Chapter 21 #2
Kitty giggled. Lydia laughed outright. Mary frowned. Mrs. Bennet declared such levity cruel to her nerves.
Jane reached for Elizabeth’s hand. “Lizzy, promise only that you will give him a fair chance. Not that you will accept him. Only that you will not decide before he arrives.”
Elizabeth looked at her sister.
Jane was pale, tired, and still too warm about the eyes, yet she sat there pleading for peace because peace was the language in which she loved them all.
Elizabeth wanted to refuse. She wanted to declare that no man who wrote such a letter could possibly hold her future in his hands.
She wanted to be left alone with her work, her hurt, and the miserable certainty that Darcy had already shown her how little gentlemen’s admiration was to be trusted when family and fortune entered the matter.
Instead, she sighed. “Very well. I promise to give him a fair chance.”
Mrs. Bennet immediately brightened. “There, Jane, you see? She can be reasonable when pressed. Oh, Hill! Hill must know at once. Lydia, do not sit there laughing. Kitty, stop coughing into the cushion. Mary, you may choose something improving to play after dinner when Mr. Collins arrives. Lizzy, you must look through the stores and see what we may serve.”
Elizabeth looked down at the stack of papers waiting beside her.
Of course she must.
By the time the household quieted that night, Elizabeth felt as though Netherfield belonged to another life.
Jane was settled, Mrs. Bennet had exhausted herself with preparations, Lydia had speculated whether Mr. Collins might be old, ugly, or secretly handsome, and Mr. Bennet had not emerged from his study again.
Elizabeth had reviewed the most urgent accounts, answered two notes, ordered linens for the guest room, and made a list for Cook that might satisfy both economy and Mrs. Bennet’s pride.
When at last she climbed into bed, her body ached with fatigue, but her mind would not rest.
Mr. Collins.
The heir to Longbourn.
A clergyman with an elaborate letter, a grand patroness, and perhaps an intention of choosing a Bennet daughter as his olive branch. The thought should have been ridiculous enough to laugh at. It would have been ridiculous a week ago.
Tonight, it felt like another door closing.
Elizabeth turned onto her side and stared toward the dark outline of the window.
Darcy’s face rose before her, unwanted and inescapable. Darcy in the library, amused and thoughtful. Darcy across the dinner table, eyes warm with shared laughter. Darcy at the desk, cold and unreachable, his pen moving while she waited like a fool for one glance he would not give.
He was the best man she had ever known.
That was the cruelest part. Not perfect.
Not easy. Not even always kind. But honorable in ways few people understood, burdened by duty, capable of tenderness beneath restraint, and so much better than the proud, distant figure she had first believed him.
Knowing him more had not cured her of admiration.
It had deepened it, made him less a romantic fancy and more a man—a flawed, weary, noble man she could too easily love.
And he had turned from her.
Perhaps prudence was all that remained.
If affection could be withdrawn so quickly, if warmth could vanish at the first sight of her family’s follies, then perhaps marriage ought not depend upon such fragile things.
Mr. Collins, should he prove tolerable, would secure Longbourn.
He would keep her mother and sisters from uncertainty.
He would leave Elizabeth where she could protect the tenants, manage the estate, and preserve the only home her family had ever known.
It was not happiness.
But perhaps happiness was a luxury for women who could afford to be chosen without consequence.
Elizabeth closed her eyes against the sting that rose there and drew a slow breath.
No.
She would not decide tonight. She was tired, hurt, and much too inclined to mistake despair for wisdom. Mr. Collins was not yet arrived. Darcy was not yet entirely forgotten. Jane was still weak. The accounts still waited. Morning would come with more duties, and duties, at least, could be trusted.
She would decide nothing now.
With that poor comfort, Elizabeth turned her face into the pillow and, after a long while, fell into a restless sleep.
∞∞∞
The following morning was Sunday, and Elizabeth went to church with the rest of her family in a state of composure that was largely external.
Jane looked better, though still pale enough that Mrs. Bennet fussed over her gloves, her shawl, the carriage rug, and the wickedness of autumn air with nearly equal fervor.
Lydia complained that church would be duller than ever now that the officers had not yet learned to attend in proper numbers, Kitty coughed once in sympathy with the weather, and Mary carried her prayer book with an air of solemn anticipation.
