The procession moved through the passage, past the sideboard polished to an ambitious shine, into the dining room where the long table waited under the glow of too many candles. The room felt close tonight. Or perhaps it was only that the light pressed in from all sides.
“Jane, here, beside Mr Bingley. Yes. Lizzy—there. Mary, you will sit opposite Mr Collins. Kitty—no, not there—Lydia, for heaven’s sake, you are blocking Hill with the wine.”
Elizabeth took the chair indicated and set her hands neatly in her lap. The scent of roast meat reached her a moment later, rich and heavy. Her stomach declined it at once.
Mr Collins settled near her with evident satisfaction, smoothing his napkin as though the arrangement itself confirmed something he had long suspected. His gaze flicked toward Elizabeth, then away, then back again, lingering just long enough to make her aware of it.
She fixed her eyes on the rim of her plate and waited for the room to arrange itself properly again.
“Well,” Papa said pleasantly, “this is an excellent assembly. One would hardly suspect the world beyond Longbourn continues to exist.”
Mr Bingley laughed. “If it does, sir, it is doing so with very poor manners. The weather alone suggests a conspiracy.”
“Indeed?” Mama said at once. “We have been quite fortunate here.”
“So you have,” he agreed. “Remarkably so, in fact. My steward insists we are the envy of three counties.”
Miss Bingley dismissed the matter with a small, elegant flick of her wrist. “Country houses are forever discovering new inconveniences. A chill in the hall, a draught by the stairs—it is the same every winter.”
“Perhaps,” Mr Bingley countered easily. “Though it has been an uncommonly gentle season so far. One can hardly call it winter at all. My coachman, however, insists we are tempting fate. He is quite convinced we shall have a storm before long, and urges us not to linger tonight.”
“A storm?” Kitty repeated with interest.
“So he says,” Bingley replied. “I told him he sees portents in every cloud, but he would not be persuaded.”
Miss Bingley sniffed. “Coachmen delight in foreboding. It gives them importance.”
“Still,” Bingley went on, “I cannot help thinking Darcy would have had some opinions on the matter. He was always inclined to notice such things—soil, air, the way a season turns.” He laughed softly. “A farmer at heart, I daresay. Would that I had half his experience in these matters.”
Elizabeth’s sight dimmed for a breath, the candles blurring into pale halos before resolving again. She set her glass down with care, though she had no clear memory of lifting it.
“Oh, but you have been very busy entertaining without him,” Mama said. “A credit to the neighbourhood, I am sure.”
“I like to hope so, Mrs Bennet,” Mr Bingley replied, and for a long second, he let his eyes drift to Jane.
That suited Mama well enough that she did not bother to ask him anything else until the soup was served.
Mr Collins, however, was not built for tolerating silences, so he determined to fill it himself. “Indeed, I do fear we are bound for a particularly hard winter. It is in seasons such as these,” he said, addressing the table with careful projection, “that one is reminded how greatly Providence rewards those households governed by foresight. Economy, moderation, and a proper submission to order—these are not merely virtues, but safeguards.”
Papa sipped from his glass with dry interest. “Oh, indeed, quite right, sir. I shall take such economy into consideration, but everyone does insist on entertaining.” And then he returned to his soup.
Mr Collins shook his head. “I have always found, in my own modest experience, that preparation forestalls not only want, but anxiety. One may sleep more soundly, knowing that one’s larder reflects one’s principles.”
Elizabeth’s spoon paused above the bowl. The scent of the soup—onion and pepper, too warm, too near—made her stomach turn unpleasantly. She set it down again, careful not to spill. “A comforting thought,” she mumbled, only half answering Mr Collins.
Jane glanced at her then, just briefly.
“Still,” Miss Bingley observed, “there has been an uncommon amount of talk in London about the season—how disrupted it has been. Why, the letters from my friends in Town are full of little else. One never knows whether to expect a mild evening or something altogether more disagreeable. It plays havoc with one’s arrangements.”
“Speculation thrives where discipline does not,” Mr Collins replied at once, turning slightly in his chair. The movement brought his sleeve nearer Elizabeth’s arm. “In well-ordered families, uncertainty finds little purchase.”
Elizabeth’s teeth ground. The room seemed louder—not suddenly, but steadily, as though each voice had gained timbre and volume.
“It is my firm belief,” Mr Collins continued, “that much suffering arises not from misfortune, but from moral laxity. When one neglects one’s duty—”
Her head gave a sharp, unwelcome throb. She pressed her fingers lightly against the edge of the table, willing the sensation to pass.
Papa had stopped eating. His gaze rested on her, intent now as his eyes narrowed. Jane, too, was dabbing her mouth and staring at Elizabeth, but she was not near enough to offer any inconspicuous comfort.
