Chapter Ten
The carriage ride from Lucas Lodge began with a burst of energy that seemed to carry over from the evening’s festivities, the air inside still warm with laughter and lingering conversation.
Lydia claimed the first word, as she so often did, leaning forward with irrepressible satisfaction as the wheels turned onto the lane.
“Well,” she declared, “it was vastly more pleasant to have an evening out without Mr. Collins.”
Kitty laughed at once, her agreement unrestrained. “Indeed, it was. I do not think I have ever enjoyed myself more.”
Jane, seated opposite, turned toward them with gentle reproach. “You must not speak so. It is unfortunate that Mr. Collins was taken unwell. He so enjoys Sir William’s company.” Her tone held no severity, only a gentle reminder of propriety, but it did little to dampen Lydia’s spirits.
“A megrim,” Lydia repeated, with a faint hint of disbelief. “It came upon him most conveniently.”
Kitty suppressed another laugh, pressing her hand briefly to her mouth. “You must admit, Jane, it did spare us a great deal of conversation.”
Jane’s lips curved, though she attempted to maintain her composure. “That may be so, but it is not kind to say it.”
Elizabeth listened without joining at once.
She sat with her hands folded loosely in her lap, her head turned slightly to ease the strain upon her eye as the carriage rocked gently over the uneven road.
The dim light within made it easier to distinguish the nearer shapes, though she did not attempt to follow every expression.
Privately, she found herself in agreement with her younger sisters.
Mr. Collins had been kind, in his way. He had ensured their continued residence at Longbourn, had made efforts to improve the estate, had not treated them with cruelty or indifference.
For these things, Elizabeth was not ungrateful.
But kindness did not preclude absurdity. Nor did it erase the growing sense that his patience with their presence had limits he did not entirely conceal. The thought settled uneasily, and with it came another, less welcome.
Burden. The word surfaced unbidden, sharp in its clarity.
Elizabeth shifted slightly, her fingers tightening for a moment before she forced them to relax.
She had heard it spoken plainly enough the day before, delivered with indifferent certainty and no regard for who might receive it.
It had lingered since, not because she believed it, but because it had been said at all.
She drew a steady breath. Miss Bingley’s opinion held no authority over her life. It was not one she would accept. Still, it had touched something she could not entirely dismiss.
Elizabeth turned her thoughts determinedly away. Instead, she recalled another voice. Measured. Considered. Unwilling to agree where agreement would have been easy.
Mr. Darcy.
There had been no hesitation in his defense. No sense that he offered it reluctantly or out of mere politeness. He had spoken as though the truth of it were self-evident, as though her independence required no justification.
Elizabeth felt the faintest warmth at the memory. It was not something she had expected. Nor something she would dwell upon too closely. And yet, she could not entirely set it aside.
She thought, too, of Miss Darcy. Of the young lady’s gentle manner, her shy warmth, the way she had engaged with Lydia and Kitty without reserve once her initial reticence had eased.
There had been nothing of her brother’s reserve in that moment, only an openness that Elizabeth had found immediately agreeable.
More than that, she thought of the subtle kindness in Mr. Darcy’s decision to bring her. He had remembered Lydia’s spirited objection at the assembly, remembered Elizabeth’s own words, and acted upon them without announcement or expectation of acknowledgment.
Elizabeth felt a small, private sense of pleasure at the thought. It had been thoughtful. More thoughtful than she would have credited him for upon their first acquaintance.
“Did you see her gown?” Lydia’s voice broke into her reflections, bright with enthusiasm. “Miss Darcy’s gown was the finest in the room.”
Kitty leaned forward. “The fabric was exquisite. I have never seen anything like it.”
Mary, who had been quieter than the others, spoke then. “I found her conversation very agreeable. She has a great appreciation for music.”
Elizabeth smiled faintly, listening as the conversation turned from one detail to another, each observation layered upon the last.
“She was elegant,” Lydia continued. “Quite elegant.”
Mrs. Bennet, who had been listening with growing interest, leaned forward at once. “Then we must invite her to call.”
Elizabeth’s head lifted slightly.
