has ever seen.’
***
Between Christmas and the turning of the year, time at Longbourn slipped into a gentler rhythm, as though the house itself had exhaled after the season’s exertions and settled into a reflective, almost tender ease. The frost lingered upon the fields like a delicate veil. Still, indoors, the sharpness of winter yielded to steady fires, to chairs drawn instinctively closer, and to the quiet, unspoken joy of company that asked nothing beyond the pleasure of being together. William remained—not as a guest to be ceremoniously entertained, but as one quietly, almost unconsciously absorbed into the heart of the household: walking with Mr. Bennet in the crisp afternoons, listening with patient gravity to Mary’s solemn readings, bearing with good-humored indulgence Lydia’s restless high spirits and Kitty’s irrepressible giggles, and finding, whenever chance allowed, a deep and private satisfaction in Jane’s gentle kindness or Elizabeth’s quick, discerning wit. His recitations of Latin and Greek—delivered with earnest enthusiasm rather than display—often drew laughter and warm applause, revealing a mind bothdisciplined and generously open, and awakening in the sisters a soft astonishment at how very dear a cousin might become, even one whose station was modest, and whose position at Oxford was that of a diligent sizar rather than a gentleman-commoner.
Letters were written and answered, books passed from hand to hand, small errands undertaken with willing cheer, and more than one evening lingered in conversation long after the candles burned low and the fire settled into glowing embers. Mrs. Bennet, soothed by the absence of immediate alarm, spoke less urgently of prospects—though her thoughts never strayed far from them; Mr. Bennet, quietly amused and content to observe, allowed the days to unfold without interference. Beyond the windows, the old year drew softly to its close, the shortening daylight and deepening nights seeming to invite the heart to pause, to reflect, and—however timidly—to hope.
Thus it was that New Year’s Eve arrived—not with haste or bustle, but with a subdued yet unmistakable sense of expectation, as though each soul in the house felt, in its own measure, that the turning of the year opened a quiet door to new beginnings.
So, the last evening of the year settled over Longbourn with a gentle, familiar hush, the kind that wrapped the house like a well-worn quilt on a winter night. The parlor glowed softly in the firelight, the great Yule log—laid upon the hearth on Christmas Eve and carefully tended through the twelve days—still crackling low, its embers casting dancing shadows upon the walls adorned with faded family portraits and lingering sprigs of holly. The air was fragrant with wood-smoke, evergreen, and the faint sweetness of cinnamon, as though the house itself clung lovingly to the blessings of Christmas, reluctant to let them go.
