The interruption was quiet, but it carried weight. The room stilled.
Elizabeth turned toward him at once.
“I beg your pardon,” Darcy continued, his manner grave and perfectly civil, “but I cannot allow a supposition to pass uncorrected when it concerns myself. No engagement exists between my cousin and me, nor has any been proposed.”
Mr. Collins stared, then bowed hastily.
“Indeed, Mr. Darcy! I meant no offence. It is merely that such a union has long been anticipated, and Lady Catherine’s wishes…”
“My aunt’s wishes,” Darcy replied evenly, “are well known to me. They do not constitute my intentions.”
There was a brief silence.
Mr. Collins looked from one to the other, his confidence wavering but not yet extinguished. “Ah, well, of course, of course. I meant no presumption.”
Bingley, sensing the awkwardness and determined to banish it, laughed lightly. “Come, come, Mr. Collins. Let us not settle marriages before dinner.” He directed him to join his sisters.
“I am sorry,” she said quietly, her tone sincere but unembarrassed. “He means no harm.”
“I am aware,” Darcy replied.
Elizabeth’s lips curved, despite herself.“So, the estates are not to be united,” she said lightly.
Darcy paused – only for a moment. “No,” he answered. “They are not.”
“I am sorry. I know you value your privacy. Only my cousin cannot say enough good things about his patroness.”
“And Mr. Collins speaks of uniting our estates?” he said, with a slight emphasis that did not escape her.
“Oh, that was… Mr. Wickham.” She looked at him for his reaction.
“I see,” said Darcy, after a moment. “Mr. Wickham is… very communicative.”
Elizabeth smiled – and then checked herself. The smile felt ill-timed the moment it appeared. However, it was one thing to listen, in private, to a story related with such confidence and openness; it was quite another to find its conclusions proclaimed aloud, and before those whom they most concerned.
Darcy gestured for Elizabeth to return to her sister, who was now surrounded by the Netherfield party.
Mrs. Bennet rang the bell with brisk authority, and soon a tray was brought in with glasses of sherry for the ladies and a bowl of warm Negus[1] for the men. She presided over their distribution with great satisfaction, urging each guest to partake, and protesting that no one must stand empty-handed in her drawing-room.
Next to Elizabeth, Charlotte’s eyes danced with restrained amusement. “Well done,” she murmured softly. “You have saved us all.”
Elizabeth exhaled. “Only for the moment, I fear.”
Conversation resumed, if not with its former ease, then at least with sufficient animation to satisfy the company. Mr. Bingley, eager to smooth what had passed, drew Jane into discoursewith his usual warmth, speaking of the weather, the roads, and the pleasures of a country evening so agreeably conducted. Charlotte Lucas listened with attentive civility; Miss Bingley, standing near her brother, offered observations of her own, precise and polished, though not without calculation.
Mr. Darcy joined them.
Elizabeth remained at a little distance, near enough to hear, yet taking no part beyond what courtesy required. She knew her silence could not pass entirely unnoticed – and yet she could not quite bring herself to remedy it. Once or twice, she felt her mother’s eye upon her, as if wondering at a composure so unlike her usual spirits.
She answered when addressed, smiled when occasion demanded it, but the liveliness of her manner was subdued, her attention turned inward in a way that was uncommon to her.
Darcy observed it almost at once. It struck him as a change, and one not easily explained; he could not determine whether it arose from embarrassment, displeasure – or something in himself.
He could not have said when his attention first fixed itself upon her – only that, in the midst of easy conversation, he became sensible that Miss Elizabeth, usually so quick and animated, was unaccountably quiet. The contrast struck him. He watched her for a moment, then another, with an attention he did not attempt to justify.
Elizabeth, meanwhile, was perfectly aware of her own reserve and felt it with increasing unease.
It occurred to her – reluctantly, yet with clarity – that she had been forward in censuring Mr. Darcy for a want of manners, and yet had herself listened, with too little caution, to afree discussion of his conduct; that she had accepted, without sufficient reserve, opinions communicated in confidence, and now found herself exposed, however unintentionally, to the charge of the very impropriety she most disliked.
