Chapter 10
10
E lizabeth had always believed that true character was revealed in the small moments—not in grand speeches, not in titles or wealth, but in the way one treated those with no power, no fortune, no consequence to their lives.
It was for this reason that she had gladly agreed to accompany Mr. Collins on his weekly visit to his tenants and parishioners.
She needed something to remind her of the world beyond Rosings Park, beyond her own turmoil, beyond Mr. Darcy.
And so, dressed in a simple walking gown and sturdy boots, she followed Mr. Collins down the well-worn paths that wound between the tenant cottages scattered along the edge of Lady Catherine’s vast estate. If Mr. Collins was unbearable as a romantic partner, at least she could focus on the good she might do as a parson’s wife.
The morning air was fresh and crisp, and despite the weight in her chest, Elizabeth found comfort in the familiarity of it all—in the way the villagers greeted them with warm smiles, in the way the children peeked from behind fences before running up to her with excited grins.
It was an escape. Or at least, it was meant to be.
Until she heard the sound of hooves approaching.
She turned and bit back a laugh as a familiar dark figure on horseback rode toward them.
Mr. Darcy.
Mr. Collins immediately straightened, puffing out his chest as if he had been caught in an act of great importance.
"Mr. Darcy!" he exclaimed. "What a most unexpected pleasure! Have you come to witness the humble work of your future parson?"
Darcy dismounted smoothly, his expression unreadable as he handed his horse to a waiting boy.
"I had not intended to interrupt," he said, his voice calm, even. "But I saw you from the road and thought I might—" His gaze flickered to Elizabeth.
She smiled her welcome.
Mr. Collins, oblivious, launched into a speech about his duties, detailing the importance of pastoral visits and how Lady Catherine herself had remarked upon his excellent attentiveness to the needs of the poor.
Darcy barely seemed to hear him.
Instead, he turned to Elizabeth, his voice quieter, more deliberate.
"You seem well, Miss Bennet."
Elizabeth exhaled slowly, nodding. "I find I am most content when among people who expect nothing of me but kindness."
Darcy’s lips twitched slightly, as if he understood exactly what she meant.
Mr. Collins, still absorbed in his own monologue, did not notice the way their conversation had become separate from his.
Or the way Darcy’s eyes lingered on Elizabeth as she knelt beside an elderly woman, offering her gentle words and a steady hand.
Or the way Elizabeth glanced up at him, as if expecting him to understand her thoughts before she spoke them.
Elizabeth had never seen Darcy interact with tenants before.
She had expected stiff politeness, perhaps even distant formality.
She had not expected this.
He spoke to the farmers with knowledge and respect, asking thoughtful questions about their crops, their needs, their families.
He knelt beside a small boy with a bandaged hand, listening intently as the child explained, with great seriousness, that he had fought a dragon in the woods and had emerged victorious—though slightly wounded.
And when Darcy straightened, catching Elizabeth’s gaze, he murmured, "A noble cause indeed."
She laughed, unable to help it.
Mr. Collins, completely unaware of the undercurrent between them, continued speaking as they moved from house to house, praising himself for his dedication to the parish, reminding Darcy at every opportunity that his position was entirely thanks to Lady Catherine’s generosity.
Darcy did not respond to any of it. Instead, he and Elizabeth fell into an easy, quiet rhythm—a shared understanding in the work they were doing.
It was seamless, natural, as if they had always been meant to do this together.
Perhaps it was because Mr. Collins grew used to being ignored, or perhaps he was so caught up in the contents of his letter, that he didn’t expect anyone else to notice. It was only by chance that Elizabeth saw it.
As they were leaving the final cottage, Mr. Collins—for the first time that morning—had gone silent.
She glanced at him, surprised, and saw that he had pulled a letter from his pocket.
It was well-worn, the edges slightly frayed, the folds smoothed from being opened too many times.
Elizabeth frowned.
Mr. Collins rarely kept anything private—and yet, he held the letter close to his chest, his fingers tracing the paper as though it were something precious.
She was about to ask about it when he suddenly realized they were watching him.
He startled violently, stuffing the letter back into his coat with clumsy urgency.
Elizabeth and Darcy exchanged a glance.
Mr. Collins cleared his throat, forcing a laugh that was entirely too nervous.
"Oh, just a small matter, nothing of consequence!" he said, waving a hand. "Now then, let us return to Rosings, shall we? Lady Catherine will be most eager to hear of my morning’s good work!"
Elizabeth did not believe him.
From the looks of him, neither did Darcy.
And as they turned back toward the estate, she could not shake the feeling that the letter was vitally important.
Something Mr. Collins did not want them to see.