“And for tea,” Mrs. Bennet added, as though the plan had already taken shape. “It would be most proper.” She turned to Jane with clear expectation. “And perhaps the entire Netherfield party ought to be invited as well.”
Jane inclined her head, her expression thoughtful. “Yes,” she said. “I believe that would be appropriate. I shall write to Miss Bingley in the morning.”
Mrs. Bennet appeared satisfied with this arrangement.
Elizabeth remained silent, though her thoughts had shifted once more.
The idea of such a gathering at Longbourn brought with it a mixture of anticipation and uncertainty. It would be a different setting, one in which the balance of familiarity might alter the ease of their interactions.
She wondered, briefly, how Mr. Darcy would conduct himself in such a situation. Then she set the thought aside. The carriage rolled on.
The conversation gradually softened as the evening wore on, Lydia’s energy fading only slightly, Kitty’s responses growing less frequent, Mary retreating into her own reflections.
Jane remained composed, though Elizabeth suspected her thoughts had turned toward the letter she would write in the morning.
By the time they reached Longbourn, the house stood silent and dark against the night.
They entered with little ceremony, each retreating to their chambers with the shared understanding that the day had been long enough.
Elizabeth moved through the familiar corridors with practiced ease, her hand brushing lightly against the wall as she ascended the stairs. The house felt still around her, the silence settling in a way that was neither oppressive nor entirely comforting.
In her chamber, she set aside her shawl and walking stick before moving to the small dressing table.
The candlelight flickered softly, casting a warm glow that made the edges of the room less distinct.
Elizabeth sat, reaching for the pins in her hair, removing them one by one until the weight of it fell loose around her shoulders.
She gathered it into a loose braid, her movements steady despite the lingering ache that had not entirely left her.
When she finished, she lifted her gaze to the mirror.
For a moment, she simply looked. The reflection was not always easy to discern, depending upon the angle of the light, the position of her head, the clarity of her remaining sight.
She adjusted slightly, turning her face to bring it more fully into view.
Her left eye met her own gaze without difficulty.
The right—She shifted again, lifting her hand to touch just beneath it, her fingers tracing the faint difference she knew so well. The clouding was not always visible to her in the mirror, but she felt it nonetheless, the subtle change that had altered more than her appearance.
Elizabeth drew a slow breath. She had learned to live with it. Learned to move, to adapt, to navigate a world that had shifted in ways she had not chosen. She had done so with determination.
With effort. And still, there were moments.
Moments when the weight of it returned, not as something overwhelming, but as something patiently persistent.
Her future stretched before her with a certain clarity.
It would not be one of dramatic change. Not one of sudden transformation.
It would be, in all likelihood, much as it was now.
There were moments—fewer now than before, but not gone entirely—when she allowed herself to wonder whether she had accepted that future too readily.
Not because it was unkind. Not because it lacked comfort.
But because it asked so little of hope.
She did not dwell on such thoughts. They served no purpose.
Still, they came. She would remain at Longbourn. She would assist Jane, caring for Thomas, and for any children who might follow. It was not an unhappy prospect.
Elizabeth’s chest tightened slightly. She thought of her mother’s words. My poor girl, spoken with affection. With concern. And with an assumption that Elizabeth could not entirely escape.
She smiled faintly, though there was little humor in it. “At least,” she said aloud, her voice soft in the stillness of the room, “she does not blame me.” The words lingered for a moment, then faded.
Elizabeth reached forward, her fingers closing around the candle. She leaned slightly and blew it out. Darkness settled gently around her. And with it, the day came to an end.
Morning at Longbourn arrived with a steadier light than the day before, though the air still held a trace of damp that lingered after rain.
Elizabeth entered the breakfast room with her usual care, her hand brushing lightly against the back of a chair before she took her place.
The arrangement of the table had not changed, and she felt a small sense of ease in that constancy.
Mr. Collins was already seated. It required no great observation to determine that he was not in good spirits.
His posture was more rigid than usual, his expression drawn into lines of dissatisfaction that he made little effort to conceal.
The moment Mrs. Bennet inquired after his rest, he responded with a low murmur that conveyed far more irritation than gratitude.