“Well,” she declared, “it was vastly more pleasant to have an evening out without Mr. Collins.”
Kitty laughed at once, her agreement unrestrained. “Indeed, it was. I do not think I have ever enjoyed myself more.”
Jane, seated opposite, turned toward them with gentle reproach. “You must not speak so. It is unfortunate that Mr. Collins was taken unwell. He so enjoys Sir William’s company.” Her tone held no severity, only a gentle reminder of propriety, but it did little to dampen Lydia’s spirits.
“A megrim,” Lydia repeated, with a faint hint of disbelief. “It came upon him most conveniently.”
Kitty suppressed another laugh, pressing her hand briefly to her mouth. “You must admit, Jane, it did spare us a great deal of conversation.”
Jane’s lips curved, though she attempted to maintain her composure. “That may be so, but it is not kind to say it.”
Elizabeth listened without joining at once. She sat with her hands folded loosely in her lap, her head turned slightly to ease the strain upon her eye as the carriage rocked gently over the uneven road. The dim light within made it easier to distinguish the nearer shapes, though she did not attempt to follow every expression.
Privately, she found herself in agreement with her younger sisters. Mr. Collins had been kind, in his way. He had ensured their continued residence at Longbourn, had made efforts to improve the estate, had not treated them with cruelty or indifference. For these things, Elizabeth was not ungrateful.
But kindness did not preclude absurdity. Nor did it erase the growing sense that his patience with their presence had limits he did not entirely conceal. The thought settled uneasily, and with it came another, less welcome.
Burden. The word surfaced unbidden, sharp in its clarity.
Elizabeth shifted slightly, her fingers tightening for a moment before she forced them to relax. She had heard it spoken plainly enough the day before, delivered with indifferent certainty and no regard for who might receive it. It had lingered since, not because she believed it, but because it had been said at all.
She drew a steady breath. Miss Bingley’s opinion held no authority over her life. It was not one she would accept. Still, it had touched something she could not entirely dismiss.
Elizabeth turned her thoughts determinedly away. Instead, she recalled another voice. Measured. Considered. Unwilling to agree where agreement would have been easy.
Mr. Darcy.
There had been no hesitation in his defense. No sense that he offered it reluctantly or out of mere politeness. He had spoken as though the truth of it were self-evident, as though her independence required no justification.
Elizabeth felt the faintest warmth at the memory. It was not something she had expected. Nor something she would dwell upon too closely. And yet, she could not entirely set it aside.
She thought, too, of Miss Darcy. Of the young lady’s gentle manner, her shy warmth, the way she had engaged with Lydia and Kitty without reserve once her initial reticence had eased. There had been nothing of her brother’s reserve in that moment, only an openness that Elizabeth had found immediately agreeable.
More than that, she thought of the subtle kindness in Mr. Darcy’s decision to bring her. He had remembered Lydia’s spirited objection at the assembly, remembered Elizabeth’s own words, and acted upon them without announcement or expectation of acknowledgment.
Elizabeth felt a small, private sense of pleasure at the thought. It had been thoughtful. More thoughtful than she would have credited him for upon their first acquaintance.
“Did you see her gown?” Lydia’s voice broke into her reflections, bright with enthusiasm. “Miss Darcy’s gown was the finest in the room.”
Kitty leaned forward. “The fabric was exquisite. I have never seen anything like it.”
Mary, who had been quieter than the others, spoke then. “I found her conversation very agreeable. She has a great appreciation for music.”
Elizabeth smiled faintly, listening as the conversation turned from one detail to another, each observation layered upon the last.
“She was elegant,” Lydia continued. “Quite elegant.”
Mrs. Bennet, who had been listening with growing interest, leaned forward at once. “Then we must invite her to call.”
Elizabeth’s head lifted slightly.
“And for tea,” Mrs. Bennet added, as though the plan had already taken shape. “It would be most proper.” She turned to Jane with clear expectation. “And perhaps the entire Netherfield party ought to be invited as well.”
Jane inclined her head, her expression thoughtful. “Yes,” she said. “I believe that would be appropriate. I shall write to Miss Bingley in the morning.”
Mrs. Bennet appeared satisfied with this arrangement.
Elizabeth remained silent, though her thoughts had shifted once more.
