Chapter Eight #2
The change in subject was intentional. Darcy did not move to join them.
His thoughts had turned elsewhere. He considered his sister—her unease, her relief at being dismissed.
He contemplated Mrs. Collins—her composure, her restraint, her determination not to impose.
And he thought of Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst—their ease in judgment, their lack of hesitation in dismissing what they did not value.
There was a distinction there, one that had little to do with fortune or education. Good breeding, Darcy reflected, revealed itself not in polish alone, but in conduct—in the ability to extend consideration where none was required.
He turned his gaze toward the door through which Mrs. Collins had passed. She had been placed in an uncomfortable position and she had borne it well. And though he had known her only briefly, he found himself inclined to think well of her.
He turned away at last. The rain continued against the windows. And the evening, though it had altered, went on.
Elizabeth woke with the faint, familiar pressure behind her eye.
It was not enough to confine her to her bed, nor sharp enough to demand immediate retreat from the day, but it lingered nonetheless.
A dull, steady reminder that the weather had shifted, that the rain which had fallen so persistently the night before had left its mark not only upon the roads, but upon her as well.
She lay still for a moment, allowing the sensation to settle into something she could measure. It had been worse, far worse, in the months following the accident. Now, it came and went with a kind of predictability, tied often to damp air or sudden changes in light.
It could be managed. The pain, while sometimes debilitating, was not so severe so as to keep her in bed that day.
She turned her head slightly toward the window.
The light that filtered through the curtains was softer than it had been the day before, the sky beyond still heavy with clouds.
There would be no brightness to strain her further, though the lingering damp might prolong the ache.
Elizabeth drew a soft breath and rose.
By the time she made her way downstairs, the house had already begun to stir.
The sounds of movement carried easily in the morning—the faint clatter of dishes from below, the measured steps of servants attending to their tasks, and somewhere in the distance, the lighter tread of Lydia moving far more quickly than necessity required.
Elizabeth entered the breakfast room with her usual attentiveness, her hand resting lightly upon the familiar surface of the doorframe before she crossed to the table.
The room was arranged as it had been the day before, and the day before that.
Chairs remained where they ought to be, the table set with stable order.
It was a small thing, perhaps, but one she appreciated more than she would ever express.
Mrs. Bennet was already seated, her expression one of lingering anxiety.
“My dear Lizzy,” she said at once, her voice softening as it always did. “How do you feel this morning?”
Elizabeth inclined her head as she took her seat. “Quite well, Mama.”
Mrs. Bennet’s gaze lingered on her a moment longer than necessary. “The weather has been dreadful. I cannot think it agrees with you.”
Elizabeth reached for her cup. “It is only a passing discomfort.”
Mr. Collins sat at the head of the table, his attention fixed upon his plate. He acknowledged her arrival with a brief inclination of his head before returning to his meal.
Elizabeth took a small portion for herself, though her appetite remained uncertain.
The faint ache behind her eye persisted, not worsening, but not entirely retreating either.
She kept her gaze lowered, allowing her attention to settle upon what was nearest, rather than attempting to bring the whole of the room into focus at once.
The sound of footsteps in the hall preceded Kitty’s entrance.
She came in with a touch more restraint than Lydia might have managed, though there was still an eagerness in her manner that spoke of news to be shared.
“Well?” Lydia called from her place near the window. “How is he?”
Kitty smiled as she took her seat. “In good spirits.”
Mrs. Bennet leaned forward. “And does he ask for his mama?”
“Yes,” Kitty said gently. “He asked after her when he woke, but he was not distressed. Mrs. Hill told him she would return soon.”
Elizabeth felt a small easing in her chest. Thomas, though young, had borne the absence better than might have been expected. Still, there would come a time when patience gave way to uncertainty.
“I hope she returns today,” Lydia said. “It is not right for her to be kept away.”
Elizabeth lifted her gaze slightly, though she did not turn fully toward her. “I am certain she will return as soon as she is able.”
As if summoned by the very thought, the door opened once more. Mrs. Hill entered, a folded note held in her hand. “For Mr. Collins,” she said.
Every head turned. Mrs. Bennet reached out at once, taking the note before passing it along. “Well, read it,” she urged.
Elizabeth listened as the paper was unfolded.
