“Oh, nonsense.” Mrs. Bennet huffed. “Well, I hope Mr. Collins will continue to visit. Perhaps he might yet be persuaded to reconsider one of you girls—though I know not what he could be thinking, passing over such excellent prospects.”
Jane, ever the peacemaker, ventured gently, “But Mama, he is already engaged to Charlotte, and we ought to rejoice in their shared happiness.”
Outside the parlour, Elizabeth found Mary seated near the window with a book in her lap, though she had not turned the page in some time.
"So it is done," Elizabeth said, coming to stand beside her. "Charlotte and Mr. Collins are to marry."
Mary closed the book, placing a ribbon between the pages. "You are not surprised."
"No. But I am disheartened."
Mary tilted her head, regarding her sister with calm seriousness. "Was it truly the match that troubled you, or the way it was received?"
Elizabeth smiled faintly. "Both."
Mr. Collins’s return to Longbourn was not the tranquil occasion he might have expected. Indeed, it introduced a degree of disquiet that rippled through the household in various, if predictable, ways. Mrs. Bennet, once so eager for her daughter to accept the clergyman, now found her pride wounded by Charlotte’s success. That Charlotte Lucas would become mistress of Longbourn, and she herself dependent upon the goodwill of her daughter’s friend, was a notion not easily borne. Lady Lucas, for her part, took every opportunity to remind her neighbour of this very fact, often under the guise of cheerful civility.
Now, Elizabeth found herself flushing at the recollection of her mother’s loud lamentations and her younger sisters’ unchecked exuberance—but then she reminded herself, with no small measure of comfort, that even Fitzwilliam had kin of whom he was not proud. "We all have relatives we blush for," he had once said with rueful affection, and she felt a quiet reassurance in his words, knowing he had never expected her to feel ashamed on his account. Indeed, he had gently reminded her that embarrassment was universal, not particular to her own family.
Between herself and Charlotte there was now a gentle but firm restraint. Their easy intimacy had given way to something quieter, almost formal. Neither addressed the engagement directly. Charlotte, once puzzled by Elizabeth’s sudden distance, now imagined she understood. There was no bitterness between them—merely an acceptance of diverging paths.
It was not to Jane that Elizabeth turned in confidence, but to Mary. Since awakening to this second life, Elizabeth had found in Mary a sharper intelligence and quieter strength that had not been obvious before. Perhaps she had overlooked it once, as so many had. But now she saw Mary more clearly.
“It has been more than a week since Mr. Bingley departed,” Elizabeth murmured as they walked together in the pale sunlight, skirts brushing damp leaves on the path.
Mary looked at her steadily. "And you are certain his absence is not Mr. Darcy’s doing?"
Elizabeth nodded, though a faint shadow crossed her face. "Yes. He promised he would not interfere. And Fitzwilliam keeps his word. No, I fear it is his sisters alone who wield influence enough to keep him in town."
Mary was quiet for a moment. "Jane wrote to them?"
“Yes. Just as before.” Elizabeth’s voice grew softer. “And just as before, no reply.”
Mary glanced at her sideways. “And Jane?”
“She remains hopeful,” Elizabeth said. “But she speaks little of it now. And I… I am no longer comfortable pressing her. Mama speaks too freely of it, and Jane shrinks from all such conversation. I fear I only add to her discomfort.”
Mary made no comment but reached out and lightly touched Elizabeth’s arm—a small gesture of solidarity.
It was not only in matters of Bingley that unease crept into their days. Elizabeth had begun to observe subtle changes in Kitty’s manner—so faint that they might have passed unnoticed by anyone who had not lived these moments before. She recalled vividly a particular afternoon tea, once so unremarkable, and now—replayed—laden with implications.
Denny and Carter had stopped by, their uniforms as bright and cheerful as ever. Lydia had launched into animated flirtation with her usual abandon, encouraged by Mrs. Bennet’s effusive delight in the officers’ company. Kitty, too, joined in—but with less enthusiasm than Elizabeth recalled.
The change was minute. Her laughter came later, her eyes darted to the window more than once, and though she accepted Denny’s compliments, her replies were distracted. Elizabeth watched the scene unfold with narrowing eyes.
Later that day, she mentioned it to Mary.
“Do you think Kitty has grown quieter?” she asked.
Mary considered it. "Perhaps. Or perhaps she has grown thoughtful, which is not quite the same."
Elizabeth smiled faintly. “That would be a first.”
“Do you mean to speak with her?”
Elizabeth hesitated. "Not yet. But I will keep watch. It may be nothing. But then again, so many things that seemed nothing before became… something."
Mary nodded. "We cannot afford to assume anything harmless."
