Elizabeth shifted her stance and crossed her arms tightly over herself—she could hardly help it. Her eyes were starting to water.
Mr Collins shifted with her. “—that ensures the stability of our communities.”
Jane glanced sideways. “Lizzy, are you well?”
Elizabeth lifted a hand to her ear, fingers pressing lightly. “Perfectly. Pay me no mind.”
Denny laughed at something Mr Collins had said. “Most amusing, sir! You catch us at an opportune time, for we were just returning to our barracks. I was giving Mr Wickham a tour and introducing him around town.”
Wickham inclined his head. “Ah, yes, I am indebted to you for introducing me to Mrs Morris and her excellent larder, as well as Sir William and his equally splendid cellars. I very much look forward to meeting more of Meryton’s fine residents if they are all so welcoming.”
The sound in Elizabeth’s ear did not vanish. But it… well, it shallowed somehow. The ringing, which had tightened to something like a snapped violin string, loosened just enough that she could distinguish his words again from the noise that had been riding them. Her head felt… less compressed. Not clear—no, not comfortable. Merely tolerable.
Mr Collins resumed at once, encouraged by the attention. “How generous of you, sir! I am certain that I, too, shall find the good neighbourhood excessively welcoming whenI—”
The sound sharpened again, quick and unwelcome. Elizabeth’s jaw tightened. She turned her head slightly, as though angling away from the sun, and the pressure eased by a fraction. Enough to breathe. Enough to think.
It had to be the cold. The walk. The lingering effects of her illness. Or possibly a new ailment altogether. Perhaps Hill still had some drawing salve she could apply when she returned home.
Wickham, to his credit, listened with courteous patience, his expression easy, unstrained. When Mr Collins paused for breath, he remarked mildly, “You must find the county quite pleasing compared to… Kent, was it? Ah, yes, I have been there a handful of times. Lovely country, but somewhat rocky soil, as I recall.”
Elizabeth lowered her hand, the better to hear Mr Wickham, when she became aware that the screaming pain in her ear had eased somewhat rapidly.
The relief was incomplete. Unreliable. It came and went with her attention, with the cadence of voices, with the way the group stood arranged upon the road. She could not have said why it improved when Wickham spoke, only that it did.
The idea was… well, it was obscenely convenient. How clever she was to develop some sort of allergy to an odious man while the agreeable-looking ones brought relief! Indeed, Papa would laugh rather heartily at her contrivance. She scoffed and rolled her eyes at herself. If only she could claim such a selective malady!
And yet, when Mr Collins spoke again, the agony crept back—only for a moment, but still… Curious.
Hooves sounded on the road behind them, and Elizabeth turned more from instinct than curiosity. Mr Bingley reined in with an audible laugh, already half out of the saddle.
“Well! This is a fortunate meeting, indeed,” he called. “We were just thinking of calling on you at Longbourn, Miss Bennet. And Miss Elizabeth, how very pleased I am to see you looking so well.”
Mr Wickham turned at once, recognition lighting his face. “Bingley?”
Bingley blinked, then broke into a broad smile. “Wickham! Upon my word—I had no notion you were anywhere near Hertfordshire.” His gaze dropped to the uniform, then lifted again, quick and incredulous. “Darcy, did you know of this?”
Mr Darcy was already dismounting, but he seemed to freeze in place as his eyes found the man in question. His jaw flickered—just once, then his boot found the ground, and he shook hishead. “I did not.”
Wickham laughed lightly. “The regiment keeps its own counsel, it seems. I enlisted only two days ago. Good to see you again, old boy.”
Darcy hardly even inclined his head. But he did glance at Elizabeth, his eyes scarcely touching hers before his gaze retreated again.
Mr Collins drew himself up, his expression brightening with renewed purpose. “Mr Bingley, you say? How exceedingly fortunate. I have had the pleasure of hearing your name spoken with the highest regard in the neighbourhood. Your hospitality at Netherfield is already quite the subject of admiration.”
Bingley laughed, a sound as easy as his dismount had been. “You are very kind, sir. I am always glad to make new acquaintances.”
“And your companion,” Mr Collins continued, turning with deliberate ceremony toward the other gentleman, “Did I hear you name him as—” He paused, eyes sharpening with a kind of anticipatory reverence. “Mr Darcy? I trust that is…theMr Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley in Derbyshire, son of the late George Darcy, esquire, and nephew to Lord Matlock?”
Darcy inclined his head. “I believe you have me at a disadvantage, sir.”
Mr Collins’ hands clasped together as though the word itself had completed some long-prepared sentence. “Indeed. Indeed! How gratifying—how truly gratifying to encounter you here, sir, and under such circumstances! Why, truly, fate has smiled on me. I am Mr William Collins, at present residing with my cousins at Longbourn, and entrusted with the spiritual guidance of a most respectable parish in Kent.”
Darcy acknowledged this with a second, briefer bow.
“I need hardly say,” Mr Collins went on, warming at once, “that your name is known to me through channels of the utmost propriety. Your estate, sir—your family—your connections—” He smiled, full and confident. “My noble patroness, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, speaks of you often.”
Elizabeth felt a flicker of something like dread, though she could not have said why. She watched Darcy closely now, half-expecting him to bristle, or withdraw, or—she did not know what. Instead, he remained still, his expression composed to the point of severity.
