Elizabeth descended to the drawing room later than usual, the household already gathered in part. Mrs. Bennet sat near the fire, directing a maid with more animation than the task required, while Mr. Collins occupied a chair near the window, a book open in his lap though his attention appeared more inclined toward the company than the page. Kitty and Lydia sat together upon the sofa, their heads bent in conversation that ceased the moment Elizabeth entered, their expressions shifting into something suspiciously innocent.
Jane, seated at the writing desk, glanced up with a smile that held a degree of brightness Elizabeth could not mistake.
Elizabeth returned it. There was no need for words. Not yet.
“Lizzy, my dear,” Mrs. Bennet said, turning at once. “You are later than usual.”
“I slept longer than I expected,” Elizabeth replied, taking her usual seat. She had taken a tray in her room since breakfast had long since been cleared away.
Mr. Collins closed his book with a measured air. “A dreadful habit,” he said. “Though I must observe that discipline in one’s daily routine is of great importance. Regularity of rising, of meals, of exercise—these are the foundations of a well-ordered life.”
Mary, who had been seated somewhat apart with her own book, looked up at this. “One might suppose, sir,” she said with mild composure, “that a well-ordered life consists equally in flexibility as in regularity.”
Mr. Collins blinked. “I do not see that flexibility is required where propriety has already determined the correct course,” he replied.
Mary inclined her head. “And yet circumstances do not always conform themselves to expectation.”
Elizabeth suppressed a smile.
Jane’s shoulders shook slightly, though she bent her head over her writing to conceal it.
Mr. Collins shifted in his seat, clearly uncertain how to respond, and after a moment redirected his attention elsewhere.
“It has not escaped my notice,” he said, changing the subject, “that Mr. Bingley’s visits have increased in frequency.”
The room stilled.
Elizabeth felt the shift immediately, subtle though it was. Lydia’s hand stilled against the fabric of her gown. Kitty’s gaze flickered toward Jane. Mary lowered her eyes, though not before a brief glance passed between them all—a look shared in an instant, silent and complete.
Jane did not look up. “That is very kind of him,” she said, her tone even.
Mr. Collins leaned forward slightly. “Kindness, yes,” he said, “though I should not be surprised if there were more in it than mere civility. A gentleman of his fortune does not bestow such attention without purpose.”
Jane dipped her pen again. “I have not inquired into his purpose,” she said.
Elizabeth turned her head slightly, watching her sister with a growing appreciation.
Mr. Collins frowned. “One does not need to inquire where the evidence is plain,” he continued. “It would be prudent, I think, to consider the advantages of such an attachment. A connection with Netherfield would be of considerable benefit to this household.”
Lydia expressed her displeasure through an eye-roll, remaining silent.
Mary, however, did. “Sir,” she said, “you appear very eager to see the ladies of this house disposed of.”
Elizabeth nearly laughed.
Mr. Collins drew himself up. “I speak only from a sense of duty,” he said. “It is the natural order of things that young ladies should form advantageous connections.”
Mary tilted her head slightly. “And do you intend to follow this natural order yourself?” she asked.
The question hung in the air. Mr. Collins blinked again, more distinctly this time. “I beg your pardon?”
“If marriage is so necessary to the proper ordering of one’s life,” Mary continued, her tone entirely composed, “it seems only reasonable to ask whether you intend to take a wife.”
Elizabeth lowered her gaze at once, pressing her lips together.
Kitty’s shoulders shook openly now.
Lydia made no attempt to conceal her grin.
