2. Chapter Two #2
Elizabeth lowered her gaze to the book in her hand. An assembly. The word carried with it a hundred regrets—music, movement, light, and the intricate dance of society on which she had wished to enter but been deprived of the full experience.
Now? She drew a soft breath. Society was different than she expected but not impossible to navigate.
Elizabeth lifted her head, turning slightly so that her left eye caught the light. “When is it to be held?” she asked.
“Within the fortnight,” Mr. Collins said. “We must all attend.”
The prospect settled uneasily in Elizabeth’s mind—not as dread, but as something to be measured and prepared for. It would not be avoided. And therefore, it must be faced well.
Kitty’s voice held a spark of anticipation. “We shall, of course.”
Jane’s tone was gentler, more measured. “If all is well.”
Elizabeth clasped her hand tighter around her cane. She felt the weight of it in her hands—the familiar texture, the reassuring stability it offered. It was her constant companion, but also a subtle announcement of her struggles.
“I believe,” she said, her voice calm, “that we shall manage it very well.”
Elizabeth did not return to the morning room.
Mr. Collins had indicated he desired her presence in his study.
And so, she turned from the garden path and made her way toward the smaller side entrance that opened into the back hall—a route she preferred when the day was fair.
The air there was cooler, shaded by the angle of the house, and the threshold itself had a slight rise she had long since learned to anticipate.
One step. A pause. Then over.
The stone floor within gave back a different sound beneath her shoes—firmer, more contained—and Elizabeth adjusted her pace accordingly. The corridor here was narrower than the front hall, but more predictable. Nothing was ever moved. Nothing was ever left in her way.
Not anymore.
There had been a time, in those early months, when such constancy had not existed.
Chairs shifted. Tables drifted from their usual places.
A forgotten basket would appear where none had been before.
It had not been carelessness—not truly—but habit.
A lifetime of movement without consequence did not alter itself in a day.
Elizabeth had stumbled more than once. Not disastrously, but sufficient to bruise, to jar; enough to remind her—sharply—that the world no longer adjusted itself to her expectations.
After that, things had changed. Gradually. Subtly. Without announcement.
Now, as she passed along the corridor, her free hand brushing lightly against the wall to confirm her direction, she encountered nothing unexpected.
The small table near the door remained precisely where it ought.
The stand that once held an assortment of walking gloves—often scattered—was now neatly arranged, each pair folded and set aside.
Even Lydia, Elizabeth thought, would not have believed herself capable of such order two years ago.
Elizabeth reached the study door and paused.
Within, she could hear the faint rustle of paper and the loud clearing of a throat—Mr. Collins, no doubt, in the midst of some serious consideration.
She lifted her hand and knocked lightly.
“Come in,” Mr. Collins called.
Elizabeth opened the door and stepped inside. The room was dimmer than she preferred, the curtains drawn halfway against the sun. She angled herself slightly, allowing what light there was to fall across her left side as she moved toward the desk.
“You wished to speak with me, sir,” she said.
Mr. Collins looked up at once, his expression brightening with what appeared to be genuine pleasure.
“Miss Elizabeth, yes—pray, come nearer. I have been engaged in the most instructive review of the estate accounts and find myself desirous of a second opinion.”
Elizabeth suppressed a smile.
“A second opinion,” she repeated, coming to stand at the edge of the desk. “Or a listener?”
Mr. Collins hesitated, then allowed, “Both, perhaps.”
She had a strange sort of fondness for the elder gentleman, despite him having usurped her father’s position. Elizabeth rested her hand lightly against the surface of the desk, orienting herself before she spoke again. “Then I am at your service.”
He gestured toward the open ledger before him. “You will observe—if it may be said that you observe—the expenditures of the past quarter. I have taken great care to reduce unnecessary outlay.”
Elizabeth inclined her head. “I have no doubt of it.”
Mr. Collins seemed encouraged by this. “Indeed, I have found that a more restrained approach to household management yields considerable benefit. Where formerly there may have been a tendency toward excess—”
Elizabeth did not glance toward him, but she could not quite prevent the flicker of amusement that passed through her. They had discussed this before.
“—we now find ourselves in a position of greater stability,” he concluded.
Elizabeth shifted slightly, leaning nearer to the ledger. The columns of figures were small, closely written, and for a moment they blurred together into indistinct lines. She narrowed her eye, tilting her head just enough to bring them into focus.
It took longer than it once would have. That, too, she had accepted.
“You have reduced the kitchen accounts,” she said after a moment. Again? “And yet,” she added, with deliberate neutrality, “I cannot help but wonder whether economy in one direction may invite difficulty in another.”
“Yes,” Mr. Collins replied, ignoring her subtle rebuke. “Mrs. Hill has proven most accommodating in adjusting her practices.”
Elizabeth nodded. “The dinners are simpler.” She had noticed, and she had no reason to complain. They still ate well.
