Chapter Ten #2
“I slept poorly,” he said. “The room was too warm, the bed insufficiently arranged, and I was disturbed more than once by noises in the hall.”
Mrs. Bennet clasped her hands together. “How very unfortunate.”
Mr. Collins nodded as though the misfortune was considerable. “It is not a circumstance to be borne lightly.”
Elizabeth took her seat without comment, though she felt the faintest stirring of amusement beneath her composure. There was something in his manner, in the way he catalogued his discomforts with solemn importance, that reminded her, unexpectedly, of her father.
The resemblance was not in appearance. Mr. Bennet’s ease, his quiet humor, his inclination toward irony were absent in Mr. Collins. And still, there was a shared tendency to dwell upon personal inconvenience as though it was of greater consequence than the moment required.
Elizabeth lowered her gaze, lifting her teacup. She smothered a smile before it could form. Around her, the morning continued.
Jane entered a few moments later, her expression composed, though Elizabeth noted the faint trace of fatigue beneath it. The previous day’s journey and the evening’s engagements had not been without effort. Still, she greeted Mr. Collins with gentle courtesy and took her place without remark.
Lydia and Kitty followed not long after, their energy undiminished by the hour.
“Did you sleep well?” Kitty asked, directing the question toward Jane.
“Very well, thank you,” Jane replied.
Lydia cast a glance toward Mr. Collins, her expression studiously neutral. “Better than some, it would seem.”
Jane gave her a small look of reproach, though it held no real severity.
Mr. Collins cleared his throat. “I trust,” he said, “that the rest of the household was not similarly inconvenienced.”
“No, sir,” Jane answered. “We were quite comfortable.”
Mr. Collins inclined his head, as though accepting a matter of some importance.
Elizabeth listened, her attention divided between the conversation and the familiar arrangement of the table before her. She reached for her cup again, her fingers finding it easily, the warmth of the tea a welcome contrast to the lingering chill of the morning.
The door opened. A maid entered, her steps steady, her arms occupied with additional items for the table. Elizabeth did not turn, but she was aware of the movement, of the slight shift in the air as the girl approached.
There was a hesitation in her manner. Elizabeth did not think on it. Her attention returned to the table. She reached for what she assumed to be a small plate set just within her reach. Her hand met something else.
Heat, sharp and immediate. Elizabeth drew in a quick breath as she pulled her hand back, the sensation stinging where her fingers had brushed against the surface.
“Ah—”
She turned her head instinctively, angling her gaze to bring the object into view. A hot pot of tea sat just beyond where she had expected it. Too close. Too near her right side.
Lydia was at her side in an instant. “Lizzy!” she exclaimed. “Are you hurt?”
Elizabeth shook her head, though the sting had not entirely subsided. “It is nothing,” she said, her voice steady. “Only a misjudgment.”
Kitty leaned forward. “It should not have been placed there.”
Mrs. Bennet rose at once, her expression shifting from concern to indignation. “What is the meaning of this?” she demanded.
The maid had retreated toward the door, her posture rigid, her hands clasped tightly before her.
Mrs. Bennet’s gaze fixed upon her. “Hill!”
Mrs. Hill appeared almost immediately, drawn by the raised voice. “Yes, ma’am?”
“This new maid,” Mrs. Bennet said, gesturing sharply, “must be properly trained. My poor daughter burned herself. The pot was placed without any thought for where she might reach.”
Mrs. Hill inclined her head, her expression composed. “I will see to it at once, ma’am.”
Mrs. Bennet turned back toward Elizabeth, her tone softening, though not without a trace of agitation.
“My poor girl,” she murmured.
Elizabeth inclined her head slightly. “It was only a moment’s discomfort.” The sting in her fingers lingered, though it was already beginning to fade into something more manageable. She flexed her hand once, testing the movement, then rested it lightly against her lap.
Her gaze shifted toward the door. The maid remained there, her expression pale, her eyes wide with evident distress. She could not have been long in service, Elizabeth thought. There was a stiffness in her posture that spoke of inexperience rather than carelessness.
Elizabeth met her gaze as best she could, though the distance rendered the girl’s features slightly indistinct. She smiled. A small gesture. Intentional.
