Mr. Collins’s color rose. “I have no such intention,” he said quickly. “My line is secure. I have an heir. There is no necessity for further—arrangements of that nature.”
Mary inclined her head. “As you say.”
The matter, for the moment, was closed. Mr. Collins, his cheeks red from either embarrassment or anger, excuses himself and left the ladies in peace.
The arrival of Charlotte Lucas not long after brought a welcome shift in the atmosphere.
Elizabeth rose at once as her friend entered, her expression brightening with genuine warmth.
“Charlotte.”
“My dear Eliza.”
Charlotte’s smile held a degree of composure, though there was something beneath it—something barely restrained, as though she carried news she had not yet decided how to share.
Mrs. Bennet greeted her with enthusiasm, and Charlotte returned the civility with practiced ease before turning once more toward Elizabeth.
“I hope I do not intrude.”
“Never,” Elizabeth said.
Charlotte’s gaze lingered upon her for a moment longer than necessary, then shifted to include the others. “I have come,” she said, “with news.”
Lydia leaned forward at once. “What news?”
Charlotte’s smile deepened, though it remained measured. “Mr. Tipton has done me the honor of proposing.”
The room erupted. Lydia clapped her hands. Kitty exclaimed. Mrs. Bennet declared it a most agreeable match. Jane rose to embrace her, her expression warm with sincere pleasure.
Elizabeth followed, taking Charlotte’s hands in her own. “I am very happy for you.”
Charlotte’s fingers tightened briefly. “I believe I shall be happy,” she said resolutely. It was not the language of romance. It was not meant to be.
Elizabeth understood it nonetheless. Her friend had ever been a practical creature, and was content with a marriage of mutual respect, if not love.
The conversation swelled around them, filled with questions and congratulations, but Charlotte leaned slightly closer.
“And when,” she murmured, “may I wish you the same?”
Elizabeth’s breath caught. She felt the warmth rise in her cheeks, sudden and unmistakable.
“I—” She did not finish. She had no need.
Charlotte’s eyes softened. “I see,” she said.
Before Elizabeth could reply, the sound of voices in the hall interrupted them. Mr. Bingley’s voice. Mr. Darcy’s. And another—lighter, more reserved. Miss Darcy.
Mrs. Bennet turned at once, her expression alight with expectation.
The door opened. They entered together.
Elizabeth felt the shift immediately—not in the room, but within herself. It was no longer discomfort or repressed longing. It was anticipation.
“Mr. Bingley,” Mrs. Bennet exclaimed. “Mr. Darcy—Miss Darcy. We are delighted to see you.”
Introductions and greetings followed, though Elizabeth scarcely attended to them fully.
Her awareness narrowed. Mr. Darcy stood a short distance away, his gaze already upon her. Not searching. Certain. “Miss Bennet.”
