FIVE
Lucas Lodge
Elizabeth
The Sunday after the assembly, Elizabeth escaped Longbourn at the first reasonable opportunity.
Her mother had spent the morning in a state of sustained excitement which had, if anything, only intensified since the assembly.
Jane had encountered Mr. Bingley twice in the days following it.
Once in Meryton, where he had stopped in the street to speak with her for nearly a quarter of an hour.
And again that very morning at church, where he had sought her out after the service and remained in conversation with her long enough for Miss Bingley's smile to grow distinctly fixed.
Mrs. Bennet had accepted these events as confirmation of everything she had always believed likely to occur and had conducted herself in a state of triumphant anticipation ever since.
Mr. Bennet, in response, had retreated to his library and shut the door. The rest of the house had gradually descended into that particular degree of noise, interruption, and idleness which Elizabeth occasionally found entirely incompatible with rational thought.
Charlotte Lucas was a ten-minute walk and a great deal of relief.
Lucas Lodge received her as it always did, warmly and without ceremony.
She spent a pleasant half hour with the family before Charlotte caught her eye across the room and rose, suggesting a turn in the garden.
Elizabeth rose with her without hesitation and they slipped out through the side door into the cold afternoon.
“Well?” said Charlotte, the moment they reached the gravel path. “Has Mr. Bingley sought Jane out again since the assembly?”
“Twice,” said Elizabeth. “He seems genuinely to find occasion to speak with her whenever they meet.”
“Then his attentions at the assembly were not merely the consequence of a dance,” said Charlotte.
“I think so too.”
“And Jane?” Charlotte asked. “Does she regard him with equal favour?”
Elizabeth smiled a little. “She does. Though Jane is determined to feel everything with moderation and display nothing at all, which I sometimes think exceedingly unfair to the rest of us.”
“Better that than Lydia’s method of feeling everything at once and ensuring the neighbourhood knows it within the hour.” Charlotte said.
Elizabeth laughed. “Poor Lydia. She does nothing by halves.”
They walked on together for several moments before Charlotte spoke again.
“The Netherfield party called here two days ago. Mr. Bingley mentioned your family almost immediately, and Jane in particular often enough that even my mother could not mistake his preference, though my father exerted himself heroically to do so.” Her expression shifted with quiet amusement.
“His sisters were perfectly civil. Mrs. Hurst said very little. Miss Bingley said considerably more, and nearly all of it with a smile that appeared engaged elsewhere.”
Elizabeth turned slightly toward her. “And Mr. Darcy?”
“He did not come.”
Elizabeth was quiet for a moment. “There is something about that man,” she said at last. “He arrives in a new neighbourhood and resolves from the outset to have nothing to do with it. I cannot decide whether it is pride or indifference or something else entirely.”
“What is your impression of him?” said Charlotte. “Your true one, from the assembly.”
“He is perceptive,” said Elizabeth. “That much is plain. He observes everything and gives nothing away, and I suspect he knows perfectly well the effect he produces without troubling himself to soften it.” She paused. “He said something that evening which I have not entirely forgotten.”
Charlotte looked at her. “He did not speak to anyone beyond his own party.”
“He said something within my hearing.”
Charlotte's brows lifted.
“It was not complimentary,” said Elizabeth. “It was, in point of fact, rather insulting.”
“What did he say?”
Elizabeth shook her head. “I would rather not repeat it. Though I confess I have been unable to put it entirely from my mind.”
“You will not speak of it,” said Charlotte, “and yet you are still thinking about it.”
“I am thinking about whether Mary is right,” said Elizabeth.
“That one ought not to judge a man by a single evening. Which is entirely reasonable and also deeply inconvenient when the single evening was quite sufficient.” She glanced at Charlotte.
“I do not like him. I find I cannot entirely dismiss him either, and that is the more irritating of the two.”
“Perhaps they are connected,” said Charlotte.
Elizabeth did not answer that. They turned at the end of the path and started back.
After a brief silence, Elizabeth said, “I ought to warn you that we are expecting a cousin tomorrow.”
“Which cousin?”
“The one attached to the entail. Mr. Collins.”
Charlotte grimaced slightly. “Ah.”
“He sent a letter ahead of himself. A very long letter.”
“What did you make of it?”
“I shall form a proper opinion when I meet him,” said Elizabeth. “However, from the letter alone he appears a man of considerable self-importance, boundless reverence for his patroness, and a prose style that has never once encountered a sentiment it could not elaborate upon at length.”
“He may be perfectly agreeable in person.”
“He may,” said Elizabeth, in a tone that suggested she was prepared to be surprised but not expecting to be. “Though his letter strongly implies that he comes with the intention of admiring his fair cousins , which leads me to suspect his visit has a purpose beyond conciliation.”
“Are you saying he comes in search of a wife?” said Charlotte.
“That is what I would infer.”
“Well. He is to inherit Longbourn. It stands to reason he will want someone to manage the house.”
Elizabeth glanced at her. “I cannot dispute that.”
“Your mother will have thought of it already.”
“My mother has thought of little else since the letter arrived,” said Elizabeth.
“She cannot decide whether to resent him for the entail or encourage him for the admiration. Since he presented himself as a clergyman with connections to a lady of distinction, she has been leaning strongly toward the latter.”
“Well then,” said Charlotte, “since Jane appears to be progressing very happily with Mr. Bingley, perhaps Mr. Collins will do very well for you.”
Elizabeth stopped walking and raised a brow. “Charlotte.”
“I am perfectly serious.” Charlotte raised her hands.
“I know. That is what concerns me.” She turned to face her friend.
“A man who cannot form an independent thought without first consulting the opinion of a patroness is not a man I intend to spend my life alongside. He sounds, from every evidence available, like a well-intentioned fool. And I find I have very little patience for fools, however well-intentioned.”
“You have formed this opinion from a single letter,” said Charlotte.
“Perhaps,” said Elizabeth.
Charlotte smiled and nudged her lightly by the shoulder. “But seriously, Lizzy. He has a living. A house. He will one day have Longbourn. There are worse foundations for a life.”
“There are better ones.”
“Are there?” Charlotte said it without sharpness, which was more effective than sharpness would have been. “A comfortable establishment, a man of decent character, security — these are not small things. Most women in our situation count themselves fortunate to secure half as much.”
“I do not dismiss any of it,” said Elizabeth.
“But I could not marry a man I do not respect, and I could not respect a man I do not love. I know it is not a practical position. I know it makes everything more difficult.” She looked at Charlotte steadily.
“But I would far rather the difficulty than the alternative.”
Charlotte was quiet for a moment. The light had nearly left the garden and the air had turned properly cold. “Then I hope he exists,” she said at last. “The man worth all of that.”
“So do I,” Elizabeth said.
They went inside.