Elizabeth thought of Jane, of the delicate balance she maintained between prudence and presentation.
“I believe Mrs. Collins will have an opinion on that,” she said.Jane is mistress. Not me.
Mr. Collins nodded. “Yes, yes. She always does.” There was no irritation in his tone—only a sort of pleased acceptance that Elizabeth found faintly surprising.
“Then perhaps it would be best to consult her,” Elizabeth said. It was best to continually redirect him to his daughter-in-law.
“Indeed,” he agreed.
A brief silence followed.
Elizabeth straightened, allowing her eye to rest.
“You manage these matters very capably, Miss Elizabeth,” Mr. Collins said after a moment. “I am very grateful.”
She turned slightly toward him. “I assist where I may.”
“And that assistance is of value,” he continued. “Particularly in a household such as this, where—circumstances—require a degree of adaptation.”
Elizabeth inclined her head. “We have all adapted.”
“Yes,” he said. “Yes, you have.” There was something in his tone—not quite apology, not quite acknowledgment—that surprised her. Mr. Collins was not usually prone to such sentiment.
She chose not to examine it too closely. “If there is nothing further,” she said, “I believe I shall return to my book.”
“Of course, of course,” Mr. Collins replied. “You have been most helpful.”
Elizabeth turned toward the door. Three steps. Four. The handle. She opened it and stepped back into the corridor. The air there felt lighter somehow, though perhaps that was only her own relief at leaving the close confines of figures and ink behind.
She moved slowly back toward the morning room, her steps measured, her hand brushing once more against the wall as she turned the corner.
At the far end of the hall, she heard voices—Lydia’s bright and animated, Kitty’s quieter in response.
“…an assembly,” Lydia was saying. “And a new gentleman besides! It will be the most interesting event we have had in an age.”
Elizabeth slowed her pace, listening.
“You must not expect too much,” Kitty replied. “He may be quite ordinary.”
“Ordinary?” Lydia scoffed. “With a fortune sufficient to take Netherfield? I think not.”
Elizabeth smiled faintly and continued forward. Some things, it seemed, did not change. And perhaps that, too, was a comfort.
Chapter Three
News, once introduced into a neighborhood such as Meryton, did not travel so much as multiply.
By the morning following Mr. Collins’s announcement, the single, simple fact of Netherfield’s new tenant had already grown into several distinct versions—each confidently delivered, each warmly believed. By afternoon, Mr. Bingley had acquired not only an agreeable disposition, but a most elegant carriage, a sister of superior taste, and a fortune that rose by the hour.
By the second day, Lydia declared herself perfectly certain that he would arrive with a party of no fewer than six gentlemen.
“And if he does not,” Lydia said, planting both hands upon the table as though arguing a matter of principle, “then he must be considered a most selfish creature.”
Elizabeth, seated near the window with her work laid gingerly across her lap, did not look up at once. With deliberate precision, she guided the needle through the fabric, ensuring the thread passed without snagging.
“I should not like to see a man condemned for failing to bring strangers to your entertainment,” she said.
Lydia swung toward her. “It is not my entertainment. It is everyone’s.”
