Mary tilted her head. "And the less sensible women?"
Elizabeth smiled faintly. " That, I fear, shall prove the greater challenge. We cannot speak of what he did—or meant to do. But perhaps if Lydia were to believe his means are lacking, she might turn her affections elsewhere."
Mary was unconvinced. "She may see it as a challenge rather than a deterrent."
Elizabeth sighed. "Yes. That is what troubles me. But we must attempt something. We cannot allow what happened before to happen again."
Mary placed a hand gently on her sister’s. "We shall do what we can."
Elizabeth squeezed it in return. "That is all I ask."
Chapter 21
The morning following Mr. Collins’s most unwelcome proposal found the household in much the same disarray as Elizabeth recalled from before—though this time her thoughts were shared, in part, by one sister who had begun to see matters through a newly sharpened lens. Mrs. Bennet’s lamentations, so full of theatrical distress and shrill reproach, echoed through the house with equal parts despair and scheming resolve. She bemoaned Elizabeth’s obstinacy as if it were an affliction, a direct offence against providence and family fortune alike. Mr. Collins, for his part, was undeterred by refusal; rather, he appeared affronted that his generosity should be so ill-received, and wandered about the house muttering citations from Fordyce and hints of female ingratitude.
Yet in the shadow of all this, Mary Bennet sat in quiet reflection, her eyes watchful, her mind astir. She had not made her decision lightly, but as she beheld her cousin's tiresome posturing and her mother’s ceaseless prattle, she felt the strength of her resolve affirmed. She had, in her heart, considered whether she ought to accept the mantle so clearly being passed on—should she be the one to divert Mr. Collins's intentions? But witnessing his conduct, the utter lack of conversation of substance, and the self-importance cloaked in humble servility, she knew she had chosen rightly. Her soul recoiled from the notion of binding herself to such a man. She might endure solitude, but she could not endure perpetual condescension.
Elizabeth, meanwhile, was seized with a gratitude toward Mary she had never before known so keenly. Their understanding, forged late but strong, lent her fortitude through the ordeal. Mr. Collins had proposed nearly as he had before—no memory from a future life had proven enough to sway his self-congratulating speeches—but at least this time Elizabeth had not stood so alone. Mary had diverted their mother’s interruptions when possible and made attempts, however subtly, to forestall the disaster. But the wheels of Mrs. Bennet’s ambitions turned too noisily to be halted by reason.
And so, as Charlotte Lucas arrived to offer her company and her remarkable gift of composure, Elizabeth looked to her old friend with something akin to reverence. Never before had she been so thankful for Charlotte’s practicality, nor so aware of what it would cost her. But this was how things must proceed—for now. And though the faces and voices around her played the same familiar tune, Elizabeth knew the notes beneath had changed. In Mary’s steady eyes, she saw the reflection of her altered fate. And for the first time that morning, she dared to hope it might not all be for naught.
After breakfast, Lydia, still buoyed by Netherfield ball's flirtations and determined to bask in the delights of her own making, suggested a walk into Meryton. Elizabeth, though reluctant, found herself rising to the occasion when Lydia, with a sly glance and mocking tone, said, "You need not come, Lizzy, for I daresay Mr. Wickham will not be there." The provocation worked as it always did. Elizabeth's pride stirred, and Mary, observing the shift in her sister’s demeanour, promptly added, "I believe I would like a walk as well."
Thus it was that the five Bennet sisters set out for Meryton, Kitty and Lydia ahead, giddy with anticipation and laughter, while Jane, Elizabeth, and Mary followed at a more temperate pace. Elizabeth walked between her elder and younger sister, thankful for their quiet company—at least until Mr. Wickham appeared, just as she had foreseen.
He greeted them all with a polished bow and genial expression, and soon attached himself to the younger girls. With practiced ease, he fell into conversation, apologizing in earnest tones for his absence from the ball. Elizabeth, walking still beside Mary, cast a glance her way—one that needed no words to convey her unease. Mary returned the look, understanding perfectly.
As they reached the tea shop, Lydia exclaimed in delight and invited Mr. Wickham to join them. "You must come in! We shall have a treat—Mrs. Wentworth always makes the best biscuits. And you will see, Lizzy, I shall laugh when I see you blush at him, for he is joining us at our aunt’s card party too."
They entered with a flourish, and Mr. Wickham, not to be outdone in gallantry, offered to pay for the tea and pastries with a casual confidence that belied the fact he had no ready coin. "Mr. Wentworth knows me," he said, waving his hand as if his word alone should be enough.
Mr. Wentworth, a stout man with silvering hair and the weary air of one long acquainted with the whims of gentlemen and the schemes of flirtatious militia, frowned slightly at the exchange. He said nothing, but his furrowed brow remained fixed as he returned to the counter. Elizabeth, taking her seat beside Mary, narrowed her eyes slightly.
"Indeed, sir, and does he also know your purse?" she said lightly, her tone one of gentle jest, though the meaning was sharper. Mary added, more gravely, "It is not every day that a gentleman’s honour rests upon his account at the tea shop."
Wickham laughed, waving away their concern. "I shall settle it within the week, I assure you. These are trifles."
Lydia, already halfway through her biscuit, rolled her eyes. "Really, Lizzy and Mary! Must you always spoil a little fun? If Mr. Darcy hadn’t interfered, Wickham would not be inconvenienced at all."
Elizabeth said nothing in reply, though her thoughts were fierce. At that moment, Miss Wentworth, Mr. Wentworth’s pretty sixteen-year-old daughter, came to the table to deliver the tea. She cast a shy glance at Wickham, and Elizabeth saw it for what it was—a young girl easily enchanted by charm and a red coat.
Mary leaned close and said in a voice meant to carry only so far, "It is the sweetest things that are often laced with the sharpest regrets."
Elizabeth, picking up her cup, followed with, "Indeed. And the cost of a gentleman’s attention is often dearer than the tea he cannot pay for."
Lydia paid them no heed, but Kitty looked uncertain, her eyes flitting between Wickham and the sisters. Jane, ever gentle, tried to smooth the moment with, "I am sure we are all very grateful for Mr. Wickham’s company today. It is a fine thing, after all, to be so sociable."
"Quite so," Wickham replied with a smile, though his glance at Elizabeth held a flicker of annoyance.
Meanwhile, from behind the counter, Mr. Wentworth's frown deepened. His wife, Mrs. Wentworth, had not yet returned from visiting a neighbour, but Elizabeth could only hope he might discuss the matter with her. The Wentworths were known for their discretion in accounts but not in opinions, and Mrs. Wentworth’s tongue, once stirred, was a mighty force in Meryton’s gossip circles.
The tea visit concluded, the girls made their way home, chattering as they went. But Elizabeth, though she smiled and laughed with the others, was quiet in her thoughts. Wickham, with his clever tongue and ease of manner, had woven a tale much as he had before. Yet this time she saw every thread unraveling—his inconsistencies, his shifting blame, the way he danced between pride and poverty with practiced step.
She had once thought herself astute, but it was only now, with new eyes, that she truly understood how thoroughly she had been duped the first time.
Mary, walking beside her, gave her a sidelong look. "You did well not to call him out entirely, Lizzy."
"Yes," Elizabeth murmured. "But I do hope Miss Wentworth thinks a little more before she smiles again at his gallantries."