Jane’s voice was not there to read it aloud, but Elizabeth could imagine the tone in which it had been written. Measured. Considerate. Apologetic, perhaps, though no apology ought to be required.
Mrs. Bennet listened patiently, then exclaimed, “She requests the carriage.”
“Of course she does,” Lydia said. “She must come home.”
Mrs. Bennet turned toward Mr. Collins. “It must be ordered at once.”
Elizabeth set down her cup. She felt, rather than saw, the shift in the room as Mr. Collins paused.
“I think not,” he said. The words were spoken without hesitation.
Mrs. Bennet stared at him. “Not?”
“The roads have not had sufficient time to recover from the rain,” he continued. “It would be most imprudent to send the carriage under such conditions.”
Mrs. Bennet’s expression changed at once. “But she must return,” she said. “She has been away all night. Her son…”
Mr. Collins folded his hands before him. “It would be much better for the roads to dry further before Mrs. Collins attempts the journey.”
Elizabeth felt the faint tension return.
“She requests the carriage,” Mrs. Bennet insisted.
“And I must decline the request,” Mr. Collins replied. “You would not wish for your daughter to be subjected to unnecessary risk. Carriage accidents, as we all know, may have serious consequences.”
The words settled into the room with muted weight. Elizabeth did not move. It was not incumbent upon her to do so.
Mrs. Bennet’s breath caught. “Yes,” she said, her voice shifting, her earlier urgency giving way to something more uncertain. “Yes, of course. We must be careful.”
Her gaze turned toward Elizabeth. “My poor girl,” she murmured.
Elizabeth inclined her head slightly. She said nothing. The words were familiar. They had lost the power to wound in any immediate sense, though they never entirely lost their weight. She finished her meal without further comment.
The conversation moved on, though not with the same ease. Lydia protested once or twice, Kitty spoke more softly, and Mr. Collins returned to his plate with evident satisfaction.
Elizabeth remained composed. But her thoughts had already turned.
After breakfast, she did not linger. She rose from the table with purpose and made her way from the room, her steps measured, her hand finding the familiar points of guidance without conscious effort.
The house was still in motion around her, but she moved through it with a steadiness born of habit.
Jane would not wish to remain. Elizabeth knew it as surely as she knew her own thoughts. To be obliged to stay, to accept hospitality that had not been freely sought, to feel herself a burden rather than a guest—such a situation would weigh upon Jane more than she would ever allow to be seen.
And now, with the carriage refused… Elizabeth did not hesitate.
She turned instead toward the back stairs, making her way upward to the bedchamber that had once been entirely Jane’s and was now shared in quieter ways.
The room was as she expected—neatly arranged, though touched with the absence of its usual occupant.
Elizabeth crossed to the wardrobe and opened it.
She knew what she sought. The boots were there, set aside in their proper place.
Practical. Well-made. Entirely suited to walking, should the need arise.
Elizabeth reached for them, her fingers brushing over the familiar leather.
Jane would walk, if given the means, Elizabeth was certain of it.
She took up a small basket from the corner of the room and placed the boots within, arranging them so they would not shift. The weight was inconsequential. She closed the wardrobe and turned. There was one more matter.
Elizabeth made her way toward the small sitting room where Mary often spent her mornings. She found her there, a book open upon her lap, her posture straight, her attention fixed upon the page.
“Mary,” Elizabeth said.
Mary looked up at once. “Lizzy. Are you well?” Her sister’s concern warmed her heart. Mary was not the most demonstrative but sincere nonetheless.
“I am going to Netherfield.”
Mary’s brows lifted slightly. “On foot?”
“Yes.”
Mary considered this, then smiled—a small, thoughtful expression. “I am pleased,” she said, “that Jane will be spared the mortification of remaining another day.”
Elizabeth’s lips curved. “Mortification indeed,” she said. “We both know she would feel it keenly.”
Mary inclined her head. “She does not like to impose.”
“No,” Elizabeth agreed. “She does not.”
There was a brief pause. Mary closed her book. “Will you require anything?”
Elizabeth shook her head. “Nothing beyond what I carry.”
Mary’s gaze moved to the basket, then back again. “You are a very good sister,” she said.
Elizabeth smiled faintly. “I am only a practical one.”