A small table nearby held the remains of their evening tea—crumbs from seed cakes, half-empty cups, and a plate of sugared almonds that Lydia had raided with mischievous delight earlier, before being shooed off to bed with a muffled protest and Kitty’s sleepy giggles echoing from the stairs. Outside, a light frost silvered the windows, muffling the world beyond, while distant church bells in Meryton began to toll faintly, as if bidding a tender farewell to the old year.
Mrs. Bennet had retired early, declaring herself quite worn out from the day’s trifling excitements—though not before calling down from the chamber that she expected “no nonsense with staying up too late”—and already dreaming aloud of the new gowns she might persuade Mr. Bennet to allow in the spring. Mr. Bennet, after lingering just long enough to observe that “another year survived is cause enough for celebration—or at least for a quiet escape,” had withdrawn to his library with a candle and his favorite volume of Tacitus, which he intended to read for improvement. However, he suspected it would chiefly serve for amusement. From upstairs came the occasional creak of floorboards as the younger girls settled, a gentle reminder that the whole house turned softly with the hour.
This left Jane, Elizabeth, and William Collins in peaceful possession of the fireside. Jane and Elizabeth sat close on the settee, their embroidery hoops abandoned in their laps, while William occupied the armchair opposite, his book of sermons closed at Jane’s gentle request. He had been reading aloud earlier—passages on contentment and divine providence that perfectly suited the reflective mood—and now joined their quieter conversation with an ease that felt almost brotherly, as though the firelight itself had woven a delicate bond among them.
The clock ticked steadily on the mantel, and after a comfortable silence, Jane spoke, her voice soft and thoughtful. “It is strange to think another year has slipped away so quietly. One cannot help wondering what the next will bring—new faces, perhaps, or changes we cannot yet imagine.”
Elizabeth, leaning her head against the cushion, smiled at her sister with fond mischief. Jane always hopes so gently, as if the world were kinder than it often proves. “I hope it brings fewer uncertainties and more resolutions. Years that end in riddles are tiresome indeed.”
William looked between them, his expression one of quiet interest, the firelight catching the earnest warmth in his eyes. “Do you never permit yourselves, dear cousins, to form hopes for the future—beyond what is immediately known? You are now sixteen and fourteen—full of promise and grace. But how do you picture yourselves four or five years hence?”
Elizabeth’s smile faltered for a moment, a shadow of old anxiety touching her eyes. “If it were left to Mama, we should both be married long before then. The entail upon Longbourn never gives her peace.”
Jane’s hand sought her sister’s, a silent reassurance, while William leaned forward, his voice gentle yet firm. “You must not trouble yourselves about such matters tonight. Mr. Bennet is still young and in excellent health. How can we entertain somber thoughts on the threshold of a new year?”
Elizabeth felt a quiet wave of gratitude wash over her, warming her heart toward this unexpected cousin whose kindness dispelled the shadow as softly as dawn scatters night. His tone brightened suddenly, infused with eager enthusiasm. “Come, let us dwell on wonderful things. Tell me—what do you most desire for your future? Not now, but in five years, when youare fully grown into the remarkable ladies I already see before me.”
Jane colored faintly, her fingers smoothing the edge of her work, but she answered with her usual serenity. “A home of my own filled with harmony and affection, rather than grandeur. A husband amiable and open-hearted, whose kindness is natural and constant—never boastful, but felt in every thoughtful action. Someone whose principles are steady, whose fortune is sufficient without ostentation, and who values quiet happiness above all society’s show.”
Elizabeth listened with a tender smile. She describes a man who could make any house a haven.
“And you, Lizzy?” Jane asked.
Elizabeth laughed softly. “I should want a husband whose mind is as lively as his affections are deep—one who values truth above flattery, whose pride, if he has it, rests upon principle rather than vanity, and whose attachment can endure trial.”
William listened intently, his hands clasped, something tender and protective stirring within him. “Your wishes do you both great credit,” he said earnestly. “If such men exist—and I believe they must—I shall count it among my chief ambitions to see you happily bestowed.”
Jane smiled shyly; Elizabeth arched a brow. “Your favorite cousins?”
“Generously and truly,” he replied. Then, with hopeful diffidence: “And perhaps you may one day lend the same good wishes to my own hopes with Miss Lucas. I should wish to be worthy before I speak more openly.”
Jane touched his hand lightly. “Of course, we should be glad to speak well of you, William.”
“And gladly,” Elizabeth added.
The clock struck midnight then, its first chimes ringing clear and solemn through the house, joined faintly by the answering bells of Meryton, just as a sleepy voice floated down the stairs—“Did you save me any almonds?”—Lydia’s final raid upon the evening, drawing soft laughter from the three below.
Jane squeezed Elizabeth’s hand; Elizabeth returned the pressure with sisterly warmth, and William sat back, a gentle dream of future happiness lighting his countenance, a calm contentment settling over him like the fire’s dying glow.
‘Whatever comes,’Mr. Collins thought,‘it will not find us unprepared—or without affection to guide us.’
In that shared silence, as the embers dimmed and the old year faded into memory, there lay the promise of beginnings brighter—and hearts perhaps already touched by the first, tender stirrings of love—than any of them yet knew.
Six
September 1811, Rosings, Kent
The drawing-room at Rosings was one of those apartments in which authority seemed to reside as naturally as the furniture. High ceilings, tall windows, and a severity of arrangement left little doubt that comfort, though present, was subordinate to consequence; and the lady who presided there appeared to consider this no defect.
Lady Catherine de Bourgh occupied the place nearest the fire, not from any indulgence of personal ease, but because it was plainly the station from which conversation might be best directed. Her manner was decisive, her voice firm, and her opinions delivered with a confidence that suggested long habit of being attended to. She spoke now of parish matters, now of family connections, now of the unseasonable dampness of the weather, then of the management of estates—never doubting that each subject, however briefly introduced, required her full and authoritative judgment.
Opposite her sat a tall gentleman of grave aspect, whose composed attentiveness and restrained replies marked him at once as a near relation and a person accustomed to the exercise of self-command. He listened more than he spoke, yet when he did speak, it was with a clarity and precision that showed his mind to be both cultivated and exact. This was Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy, her nephew, visiting from Derbyshire, and regarded by her with a mixture of pride and proprietorial interest.
A third person, placed somewhat between them, engaged with evident goodwill yet lesser solemnity, followedthe conversation with ready acquiescence. Mr. Bingley’s countenance was open and animated; his agreement came easily, his smiles more readily still, and though he deferred to Lady Catherine with all proper respect, it was plain that he did so from good nature rather than awe. His presence lent the room a degree of warmth which it might otherwise have lacked.
They were thus engaged—Lady Catherine expounding, Mr. Darcy considering, Mr. Bingley politely assenting—when the door opened and a footman announced a visitor.
“Mr. William Collins.”
