The words were true enough. Wickham’s company was easy. Uncomplicated. He brought with him a sense of gaiety that she found restorative. If she was overtired, if the remnants of the ball had lingered longer than expected, an hour’s conversation would surely set her right again.
And yet, even as she settled herself more firmly into the chair, she could not shake the peculiar impression that something essential had been mislaid—not lost, precisely, but removed without notice, leaving the rest of the day to adjust around the absence.
She dismissed the thought at once.
Fatigue, and perhaps a touch of winter malaise. Nothing more.
“Lydia, do sit downthis instant—Kitty, you are blocking the light,” Mama said, clapping her hands once in emphasis. “Mr Collins, pray take that chair. Yes, that one—no, not with your back to the door.”
“I am quite content to stand, Mrs Bennet,” Mr Collins replied solemnly, though he shifted anyway, aligning himself where he might be seen to advantage. “Indeed, it is most agreeable to remain active when in company. It sharpens the mind.”
“That is very true,” Mama said, beaming. “Jane, you may pour—Mary, do not hide behind the pianoforte, child.”
Elizabeth paused just inside the doorway, taking in the scene as Kitty darted toward the sofa and Lydia followed, whispering fiercely about who ought to sit nearest the window. Mary adjusted her book with deliberate care and lowered herself into a chair as though preparing for examination.
Mr Collins turned at last, his expression brightening with unmistakable satisfaction. “Ah! Miss Elizabeth. You are just in time.”
She inclined her head and crossed the room, aware as she did so of how closely the air seemed to smother—of how every sound arrived a fraction later than she expected. She dismissed the sensation at once and took the seat Jane drew out for her.
“You are well?” Jane murmured.
“Perfectly,” Elizabeth said, and smiled because it was expected.
Mr Collins cleared his throat, folding his hands with intent. “I was remarking, only moments ago, upon the singular harmony of your family arrangements. One feels, upon entering this room, a most improving atmosphere.”
Lydia rolled her eyes with minimal discretion.
A stir near the door preceded the announcement, the brief murmur of a servant’s voice carrying across the room.
“Mr Wickham, Mr Denny, and Mr Saunders, madam.”
Mama rose, her expression arranging itself into cordial animation as the gentlemen were shown in. Mr Wickham entered with his companions close behind, hats in hand, his manner already attuned to the room—easy without presumption, attentive without haste.
Wickham’s gaze crossed the room and found Elizabeth’s. But he tore it away to perform the expected pleasantries. “Mrs Bennet,” he said, bowing when he was presented. “I feared we might have intruded upon an established assembly.”
“Oh, not at all, not at all! Come, Mr Wickham, Mr Denny… and you, Mr Saunders. Girls, make room, make room. Oh, Mr Collins, a little space if you please.”
Mama busied herself directing the officers toward the seating nearest the hearth, eager that they be both visible and comfortable, while Kitty and Lydia hovered close enough to require only the slightest encouragement to be included. Mary relinquished her place at last, though not her book, and withdrew to a straighter-backed chair with visible resignation.
Mr Collins cleared his throat.
“Sir,” he began, drawing himself up with an air of conscious importance, “permit me to extend my welcome, not merely as a relation of this family, but as one entrusted with certain—ah—duties of moral regard.”
Wickham inclined his head at once. “You are very good, sir.”
“It is always a satisfaction,” Mr Collins continued, “to receive gentlemen whose conduct reflects credit upon the circles in which they move. Propriety, I need hardly say, is the foundation of all harmonious society.”
Wickham inclined his head with commendable seriousness. “I should expect nothing less, sir.” He waited for the pause that followed—polite, inevitable—and then turned.
“Miss Elizabeth,” he said, as if the rest of the room had only just resolved itself around her. “I was sorry to miss you yesterday. I am glad we did not arrive too late.”
“Only just,” she answered with a smile. “But you are so well attended that you must be forgiven.”
“I came armed,” Wickham replied, a glance toward his companions making the excuse lightly. “One never knows what claims may be made upon a gentleman in such company.”
“And most wisely so,” Mr Collins said, inserting himself with a pleased air, “Society, when rightly ordered, is both a pleasure and a responsibility.”
Elizabeth’s fingers tightened in her skirts. The throbbing pulsed—not sharply, but insistently, as though something were knocking from the inside.
