Chapter 16 #2
“Always,” Lydia replied. “Come, it is your turn; you must tell us everything. You have been suspiciously serene this morning.”
Jane hesitated, then entered the room, closing the door behind her. “I do not know that there is anything to tell,” she said.
“There is,” Kitty insisted.
Jane smiled, though it deepened the color in her cheeks. “Mr. Bingley has asked that we… begin a formal courtship.”
The room stilled. Then Lydia gave a delighted cry. “I knew it.”
Elizabeth rose at once, crossing the room to embrace her sister. “Jane—”
Jane reciprocated the embrace, her countenance radiating unfeigned joy. “It is to be a short one,” she added with a laugh. “He was very clear on that point, and I find myself in complete agreement.”
Lydia laughed. “Of course it is.”
Kitty clapped her hands. Mary smiled openly now.
“I hope,” Lydia said, her voice softening just slightly, “that a man will love me half as well someday.”
Jane touched her arm. “I am certain he will.”
The room filled with warmth, with laughter, with a sense of shared happiness that left little room for doubt.
And when, at last, the sisters departed, leaving Elizabeth alone once more, the silence that followed felt different than before. It was not empty. It was full.
Elizabeth turned toward the mirror. She had avoided it earlier. She did not avoid it now, stepping closer and angling her face as she always did, bringing her reflection into clearer view.
For a long moment, she simply looked. Not with the sober detachment she had once cultivated. Not with the dismissal that had become habit. But with something else. Something nearer to curiosity.
She saw what she had always seen—the slight irregularity of one eye, the subtle differences that marked her as not entirely as she had once been.
But she saw more. She noted the steadiness of her expression. The strength in it. The composure that had not come easily, but had been earned. She saw, too, something she had not allowed herself to name before.
Beauty. Not perfect. Not conventional. But real. She drew a slow breath.
Perhaps—
She left her thought unfinished. There was no necessity for her to act. For at last, she understood how he saw her. Concurrently, for the initial instance, she did not object outright.
The following morning dawned with a steadiness that Elizabeth found both welcome and unsettling.
There had been a time, not long past, when such a morning—free from disturbance, governed by familiar routine—would have brought her immediate ease.
It would have offered her a clear path through the day, one in which expectation aligned neatly with reality, and nothing required of her more than what she had already learned to give.
Now, she found that steadiness more difficult to bear. It left room for thought. Too much room.
She had slept better than she had the night before, though not so soundly as to escape reflection altogether.
The events of the previous day lingered still, though they no longer pressed upon her with the same sharp urgency.
Instead, they settled into something quieter, more persistent—a kind of undercurrent that shaped her thoughts even when she turned them elsewhere.
She had believed him.
Not without hesitation, and not without the lingering instinct to guard herself against disappointment. But she had believed him enough to allow the possibility of something different from what she had long assumed.
That alone was change enough to occupy her mind.
Elizabeth descended to the drawing room later than usual, the household already gathered in part.
Mrs. Bennet sat near the fire, directing a maid with more animation than the task required, while Mr. Collins occupied a chair near the window, a book open in his lap though his attention appeared more inclined toward the company than the page.
Kitty and Lydia sat together upon the sofa, their heads bent in conversation that ceased the moment Elizabeth entered, their expressions shifting into something suspiciously innocent.
Jane, seated at the writing desk, glanced up with a smile that held a degree of brightness Elizabeth could not mistake.
Elizabeth returned it. There was no need for words. Not yet.
“Lizzy, my dear,” Mrs. Bennet said, turning at once. “You are later than usual.”
“I slept longer than I expected,” Elizabeth replied, taking her usual seat. She had taken a tray in her room since breakfast had long since been cleared away.
Mr. Collins closed his book with a measured air. “A dreadful habit,” he said. “Though I must observe that discipline in one’s daily routine is of great importance. Regularity of rising, of meals, of exercise—these are the foundations of a well-ordered life.”
Mary, who had been seated somewhat apart with her own book, looked up at this. “One might suppose, sir,” she said with mild composure, “that a well-ordered life consists equally in flexibility as in regularity.”
Mr. Collins blinked. “I do not see that flexibility is required where propriety has already determined the correct course,” he replied.
Mary inclined her head. “And yet circumstances do not always conform themselves to expectation.”
Elizabeth suppressed a smile.
