Eventually, the sounds of laughter and music beckoned them both inside. Without another word exchanged, Mr. Darcy offered his arm in perfect formality, and Elizabeth accepted it with equal composure. They returned to the warmth and light of the ballroom, each cloaked in private thought.
The remainder of the evening passed much as it had before. Elizabeth moved among her acquaintance with the grace expected of her, but her gaze strayed more often than she intended toward Mr. Darcy. More than once she caught him watching her in return, his expression unreadable save for a quiet intensity that stirred her heart.
Miss Bingley, observing these glances, grew ever more agitated. Her smiles became tighter, her compliments more edged, and her attentions to Mr. Darcy increasingly desperate. That he remained distracted only sharpened her envy. Her displeasure at Elizabeth’s presence was ill-concealed and whispered readily to her sister.
The Longbourn party was the last to leave, delayed by Mrs. Bennet’s maneuvering, which allowed them to see how little the Bingley sisters wanted them to stay. Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley barely spoke, clearly eager for the house to themselves, while Mr. Collins continued his endless praises of the evening. Darcy remained silent, his mind elsewhere, though not as lost as Miss Bingley, who shot frequent glances of jealousy at Elizabeth. Mr. Bennet, amused by the scene, watched in silence as the others exchanged polite, but strained, pleasantries.
As the family descended the steps and exchanged farewells, Elizabeth paused. Her eyes found Mr. Darcy's, and for a moment, the world seemed to fall still around them. His gaze held hers—steady, searching, and solemn. She returned it, her expression laced with quiet emotion—uncertainty, perhaps, but not regret.
Nothing was said, and yet so much passed between them in that silent look.
Chapter 20
The morning after the Netherfield ball dawned with little serenity at Longbourn, for Mrs. Bennet had arisen early, her mind full of delightful schemes and marital triumphs. She was engaged in earnest discourse with Mr. Collins over tea—discourse which, by its cadence and turn of phrase, Elizabeth recognised at once as the unfortunate prelude to a proposal.
Mr. Collins, it seemed, had not fully made up his mind. Something about his cousin Elizabeth unsettled him—there was a peculiar way she had of looking at people, as though seeing more than she ought. And yet, she was undeniably handsome, and he was the heir to Longbourn and a clergyman besides. Miss Lucas was accommodating, yes, but cousin Elizabeth was a beauty, and beauty, he believed, must yield to sense when properly addressed. By the end of his discourse, he had talked himself into resolve.
Elizabeth, not wishing to endure his decision at secondhand, slipped away and went in search of Mary.
She found her in the parlour, at the pianoforte, diligently working through a sonata with mild determination while Kitty, seated nearby, was unpicking the trim on a bonnet with more zeal than delicacy. Elizabeth’s approach was quiet, but Mary stopped playing at once, her eyes narrowing with understanding.
"Is it time?" she asked solemnly.
Elizabeth gave a slight nod. “Mama has spoken to Mr. Collins.”
Mary sighed. “Then we are powerless. I had hoped we might forestall it. I even considered quoting Fordyce upon the virtue of solitude for young ladies.”
“You did?” Elizabeth gave a faint smile.
“I did. But our mother is immune to all sermons that do not bolster her aims.”
At that moment, Mrs. Bennet entered the room, Mr. Collins hovering behind her with all the self-importance of a man sent upon a holy errand. Her eyes swept the room and settled on Elizabeth with the triumphant air of one ushering destiny into motion.
“Kitty, Mary, dears,” she said, in tones of false sweetness, “your cousin Mr. Collins wishes to speak with your sister Elizabeth. I think it best if you find some little employment elsewhere. Mary, perhaps you might improve yourself with a chapter of Fordyce, and Kitty—go on with your bonnet.”
“I have not yet finished my practice,” Mary began, standing her ground.
“You may improve your character in another room,” Mrs. Bennet snapped.
Mary cast Elizabeth a look of helpless sympathy. “May the Lord be with you,” she murmured as she swept out, Kitty trailing behind, none the wiser.
And then, the door shut.
Elizabeth turned to face the man who, despite every effort she had made to dissuade him by glances, silences, or outright impoliteness, stood beaming with self-satisfaction.
What followed has been recorded elsewhere with exacting fidelity, and our readers—possessing both discernment and memory—need not suffer again every word of Mr. Collins’s laborious address. Suffice it to say, the compliments were as fulsome, the reasoning as convoluted, and the self-regard as unshaken as ever. The delay between her first protest and his persistence stretched longer than necessary, as he mistook it—as ever—for maidenly modesty.
“I assure you, sir, I am perfectly serious in my refusal,” Elizabeth said with more sharpness than before.
He smiled. “It is natural to be coy—indeed, my noble patroness, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, has often remarked—”
“I do not seek Lady Catherine’s approval. Nor do I require yours.”
“But surely your mother will not be pleased—”
“Indeed, I know she will not. Yet I cannot marry to please my mother.”
And still, he stood. And still, he protested. For it was not in Mr. Collins’s nature to relinquish an idea once seized, especially not one adorned by inheritance and the promise of consequence.
