“I cannot imagine,” he said at last, more to himself than to anyone present, “what I have said to occasion such a response.”
Mrs. Bennet gave a small, impatient wave of her hand. “Oh, it is nothing. Jane is only overly sensitive.”
Mr. Collins frowned slightly. “Nevertheless,” he said, “it may be prudent for me to review the accounts. There are certain figures I wish to confirm.”
Elizabeth suspected this was his means of retreat. He inclined his head once more and left the room, his steps measured, though his expression remained troubled. Silence returned.
Mrs. Bennet turned at once toward Elizabeth. “Well,” she said, lowering her voice slightly, “it would be a very good thing for Jane.”
Elizabeth did not answer immediately. She considered her words. “Mr. Bingley may wish for sons of his own,” she said at last, her tone mild. “To inherit his estate.”
Mrs. Bennet dismissed this with a quick shake of her head. “Nonsense. He will purchase another. Something very near—quite convenient. Then Thomas may learn to manage Longbourn, while Mr. Bingley’s own son inherits the other estate. It would answer perfectly.”
Elizabeth felt the faintest tension return. Her mother’s plans were already forming—arranging themselves with a confidence that took little account of Jane’s wishes.
“It is early,” Elizabeth said gently.
Mrs. Bennet leaned closer. “It is never too early to consider what is best.”
Elizabeth did not argue. She knew better. Instead, she let the moment pass, her gaze resting somewhere just beyond her mother’s shoulder.
Mrs. Bennet sighed. “And of course,” she continued, “we must consider what is to become of you.”
Elizabeth’s attention sharpened. “Of me?”
“Yes. My poor girl.” Mrs. Bennet’s tone softened, though not in a way that entirely reassured. “You must understand that your circumstances are…different.”
Elizabeth said nothing.
“It is not that you are without charms,” Mrs. Bennet went on, with evident earnestness. “Only that gentlemen may not always recognize them as they ought.”
Elizabeth’s fingers tightened slightly against her skirt.
“You will always have a place here,” Mrs. Bennet added quickly. “With Jane. And her children. It is a very comfortable situation, and quite suitable.”
Elizabeth inclined her head. “Yes, Mama.” Mrs. Bennet’s words contradicted what she had said earlier about Jane marrying Mr. Bingley, but she did not bring attention to that point.
Mrs. Bennet smiled, evidently satisfied with the arrangement she had outlined.
Elizabeth rose. “I think I shall go out for a walk,” she said.
“So soon?” Mrs. Bennet asked.
“The air is pleasant,” Elizabeth replied. She reached for her walking stick, her fingers closing around it with familiar ease.
Mrs. Bennet watched her for a moment, then nodded. “Yes, yes. Do not go too far.”
“I shall not.” Elizabeth moved toward the door, her steps steady, her posture composed. As she passed into the hall and the quiet closed around her once more, she allowed herself a single, slow breath. The morning light waited beyond. And she went to meet it.
Chapter Seven
The morning had scarcely settled into its usual rhythm when the note arrived.
Elizabeth was seated near the window in the smaller morning room, her book open but only half attended, when she heard the distinct cadence of footsteps in the hall—measured, purposeful, accompanied by the soft rustle of paper. A moment later, Mrs. Hill appeared at the doorway.
“For Mrs. Collins,” she said, holding out a folded note upon a small tray.
Jane, who had been seated at the writing desk reviewing a list of household accounts, looked up at once. She set her pen aside, rose, and crossed the room with composed ease.