The maid blinked, as though uncertain she had seen it correctly, then lowered her eyes. Mrs. Hill moved toward her, speaking in low tones that did not carry across the room.
Elizabeth turned back to the table. The conversation resumed, though not with its earlier ease.
Mrs. Bennet continued to express her dissatisfaction in quieter terms, while Lydia and Kitty exchanged glances that required no words.
Jane, ever composed, redirected the discussion where she could, her manner calm and steady.
Elizabeth finished her breakfast without further incident.
After the meal, she rose with purpose. Her hand still ached slightly, though not enough to require attention. It would pass, as such things always did. The greater discomfort lay not in the burn itself, but in the reminder of how easily such moments might occur.
Elizabeth did not dwell on it. Instead, she turned toward the door. “I think I shall take a walk,” she said.
Mrs. Bennet looked up at once. “In this air?” she asked. “You must not remain out too long. It will not do for you to bring on another headache.”
“I shall be vigilant.”
Mrs. Bennet’s expression softened again. “My poor girl,” she murmured.
Elizabeth inclined her head, though she did not answer. She retrieved her book from the small table near the window, slipping it beneath her arm before reaching for her walking stick. The familiar weight of it steadied her as she moved toward the door.
The house was more peaceful now. The morning’s activity had begun to settle, the earlier tension fading into something more subdued. Elizabeth stepped outside, the air cool against her face, the dampness of the ground still evident beneath her feet.
Her pace was unhurried. There was no urgency in her movement, only a desire for space, for a moment apart from the expectations and observations that filled the house.
The path before her was known. She followed it with steady steps, her attention focused where it needed to be, her thoughts gradually easing as the distance grew.
The sting in her hand diminished. The echo of her mother’s words faded. And though the world beyond her sight remained imperfectly defined, Elizabeth moved within it with the same determination that had carried her thus far.
She would continue, as she always had.
Elizabeth did not go far. The path curved gently away from the house before opening toward one of the nearer fields, where a low stone wall marked the boundary between pasture and lane.
It was a place she knew well, chosen often for its steadiness beneath her feet and the way the light fell there when the clouds lifted.
This morning, the sky had cleared enough to allow the sun through in earnest, and though the brightness would not suit her for long, she welcomed it while she could.
She set her basket and book upon the wall before easing herself into place, her movements practiced and unhurried.
The stone held the lingering warmth of the sun, and she adjusted slightly until she found a position that allowed her to face the light without strain.
Then she took up her book, opened it to where she had last left off, and began to read.
Her head tilted as she did so, angled just enough that the page lay within the clearest range of her sight.
It was a posture she had learned without instruction, refined through trial and patience until it came as naturally as any other habit.
The words did not come as quickly as they once had, nor with the same ease, but they came. That was enough.
She turned a page slowly, her finger marking her place before she moved on. A faint breeze stirred, lifting the loose strands of hair at her temple and carrying with it the peaceful sounds of the morning—the distant call of birds, the soft shift of grass in the field beyond.
It was peaceful.
Elizabeth allowed herself to settle into it, her thoughts narrowing to the line of text before her, her breathing steady, her body at ease in a way that was not always possible within the house.
Here, there were no sudden movements to account for, no voices to track from uncertain distances, no expectations beyond the simple act of sitting and reading.
She did not hear his approach at first.
Darcy had not intended to intrude.
His ride had begun with no particular destination in mind, only a desire for air and movement after a morning spent in company he found increasingly tiresome.
The grounds stretched before him in quiet order, the remnants of the previous day’s rain still evident in the softened earth, though the sun had begun its work of restoring what it could.
He followed the path without haste, his thoughts only loosely engaged with his surroundings. It was not until the line of the wall came into view that his attention sharpened, drawn by the presence of someone seated there.
He slowed. At first, he did not recognize her. The angle of her posture, the way she sat turned slightly toward the light, her head inclined over the book in her hands—it was an unfamiliar arrangement, removed from the movement and conversation in which he had previously observed her.
Then she shifted. Only slightly. Recognition came not as a sudden realization, but as a certainty.
Miss Elizabeth Bennet.