By supper, the rain came down in earnest. It had begun as a fine mist not long after noon, scarcely enough to mark the windows beyond a soft dimming of the light. By evening, it had thickened into a steady fall that drummed upon the glass, darkened the lane, and blurred the world beyond Longbourn into little more than shifting gray.
Elizabeth sat at her usual place, though her meal had gone nearly untouched. The megrim that had driven her to her chamber earlier had eased enough for her to rise, but not enough to restore her appetite. She held her cup in both hands, letting its warmth steady her, while her attention drifted again and again toward the window.
Mrs. Bennet, by contrast, had no stillness in her at all. “I do not like it,” she declared for at least the fourth time, twisting her napkin between nervous fingers. “I do not like it in the least. To have Jane out in such weather, and with that dreadful sky growing darker every moment—oh, it is a most wretched thing.”
Kitty glanced toward the window. “It was not raining so hard when she left.”
“It is raining hard now,” Mrs. Bennet replied, as though this were the only fact of consequence. “And she is not here.”
At the head of the table, Mr. Collins continued eating with untroubled composure. “My dear Mrs. Bennet,” he said, after swallowing a mouthful with satisfaction, “there is no occasion for alarm. Matters proceed exactly as they ought.”
Elizabeth lowered her cup.
Mrs. Bennet turned toward him at once. “As they ought?”
“Yes, yes.” Mr. Collins dabbed his mouth with his napkin. “It was always likely that Mrs. Collins would be prevailed upon to remain at Netherfield should the weather turn. Indeed, under present circumstances, it is the most natural outcome.”
Elizabeth felt her spine straighten slightly.
“Present circumstances?” Kitty repeated.
Mr. Collins nodded, evidently pleased with his own foresight. “A lady invited to dine, detained by weather, and urged by hospitable friends to remain the night. Such developments are often of the greatest consequence in forming stronger social ties.”
Lydia, who had thus far seemed more interested in her potatoes than the conversation, looked up abruptly.
“Away from Thomas?” she asked. “He will be very upset.”
Mr. Collins blinked. For the first time since the invitation had arrived, his certainty faltered. He set down his fork and frowned faintly. “Thomas?”
“Yes, Thomas,” Lydia said, as though she could not imagine what had become of his understanding. “He always wants his mother at bedtime.”
Kitty added softly, “And in the morning.”
Mr. Collins’s expression shifted into something like surprise. “I had not,” he said slowly, “considered that.”
Elizabeth looked down at her plate for a moment, lest the thought in her mind become too visible upon her face. No, she suspected he had not. Mr. Collins was not a man of deep thought.
Mrs. Bennet gave a small gasp of renewed agitation. “Oh! The poor child. And Jane, in such weather, perhaps unable to return—though of course it would be extremely desirable if she were asked to stay—yet Thomas—oh, I do not know what to wish.”
Elizabeth rose quietly from the table. No one stopped her. She crossed to the window at the far end of the room and stood there, one hand resting lightly upon the sill. Beyond the glass, the rain came down in silvery sheets, catching what remained of the evening light and breaking it into long, wavering lines. The lane was nearly invisible now. The hedges had dissolved into shadow.
She imagined Jane on the road in the gig, the old conveyance jostling over softened ground, Nellie’s steady but aging pace unequal to the worsening weather.
A small knot of worry tightened in her chest. It was not panic or alarm, but merely concern, steady and insistent. Behind her, Mrs. Bennet was still speaking, her voice rising and falling with every fresh speculation. Lydia and Kitty answered now and then.Mr. Collins had grown rather more subdued, and Elizabeth thought perhaps the mention of Thomas had done what no argument could have managed.
The sound of footsteps in the hall drew all attention at once. Mrs. Hill entered, her expression composed, though there was a dampness at the hem of her skirt that suggested she had come directly from the door.
“There is a message from Netherfield,” she said.
Elizabeth turned sharply.
Mrs. Bennet half rose from her chair. “Well? Well, do not stand there in suspense—what does it say?”
Mrs. Hill unfolded the note she carried.
“It is from Mrs. Collins,” she said. “The axle on the gig broke when she departed Netherfield. She was obliged to return at once.”
“The gig?” Mr. Collins said sharply, disapproval written on his face.
