Darcy watched until she had gone. When he turned back, Mrs. Collins remained standing.
“I, too, should be glad of rest,” she said. “If it is not too great a trouble.”
Miss Bingley’s smile returned, though it had altered slightly. “Not in the least. You will be shown to a chamber at once.”
A servant was summoned.
Mrs. Collins inclined her head once more, her composure unbroken, and followed without further word.
Darcy observed her departure. There was something in the restraint she maintained—something deliberate and steady—that held his attention longer than he expected.
The door closed. Silence lingered only a moment. Then Miss Bingley spoke.
“I cannot imagine,” she said, her voice sharpening as the pretense of politeness fell away, “how such a situation could be allowed to occur.”
Mrs. Hurst shifted in her chair. “It is most inconvenient.”
“More than inconvenient,” Miss Bingley continued. “To be imposed upon in this manner—without warning, without preparation—”
Bingley frowned. “My dear Caroline,” he said, “Mrs. Collins could hardly have planned for the axle of her gig to break.”
“That is not the point,” Miss Bingley replied. “The point is that she is here, and we must now accommodate her.”
Darcy remained silent. He watched.
Mrs. Hurst spoke again, her tone measured. “Her situation is not entirely without merit. Her son will inherit the family estate, I understand.”
Miss Bingley inclined her head. “Yes. That, at least, is something in her favor.” She paused, considering. “Though I cannot imagine a gentleman of sense choosing to marry a woman whose child would not inherit his fortune.”
The remark was delivered with casual certainty. Darcy felt a faint tightening in his jaw.
Bingley spoke at last, his tone no longer light. “I must say I find it difficult to understand how you can speak so of a lady who is, at present, our guest.”
Miss Bingley turned to him, her expression smoothing once more. “My dear brother, you are always so ready to defend. I merely observe what must be evident.”
Bingley did not look convinced. “Observation need not be unkind,” he said.
Miss Bingley smiled faintly. “Then I shall endeavor to be more agreeable.” She reached for the cards upon the table. “Shall we play?”
The change in subject was intentional. Darcy did not move to join them. His thoughts had turned elsewhere. He considered his sister—her unease, her relief at being dismissed. He contemplated Mrs. Collins—her composure, her restraint, her determination not to impose. And he thought of Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst—their ease in judgment, their lack of hesitation in dismissing what they did not value.
There was a distinction there, one that had little to do with fortune or education. Good breeding, Darcy reflected, revealed itself not in polish alone, but in conduct—in the ability to extend consideration where none was required.
He turned his gaze toward the door through which Mrs. Collins had passed. She had been placed in an uncomfortable position and she had borne it well. And though he had known her only briefly, he found himself inclined to think well of her.
He turned away at last. The rain continued against the windows. And the evening, though it had altered, went on.
Elizabeth woke with the faint, familiar pressure behind her eye.
It was not enough to confine her to her bed, nor sharp enough to demand immediate retreat from the day, but it lingered nonetheless. A dull, steady reminder that the weather had shifted, that the rain which had fallen so persistently the night before had left its mark not only upon the roads, but upon her as well.
She lay still for a moment, allowing the sensation to settle into something she could measure. It had been worse, far worse, in the months following the accident. Now, it came and went with a kind of predictability, tied often to damp air or sudden changes in light.
It could be managed. The pain, while sometimes debilitating, was not so severe so as to keep her in bed that day. She turned her head slightly toward the window. The light that filtered through the curtains was softer than it had been the day before, the sky beyond still heavy with clouds. There would be no brightness to strain her further, though the lingering damp might prolong the ache.
Elizabeth drew a soft breath and rose.
By the time she made her way downstairs, the house had already begun to stir. The sounds of movement carried easily in the morning—the faint clatter of dishes from below, the measured steps of servants attending to their tasks, and somewhere in the distance, the lighter tread of Lydia moving far more quickly than necessity required.
