Her words were cut short by the rustling of paper as Mr. Bennet reached for a letter on his desk, waving it languidly. "Ah, yes. A most conscientious and polite young man, upon my word. About a month ago, I received this letter, and about a fortnight ago, I answered it. I thought it a case of some delicacy and requiring early attention. It is from my cousin, Mr. Collins, who, when I am dead, may turn you all out of this house as soon as he pleases."
A moment of stunned silence passed before Mrs. Bennet erupted. "Oh, my dear, I cannot bear to hear that mentioned. Pray do not talk of that odious man! I do think it is the hardest thing in the world that your estate should be entailed away from your own children. And I am sure, if I had been you, I should have tried long ago to do something or other about it!"
Elizabeth closed her eyes for a moment, her head throbbing. She had no strength to explain, yet again, the nature of an entail. How many times had she and Jane tried to make their mother understand? It was hopeless. Mrs. Bennet was beyond reason on this subject and always would be.
Mr. Bennet, entirely undisturbed by his wife’s distress, continued with his usual ironic humor. "It certainly is a most iniquitous affair, and nothing can clear Mr. Collins from the guilt of inheriting Longbourn. But if you will listen to his letter, you may, perhaps, be a little softened by his manner of expressing himself."
"No, that I am sure I shall not!" Mrs. Bennet cried. "And I think it was very impertinent of him to write to you at all, and very hypocritical. I hate such false friends. Why could he not keep on quarrelling with you, as his father did before him?"
Elizabeth, who had thus far sat silent, staring at the dark grain of the wooden table, felt her patience wane further with every passing word. And yet, what good would it do to speak? Mr. Bennet’s indifference, Mrs. Bennet’s hysteria—she had lived it all before, and still, it would all happen again. Her temples ached.
She barely listened as her father read aloud Mr. Collins’s letter, having already known its contents. Instead, she stared into the distance, each word dulling into a hum in her ears. Mr. Collins would arrive at four o’clock. He would be obsequious, absurd, intolerable. He would fix his attentions upon one of them—perhaps herself once more. And she had no time for it. There were greater matters to worry over than his ridiculous flattery and insipid conversation.
Her hands curled into fists against her lap as her father finished reading, his voice light with mockery. "At four o’clock, therefore, we may expect this peace-making gentleman. He seems to be a most conscientious and polite young man, upon my word; and, I doubt not, will prove a valuable acquaintance, especially if Lady Catherine should be so indulgent as to let him come to us again."
The room fell silent for a moment, and Elizabeth nearly lost herself to the temptation to rise and chastise him again. He sat there, amused by it all, while her mother fretted over the entail in a way that was entirely unhelpful, while none of them saw the ruin before them, while Mr. Darcy—
Mr. Darcy, who already thought her false, who in two days' time would have every reason to believe her Wickham’s ally.
She inhaled sharply and forced herself to her feet. "If you will excuse me, I believe I shall take a walk before our guest arrives."
And before she lost her temper once more.
Elizabeth set out toward Oakham Hill, seeking solace in the crisp morning air. The landscape, so familiar and dear to her, did little to ease the weight pressing upon her heart. Her steps were brisk at first, driven by an urgency she did not fully understand, but as she reached the crest of the hill, her pace slowed.
Her breath caught as her eyes fell upon the distant figure of Fitzwilliam Darcy on horseback. He rode with his usual precision, his posture straight, his command of the animal effortless. Though he was far away, she could not tear her gaze from him. She knew she should not be watching, yet she longed for just one moment more. As if sensing her regard, he turned his head slightly in her direction. Their eyes might have met—but just as swiftly, he looked away.
A fresh wave of sorrow crashed over her. She pulled her knees up to her chest and buried her face in her arms, weeping bitterly. He thought her in league with Wickham.The very idea turned her stomach. How had she let this happen? How could she ever convince him otherwise? The thought of the inevitable meeting between the two men only deepened her despair. She had failed. She had lost him.
She was so consumed by her grief that she did not hear the sound of hooves halting at the base of the trail, nor the soft crunch of boots upon the earth. Darcy had tied off his horse, something entirely improper, yet his conscience afforded him no other choice. He had glimpsed her sorrow from afar, and though every rational thought commanded him to ignore it, something far deeper, something he scarcely dared name, compelled him forward.
He had seen her standing alone upon the hill, had known in an instant that she was watching him. It unsettled him, for he had resolved to think no more of her. Yet even as he forced himself to look away, the image of her lingered in his mind. And when, against his own will, he glanced back, it was not admiration or defiance he found in her countenance—but utter desolation. She was crying, and not with the quiet reserve befitting a lady, but with such unguarded sorrow that it cut through his every defense.
A twig snapped beneath his boot. Elizabeth gasped and lifted her head, her tear-streaked face still flushed with grief. Their eyes met, and for a moment, neither spoke. Darcy stood frozen, torn between his duty and the undeniable ache in his chest. She, in turn, seemed caught between shame and desperate hope.
At last, he found his voice. "Miss Bennet—"
She started at the sound, her breath catching in her throat. For a fleeting moment, she wondered if it was a cruel trick of her mind, conjuring the one person she longed to see and yet dreaded facing. But no—there he stood, tall and imposing, his dark eyes fixed upon her with an intensity that sent a shiver through her. Her body tensed, torn between the desperate impulse to throw herself into his arms and the stark reality of his suspicions.
"Mr. Darcy," she managed, her voice uneven. She took a hesitant step forward but checked herself, clasping her hands tightly before her. "I—I did not expect to see you here."
He regarded her in silence for a long moment, his expression unreadable. She could not bear it—the doubt, the suspicion lingering in his gaze. In a rush, she blurted, "I swear to you, sir, I am not in league with Mr. Wickham! I have not even met him yet!"
Her words, spoken in such haste, struck him with force. He narrowed his eyes slightly, searching her face for any sign of deception. "You have not met him?"
"No! Not yet!" she insisted, then bit her lip as she realized the flaw in her wording. Indeed, she had not met him in this time, but she knew precisely when she would. "That is to say—I know of him, of course. My uncle in London mentioned his name once before. But I have never had the pleasure—or rather, the misfortune—of making his acquaintance."
Mr. Darcy said nothing at first. His mind, ever sharp and disciplined, sifted through her words. Something was peculiar about her frantic denial, but the vehemence of it, the very rawness of her distress, stirred a pang of doubt within him—doubt not of her guilt, but of his own certainty. He had been so sure, so convinced that she had gained knowledge of Georgiana through Wickham. Yet here she was, standing before him in tears, grasping at explanations that, though strange, did not bear the mark of falsehood.
"You are troubled, Miss Bennet," he observed at last, his voice low. "And not only by my presence."
Elizabeth swallowed, willing herself to remain composed. She could not tell him the truth—not here, not now. But she had to salvage something, to repair the damage done. "I am troubled," she admitted, "but not by anything so nefarious as you seem to suspect. Mr. Wickham means nothing to me. I have no allegiance to him, nor do I wish to. If you think otherwise, then you mistake me greatly."
He exhaled slowly, his rigid posture easing just a fraction. "Then I have misjudged you?"
She hesitated. "I hope so."
A stalemate stretched between them, neither fully satisfied, neither willing to yield entirely. He was no longer certain of her deception, yet something remained unsettled within him. And she—she had won no true victory, only a temporary reprieve from his suspicion.
