Chapter 25
By the time Longbourn came into view, Elizabeth had persuaded herself that she was prepared.
This was foolish, of course. No one could ever be prepared to enter one’s family breakfast room with a suitor beside her, especially when one had left the house before breakfast on an ordinary walk and returned with a gentleman well before an appropriate hour to make calls.
Still, she had arranged her thoughts as well as possible.
Darcy would speak to her father. Elizabeth would endure whatever followed.
Mr. Collins would, she trusted, be silenced at least for one morning by the sight of another suitor so far beyond his own consequence.
That last hope was enough to carry her up the steps.
Hill opened the door and looked at Darcy, then at Elizabeth, then back at Darcy with the expression of a man who had served Longbourn long enough to know when extraordinary events were best met with silence.
“Good morning, Hill,” Elizabeth said, with more composure than she felt. “Is the family at breakfast?”
“Yes, miss.” Hill’s eyes shifted again to Darcy. “All of them.”
All of them.
Elizabeth felt Darcy’s arm tense beneath her fingers before she released it. “Thank you.”
They entered the breakfast room together.
Conversation stopped.
Every face turned toward them at once. Jane’s eyes widened, then softened with immediate understanding.
Mrs. Bennet stared as though Elizabeth had brought home a duke, a ghost, or both.
Lydia’s mouth fell open in delight. Kitty’s fork remained suspended halfway to her plate.
Mary blinked over her toast. Mr. Bennet slowly lowered his cup, eyebrows lifting by degrees until they nearly disappeared into his hair.
Mr. Collins, seated near Mrs. Bennet and apparently in the midst of a very substantial bite, stared with his mouth slightly open, a portion of chewed egg visible within.
Elizabeth bit the inside of her lip so hard she nearly hurt herself.
It was dreadful. It was mortifying. It was also so absurd that the laugh rose in her throat before she could suppress it. She lowered her eyes at once, but the effort to contain herself made her shoulders tremble.
Beside her, Darcy cleared his throat.
The sound was stiff, uncomfortable, and so very unlike the man who had poured out his heart on Oakham Mount that Elizabeth’s threatened laughter nearly broke free again.
“Forgive the intrusion,” he said, bowing to the room with formal gravity. “Mr. Bennet, might I request a few moments of your time? I should like to speak with you privately, if it is not inconvenient.”
Mr. Bennet looked from Darcy to Elizabeth.
There was a question in his face, sharp and suddenly much more awake than he had appeared a moment before. Elizabeth gave one small nod.
Her father’s eyebrows rose higher.
Slowly, he set down his cup, wiped his mouth with his napkin, and stood. “By all means, Mr. Darcy. I find myself unusually curious this morning. Pray, come with me.”
Darcy bowed once more. “Thank you, sir.”
Elizabeth watched them leave the room. Her father moved with deliberate calm, but she knew him well enough to see the interest beneath it.
Darcy followed, tall, grave, and composed enough to satisfy any observer who had not seen his hands tremble slightly when he offered Elizabeth his arm on the walk home.
The door had not fully closed before Mrs. Bennet spoke.
“What in heaven’s name is Mr. Darcy doing here at this hour? Lizzy, where have you been? Why were you walking with him? Why does he wish to speak to your father? What can possibly be going on?”
All eyes turned back to Elizabeth.
Mr. Collins swallowed audibly. “Indeed, cousin Elizabeth, this is most unexpected. Most unexpected. I would not presume to question the propriety of—”
“Then do not,” Lydia whispered to Kitty, who choked on a laugh.
Elizabeth ignored them. Her mother’s face had already begun to sharpen from astonishment into anxiety, and in that moment, Elizabeth saw the opportunity her uncle had not given her but might approve all the same.
She could ease some of Mrs. Bennet’s fear without revealing Netherfield.
She could stop, or at least redirect, the campaign for Mr. Collins.
She could give her mother something true enough to comfort her and safe enough to say aloud.
“Mama,” Elizabeth said, crossing to her, “Mr. Darcy has come to request Papa’s permission to court me formally.”
No one moved.
Then Lydia shrieked.
Jane gasped softly and pressed both hands to her heart, though her smile bloomed at once.
Kitty began to giggle. Mary looked as though she were searching for a moral reflection and finding none ready to hand.
Mr. Collins went very red, then very pale, then appeared to settle upon injured dignity as the safest expression available.
Mrs. Bennet simply stared.
“To court you?” she repeated.
“Yes.”
“Mr. Darcy?”
“Yes, Mama.”
“Mr. Darcy of Pemberley?”
“The same.”
Mrs. Bennet’s eyes darted toward the door, then back to Elizabeth.