Elizabeth said very little.
It was a clear, cold morning, the kind that made every sound sharper: the wheels over the road, the creak of leather, the rustle of gowns as families filed into the churchyard.
Meryton seemed to have turned out in full, for Jane’s illness, the Netherfield party, and the expected arrival of Mr. Collins had each furnished the neighborhood with something to wonder at.
Elizabeth felt the curiosity around them and endured it as best she could.
The Netherfield party was already there.
Elizabeth saw Mr. Bingley first because he saw Jane first. His whole countenance changed.
Whatever Miss Bingley had been saying to him was forgotten, and the moment propriety allowed after the service, he crossed the churchyard with such eagerness that even Mrs. Bennet could not have desired a more gratifying display.
“My dear Miss Bennet,” he said, bowing with warmth that made Jane blush at once, “you are looking better. I have been very anxious to hear how you did after the journey.”
“I am much improved, thank you,” Jane replied softly. “The ride did me no harm.”
“I am very glad of it. Very glad indeed. I feared—well, I feared everything foolish, I daresay, but I am glad to be proved foolish.”
Jane smiled, and for a moment Elizabeth’s own unhappiness eased. If any good had come from Netherfield, let it at least be this. Let Jane be loved by a man whose heart appeared as open as the day.
Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst offered their greetings next.
Mrs. Hurst was civil; Miss Bingley was polished enough to pass for kind, especially when speaking to Jane.
Elizabeth answered when addressed, smiled when required, and then turned deliberately toward Charlotte Lucas, who stood a little apart with Maria.
Charlotte’s eyes sharpened the moment Elizabeth approached. “You look tired.”
“I have earned it.”
“Jane looks better.”
“Yes. I am very grateful for that.”
Charlotte glanced past her shoulder toward the Netherfield group. “And are you grateful for anything else?”
Elizabeth ought to have laughed. A week ago, she would have. Instead, she adjusted the edge of her glove and watched a fallen leaf turn over in the wind near the path. “Gratitude is a very solemn virtue. I should not like to claim it in excess.”
“That is not an answer.”
“It is the only one I have.”
Charlotte studied her, then mercifully did not press.
She began instead to speak of Mr. Collins’s expected arrival, of her mother’s curiosity, and of Sir William’s determination to call upon him as soon as possible.
Elizabeth responded as best she could, grateful for Charlotte’s steadiness even when she had little strength for conversation.
But she could not prevent herself from looking once toward Darcy.
He stood near Bingley, perfectly composed, his hat in one hand, his attention apparently upon something Mrs. Hurst said.
He did not look at Elizabeth. Not once. Not when Bingley spoke warmly to Jane, not when Miss Bingley made some remark that ought to have invited his private amusement, not when Elizabeth shifted near enough that he must have been aware of her.
His indifference felt deliberate.
That was the worst of it.
If he had been cold by accident, she might have excused him. If he had been distracted, she might have called herself foolish for minding. But there was a carefulness in the way he avoided her, a precision that told her he knew exactly where she stood and had chosen not to see her.
The ache in her chest returned with such force that she could not remain.
“I believe I shall walk home,” she said to Charlotte.
“Alone?”
“It is not far.”
“Lizzy—”
“I want the air.”
Charlotte’s expression softened, but she nodded. “Then I shall not detain you.”
Elizabeth told Jane quietly that she meant to walk and urged her to ride home with their mother.
Jane looked uncertain, but Mr. Bingley was speaking to her, and Mrs. Bennet was close enough to hear any protest and turn it into a scene.
Elizabeth kissed Jane’s cheek, promised she was well, and slipped away before anyone could object.
The road to Longbourn was familiar enough that she did not need to think where her feet carried her. The hedgerows were thin, the fields washed dull by the season, and the wind pressed cold against her face. She walked quickly at first, as though movement might outpace feeling.
It did not.
By the time she reached the little rise beyond the church road, tears had begun to slip down her cheeks.
She did not sob. She would not indulge in anything so foolish as sobbing in the open air where any neighbor might come upon her.
But the tears came all the same, hot and humiliating, and she brushed them away with the back of her glove.
How absurd to weep over a gentleman’s silence.
How mortifying to care.