Jane’s shoulders shook slightly, though she bent her head over her writing to conceal it.
Mr. Collins shifted in his seat, clearly uncertain how to respond, and after a moment redirected his attention elsewhere.
“It has not escaped my notice,” he said, changing the subject, “that Mr. Bingley’s visits have increased in frequency.”
The room stilled.
Elizabeth felt the shift immediately, subtle though it was. Lydia’s hand stilled against the fabric of her gown. Kitty’s gaze flickered toward Jane. Mary lowered her eyes, though not before a brief glance passed between them all—a look shared in an instant, silent and complete.
Jane did not look up. “That is very kind of him,” she said, her tone even.
Mr. Collins leaned forward slightly. “Kindness, yes,” he said, “though I should not be surprised if there were more in it than mere civility. A gentleman of his fortune does not bestow such attention without purpose.”
Jane dipped her pen again. “I have not inquired into his purpose,” she said.
Elizabeth turned her head slightly, watching her sister with a growing appreciation.
Mr. Collins frowned. “One does not need to inquire where the evidence is plain,” he continued. “It would be prudent, I think, to consider the advantages of such an attachment. A connection with Netherfield would be of considerable benefit to this household.”
Lydia expressed her displeasure through an eye-roll, remaining silent.
Mary, however, did. “Sir,” she said, “you appear very eager to see the ladies of this house disposed of.”
Elizabeth nearly laughed.
Mr. Collins drew himself up. “I speak only from a sense of duty,” he said. “It is the natural order of things that young ladies should form advantageous connections.”
Mary tilted her head slightly. “And do you intend to follow this natural order yourself?” she asked.
The question hung in the air. Mr. Collins blinked again, more distinctly this time. “I beg your pardon?”
“If marriage is so necessary to the proper ordering of one’s life,” Mary continued, her tone entirely composed, “it seems only reasonable to ask whether you intend to take a wife.”
Elizabeth lowered her gaze at once, pressing her lips together.
Kitty’s shoulders shook openly now.
Lydia made no attempt to conceal her grin.
Mr. Collins’s color rose. “I have no such intention,” he said quickly. “My line is secure. I have an heir. There is no necessity for further—arrangements of that nature.”
Mary inclined her head. “As you say.”
The matter, for the moment, was closed. Mr. Collins, his cheeks red from either embarrassment or anger, excuses himself and left the ladies in peace.
The arrival of Charlotte Lucas not long after brought a welcome shift in the atmosphere.
Elizabeth rose at once as her friend entered, her expression brightening with genuine warmth.
“Charlotte.”
“My dear Eliza.”
Charlotte’s smile held a degree of composure, though there was something beneath it—something barely restrained, as though she carried news she had not yet decided how to share.
Mrs. Bennet greeted her with enthusiasm, and Charlotte returned the civility with practiced ease before turning once more toward Elizabeth.
“I hope I do not intrude.”
“Never,” Elizabeth said.
Charlotte’s gaze lingered upon her for a moment longer than necessary, then shifted to include the others. “I have come,” she said, “with news.”
Lydia leaned forward at once. “What news?”
Charlotte’s smile deepened, though it remained measured. “Mr. Tipton has done me the honor of proposing.”
The room erupted. Lydia clapped her hands. Kitty exclaimed. Mrs. Bennet declared it a most agreeable match. Jane rose to embrace her, her expression warm with sincere pleasure.
Elizabeth followed, taking Charlotte’s hands in her own. “I am very happy for you.”
Charlotte’s fingers tightened briefly. “I believe I shall be happy,” she said resolutely. It was not the language of romance. It was not meant to be.
Elizabeth understood it nonetheless. Her friend had ever been a practical creature, and was content with a marriage of mutual respect, if not love.
The conversation swelled around them, filled with questions and congratulations, but Charlotte leaned slightly closer.
“And when,” she murmured, “may I wish you the same?”
Elizabeth’s breath caught. She felt the warmth rise in her cheeks, sudden and unmistakable.
“I—” She did not finish. She had no need.
Charlotte’s eyes softened. “I see,” she said.
Before Elizabeth could reply, the sound of voices in the hall interrupted them. Mr. Bingley’s voice. Mr. Darcy’s. And another—lighter, more reserved. Miss Darcy.
Mrs. Bennet turned at once, her expression alight with expectation.
The door opened. They entered together.