“But I thought— That is, Mrs. Philips said— We heard he needed a great fortune. That he was nearly impoverished. Not poor, of course, not poor as anyone else is poor, but that Pemberley was not what it had been, and he needed to marry a very rich lady. I never thought—” She stopped, her confusion turning suddenly to distress.
“Lizzy, are you sure? For I will not have you taken in by a great name if there is nothing behind it. A handsome estate does not feed daughters if it is all debts and old stone.”
Elizabeth’s heart softened so unexpectedly that she almost forgot Mr. Collins, Lydia’s giggles, and every awkward eye upon her.
Her mother was anxious, yes. Indiscreet, yes. But beneath the fluttering words was fear for her daughter, and that fear was not unworthy.
Elizabeth sat beside her and took her hand. “Everything is well, Mama.”
“But if he is in want of fortune—”
“Then it is fortunate he is speaking to Papa and not expecting us to arrange everything without counsel. I shall make certain that any marriage articles and settlement, should matters ever come to that, are handled properly with my uncle Philips’s insight.”
Mrs. Bennet gripped her fingers. “Your uncle will help arrange it?”
“Of course. You know he will be careful.”
“He is a very sensible man,” Mrs. Bennet murmured.
“And I will not permit anything imprudent,” Elizabeth said gently. “Not for myself, and not for any of you. If I marry, I shall ensure you and my sisters are protected after Papa’s death. You will not be left without shelter or support. I promise you that.”
Mrs. Bennet’s face changed.
The words seemed to strike past all her schemes and nerves and settle somewhere deeper. Her eyes filled at once, and before Elizabeth could prepare herself, her mother rose and pulled her into a fierce embrace.
“Oh, my Lizzy.”
Elizabeth froze for one surprised heartbeat, then returned the embrace.
Mrs. Bennet did not often hold her this way.
She kissed Jane, fussed over Lydia, complained of Kitty’s coughs, scolded Mary’s solemnity, and declared Elizabeth headstrong, willful, or impossible depending upon the day.
But this was different. Her arms trembled, and Elizabeth realized, with a sharp ache of tenderness, how long her mother had been afraid.
“I have worried so,” Mrs. Bennet whispered, too low for the room at large. “You cannot know.”
Elizabeth closed her eyes. “I know more than I did.”
Mrs. Bennet held her another moment, then released her abruptly and turned away to dab at her eyes with her handkerchief. When she turned back, tears still clung to her lashes, but calculation had already begun to return in bright, practical sparks.
“Well,” she said, drawing herself up, “there is much to do.”
Elizabeth laughed. She could not help it. “Mama.”
“There are calls to make, and your aunt must know, and Lady Lucas—oh! Lady Lucas will be all astonishment. And your gowns, Lizzy! You cannot be courted by Mr. Darcy in that old muslin with the mended sleeve. Hill must send to Meryton at once, and we must begin thinking of—”
“It is a courtship, Mama,” Elizabeth reminded her. “Only a courtship.”
Mrs. Bennet waved one hand as though courtship were a minor obstacle on a very clear road. “Only a matter of time.”
“Mama, Mr. Darcy has not proposed.” It was not precisely a lie; he had proposed, but she had not accepted, and that was not a distinction Elizabeth intended to explain before Mr. Collins’s wounded dignity and Lydia’s delighted curiosity.
“He will,” Mrs. Bennet said with complete confidence. “A gentleman does not come at breakfast to ask permission to court a young lady unless he means something by it. Five thousand a year for Jane, and Mr. Darcy of Pemberley for Lizzy! Oh, my poor nerves. I shall never survive so much happiness.”
Mr. Collins cleared his throat with solemn force. “May I be permitted to offer my congratulations, cousin Elizabeth, though I confess the suddenness of this intelligence must naturally produce some astonishment in those who had understood—”
“Thank you, Mr. Collins,” Elizabeth said quickly.
Mary, perhaps attempting charity, added, “A courtship is not an engagement, Mr. Collins. There remains opportunity for reflection on all sides.”
“That is precisely what I have just said,” Elizabeth said, grateful for the support even if Mary’s tone made courtship sound like a theological examination.
Lydia bounced in her chair. “Lizzy, will you be mistress of Pemberley? Will you have a carriage? Will you give balls? Will there be officers in Derbyshire?”
“I have not the least idea.”
“There must be officers somewhere.”
“Not in the breakfast room, I hope,” Jane said, smiling softly.
Elizabeth looked at her sister then, and the warmth in Jane’s face nearly brought tears to her own eyes. Jane understood more than anyone else at the table. Not all, perhaps, but enough. Her joy was quiet, tender, and unselfish.