“I am not resisting anything,” she said. “I merely think it best not to decide matters before—”
“Before what?” Mama demanded. “Before opportunity passes? Before misunderstandings arise? Heaven knows we have had enough of those.”
The words struck with uncomfortable accuracy. Elizabeth pushed the rest of the way out from the table and rose.
“And where are you going now? Sit down, child. You are forever darting about, as if motion itself were a virtue.”
Elizabeth resumed her seat, frowning down at her still-full plate and cold tea. She felt watched—not with hostility, but with expectation. As though her role were already written, and deviation would require explanation.
Mr Collins chose that moment to enter the breakfast room. When he paused and no one looked up with rapt anticipation, he cleared his throat.
“I had hoped,” he said, folding his hands upon his ample middle, “to speak with you this morning, Cousin Elizabeth. A matter of some importance has weighed upon me.”
Elizabeth looked to her mother. Mrs Bennet inclined her head at once.
“By all means, Mr Collins. I am sure Lizzy will be most eager to hear what you have to say.”
She turned to her mother, eyes wide in horror. Oh, no, no! Mama could not be suggesting…No!
Mary set her cup aside with interest.
Elizabeth did not trust her voice. She stood again, this time with purpose. “I am sure Mr Collins and I have nothing in particular to speak of. If you will excuse me, I wished to speak with my father.”
Mr Collins moved to block the doorway, bowing with a strange, self-contented little chuckle.
“Indeed,” he said, with a smile that suggested correction rather than consent, “that may wait. It is precisely this habit of withdrawing—of placing oneself at inconvenient angles to one’s family—that I wish to address.”
Elizabeth stopped. So… this was not… what she had feared? “I do not withdraw,” she said carefully. “I remove myself when—”
“When you ought to listen,” Mr Collins supplied. “There is a difference, Cousin, which I fear you have not yet learned to distinguish. You are fortunate in your relations, and it is only proper that you attend to their guidance.”
Mary nodded. “Instruction, when offered in good faith, should be received with gratitude.”
Mama waved a hand, as if to dismiss any suggestion of severity. “Mr Collins means only your good, Lizzy. You have a way of putting yourself forward, and it leads to misunderstanding. You must see that.”
Elizabeth’s mouth opened, then closed again as a sharp agony went winging through her head. She had learned not to wince outright, but she could hardly smother the grunt of pain as she stepped backward. She had the sudden, unwelcome sense that whatever she said would confirm the very charge laid against her.
“I… only wished to find Papa,” she said. “Has anyone seen him this morning?”
Her mother shook her head. “Oh! I daresay he is nursing an aching head this morning. He certainly drank enough punch last night. Surely, he is keeping company with his books again.”
“He was not in his study when I came down,” Elizabeth said.
“Well, then,” Mr Collins replied, “this conversation is all the more timely. One cannot rely upon indulgence forever.”
“Excuse me, Mr Collins, but it is improper for you to impose upon me with this so-called instruction of yours when my father has not been advised of your complaint. I beg you will excuse me,” she said, and stepped toward the door.
Mr Collins moved with her. Not blocking her way, precisely, but close enough that she could not pass without a spike of discomfort shooting behind her eye. She pushed past him anyway.
She moved through thehouse with the same careful steps she had learned as a girl, when the day’s temper might be read by the sound of her mother’s voice alone. The doors stood open. The sitting room lay abandoned, chairs set at odd angles from the night before. Her father’s book lay face-down upon the small table near the window, its ribbon marker crushed between pages.
“Papa?” she called, lightly at first, as though he might answer from habit rather than presence.
Nothing.
His library was empty. The chair stood pushed back from the desk, the ink dried in its well. No fire. No scent of his favourite tobacco.
She crossed the passage to the back stairs. “Mrs Hill?” she asked, finding the housekeeper sorting linen with brisk indifference. “Has my father been down this morning?”
