He would come in the spring. And he was, she now recalled with both fondness and anxiety, in military intelligence. If anyone might sense the truth—or worse, discover it—it would be him. He was clever, observant, and charmingly candid. In her former life, he had been a trusted cousin and friend, and second only to Georgiana in her affections among Mr. Darcy’s relations. But now, she must be cautious. She must tread carefully when he arrived.
Still, she smiled. His presence would be a comfort, she thought, and perhaps a distraction for Mr. Collins, who so loved to fawn over titled connections.
She looked around the room, quiet now, save for the ticking of the clock. The familiar scene brought her little peace, but much reflection. Her mother was still speaking of wedding clothes and settlements. Her father was still smirking from behind his paper. The world had not changed, though she had.
The future was uncertain. But she had her wits, her memories, and, God willing, the love of a man who had once declared her the only woman in the world he could ever truly admire.
Chapter 23
It was on an otherwise quiet morning, as Elizabeth sat in the parlour with her mother and sisters, that her thoughts wandered far from Longbourn. While Mrs. Bennet discoursed at length on the prospect of new gowns and Lydia chattered of ribbons and regiments, Elizabeth’s mind was preoccupied with Fitzwilliam Darcy. She thought of Pemberley, of her son James, and of the life she once had, as tangible in her recollection as the embroidery she held yet did not see.
Her heart ached with the slowness of time. She longed for spring, for Rosings, for the moment she would see him again and try—if she could—to mend what damage her knowledge and missteps might have wrought. Her reflections were not wholly hopeful. Darcy's mistrust, his reticence, the way he warred against himself in her presence—all lingered in her memory. But so too did his gaze at Oakham Hill, the concern behind his severity, and the fact that he had come to her even in the midst of suspicion. These were not marks of a man entirely lost to her.
She was drawing up a mental list of excuses to remove herself from the room—anything to escape her mother’s prattling about Charlotte’s unfortunate engagement—when, as if conjured by her own dread, Sir William Lucas was announced.
“Oh, what can bring Sir William here so early?” Mrs. Bennet asked, though her tone was not so much puzzled as piqued. “We have not invited him today.”
Elizabeth immediately knew what his purpose must be, and her fingers tightened slightly on her needlework. Escape was now entirely impossible.
Sir William, ever beaming, entered with all the pomp he could summon. “My dear ladies,” he began, bowing grandly, “I bring tidings of the happiest sort. My daughter Charlotte has accepted the hand of Mr. Collins.”
A moment of perfect silence followed.
Mrs. Bennet gasped. “Mr. Collins! Engaged to Charlotte? This must be a jest.”
“Indeed, no jest, ma’am,” said Sir William proudly. “Charlotte has accepted him, and both families are quite delighted with the match. Mr. Collins, I must say, is a most fortunate man.”
Elizabeth set aside her work slowly. She had known this news would come. It had not surprised her when Charlotte confided in her days earlier, but now, in the face of her mother’s shock and her father’s dry amusement, she found herself struggling with old and new emotions alike. Jane, always eager to support harmony, was quick to offer her warm congratulations to Sir William, and Elizabeth, with a graciousness born of both foreknowledge and renewed understanding, followed with her own sincere good wishes. Sir William, evidently gratified by their response, soon took his leave, allowing the Bennet family the privacy to react as only they could.
Mrs. Bennet’s colour had risen dramatically. “Engaged! Well—I never heard of such a thing in all my life. Charlotte Lucas! She is plain and nearly seven-and-twenty! What can he be thinking? Though I know what she was thinking, I suppose she will have a very snug life indeed.”
Elizabeth made no reply. Her eyes fixed themselves on her father, whose lips were already quirking with amusement. She knew what would come next. And yet, when it came, it still pierced her.
“So,” said Mr. Bennet, with a sardonic lift of his brow, “your friend Charlotte is not so very sensible as you believed her, Lizzy. I should have imagined her to know better than to marry a man such as Mr. Collins. Desperation must indeed dull judgment.”
Elizabeth’s head snapped around, her brows drawing together. "Papa, that is unkind."
Mrs. Bennet blinked at her daughter, startled. "Why, Lizzy, are you defending Charlotte?"
Elizabeth turned back to her mother, her expression unreadable. "I only object to mockery where none is needed. Charlotte has chosen her path with clear eyes, and it is not for us to belittle her."
Mr. Bennet smiled thinly. "You surprise me, Lizzy. I had imagined you would be delighted to see your dear friend established so near. Or do you now regret your own refusal?"
Her cheeks coloured, though not with shame. "That is unworthy of you, sir."
He raised his brows. "Indeed? I thought it a fair question. You have made your views on Mr. Collins plain enough—so plain, in fact, that he sought the hand of your friend within hours of your dismissal."
Elizabeth rose from her seat, her voice quiet but firm. "You speak as though this were all some great amusement, Papa. As though every disappointment, every folly, were a comedy for your private enjoyment."
There was a pause, the silence in the room broken only by the ticking of the mantel clock.
Mr. Bennet folded his paper and leaned back in his chair. "I daresay it is not always amusing, but it is vastly preferable to engaging in every household battle. If I were to waste my energy correcting every instance of poor judgment in this house, I should never have a moment’s peace."
Mr. Bennet decided to walk away and just as he left the room, he replied in a tone of mild reproach, "Come now, Lizzy you did not always take things too much to heart."
Mrs. Bennet, scandalised by this unexpected exchange, began to scold. “Well, I declare, I never thought I’d live to hear you take Charlotte Lucas’s part against your own family. And poor Mr. Collins! After all the trouble he took to come here—and the hope I had that Mary—”
Mary, who had been quiet in the corner, merely looked up with a placid shake of the head. “I do not believe I should have suited Mr. Collins, Mama.”