“But sufficient,” he added quickly, echoing her thoughts.
“Entirely sufficient,” Elizabeth agreed. She traced the line of figures with the tip of her finger—not touching the page, but following the path just above it to guide her eye. “And the household purchases—there are fewer entries.”
“Quite so. I have discouraged unnecessary additions.”
Elizabeth thought of gowns remade rather than replaced, of ribbons faithfully preserved, of gloves mended rather than discarded. It was not hardship. It was…different.
“You have also increased the investment in the farm,” she said. This, too, was a recent change. Mr. Collins had implemented changes slowly, and this was the latest.
The gentleman straightened slightly. “Yes. It appeared to me that certain improvements, long neglected, might yield a more reliable return if properly addressed.”
Elizabeth’s lips curved faintly. Her father, for all his wit and intelligence, had never taken much interest in such matters. The estate had run as it always had, with little interference and less innovation.
“There has been work done on the lower field,” she said, struggling to follow the notes written in the ledger.
“Yes,” Mr. Collins replied, with satisfaction. “Drainage, primarily. It was long overdue.”
Elizabeth nodded. “It will improve the yield.”
“So I am informed.”
Elizabeth allowed herself a moment’s private reflection. Change, she thought, was not always unwelcome. “I believe you have done well,” she said at last.
Mr. Collins’s expression brightened further. “You think so?”
“I do.”
He folded his hands, clearly gratified. “It is a comfort to hear it. One cannot always rely upon one’s own judgment in such matters.” What went unsaid was that he had not been raised to be master of an estate. What he had learned had been of his own volition after he inherited.
Elizabeth said nothing to that.
After a moment, he cleared his throat again. “There is also the question of future expenditure.”
Elizabeth shifted her weight slightly. “In what regard?”
“With the arrival of our new neighbor,” he said, “it may become necessary to consider certain appearances.”
Elizabeth felt the faintest tightening in her chest. “Appearances,” she repeated. An eligible gentleman? Of course, he means to unburden himself of one of his charges. The thought was bitter, but could still prove true.
“Yes. It would not do for Longbourn to present itself as diminished in any respect.”
Elizabeth considered this. “You intend to spend more,” she said. Funds saved to be diverted to impression their rich neighbor.
Mr. Collins hesitated. “Not extravagantly. But—appropriately.”
That is good. Elizabeth tilted her head. “And what would that entail?”
“Perhaps a modest addition to the household table,” he said.
“Or the refurbishment of certain garments—nothing excessive, but sufficient to convey—respectability.” It was clear how he craved approval, though why he insisted on seeking it from her was baffling.
Perhaps it was because Mr. Bennet had treated Elizabeth as the son he never had, and so her advice was better than that of her sisters or mother.
Elizabeth thought of Jane, of the delicate balance she maintained between prudence and presentation.
“I believe Mrs. Collins will have an opinion on that,” she said. Jane is mistress. Not me.
Mr. Collins nodded. “Yes, yes. She always does.” There was no irritation in his tone—only a sort of pleased acceptance that Elizabeth found faintly surprising.
“Then perhaps it would be best to consult her,” Elizabeth said. It was best to continually redirect him to his daughter-in-law.
“Indeed,” he agreed.
A brief silence followed.
Elizabeth straightened, allowing her eye to rest.
“You manage these matters very capably, Miss Elizabeth,” Mr. Collins said after a moment. “I am very grateful.”
She turned slightly toward him. “I assist where I may.”
“And that assistance is of value,” he continued. “Particularly in a household such as this, where—circumstances—require a degree of adaptation.”
Elizabeth inclined her head. “We have all adapted.”
“Yes,” he said. “Yes, you have.” There was something in his tone—not quite apology, not quite acknowledgment—that surprised her. Mr. Collins was not usually prone to such sentiment.
She chose not to examine it too closely. “If there is nothing further,” she said, “I believe I shall return to my book.”
“Of course, of course,” Mr. Collins replied. “You have been most helpful.”
Elizabeth turned toward the door. Three steps. Four. The handle. She opened it and stepped back into the corridor. The air there felt lighter somehow, though perhaps that was only her own relief at leaving the close confines of figures and ink behind.
She moved slowly back toward the morning room, her steps measured, her hand brushing once more against the wall as she turned the corner.
At the far end of the hall, she heard voices—Lydia’s bright and animated, Kitty’s quieter in response.
“…an assembly,” Lydia was saying. “And a new gentleman besides! It will be the most interesting event we have had in an age.”
Elizabeth slowed her pace, listening.
“You must not expect too much,” Kitty replied. “He may be quite ordinary.”
“Ordinary?” Lydia scoffed. “With a fortune sufficient to take Netherfield? I think not.”
Elizabeth smiled faintly and continued forward. Some things, it seemed, did not change. And perhaps that, too, was a comfort.