EIGHTEEN
Mertyton
Elizabeth
The carriage had scarcely cleared the Netherfield gates before Jane said, “Mr. Darcy came out to see us off.”
Elizabeth kept her eyes upon the window. “The entire household came out.”
“Yes, they did,” said Jane, smiling still, “but we both know Mr. Darcy’s attention was not equally distributed amongst the company. He was perfectly civil to me, certainly, though I do not believe his eyes left you above twice.”
Elizabeth turned from the window at that. “For someone whose hand Mr. Bingley kissed this afternoon and who was assisted into the carriage with all the ceremony due a duchess, you imply a great deal.”
Jane laughed softly. “I like Mr. Bingley. I have acknowledged it very openly. You have not spoken half so plainly regarding Mr. Darcy.”
“I said only that I do not dislike him.”
“It is not quite the same thing.”
Elizabeth understood perfectly well what her sister wished her to admit and, not being entirely certain of the answer herself, returned her attention toward the passing landscape with an appearance of composure she did not wholly feel.
Jane, thankfully, did not press the matter further. She settled more comfortably against the cushions and soon fell into thoughtful quiet herself.
The carriage continued steadily along the Hertfordshire road whilst Elizabeth’s thoughts returned almost immediately where they had wished to go since leaving Netherfield.
To Darcy.
To the garden on Sunday morning and the manner in which he had spoken of faith, the church, and the accident itself without either self-pity or dramatics. He had offered the truth plainly and left it between them without expectation.
Then the chess game.
The ease of it.
An entire hour passing almost unnoticed whilst conversation moved as naturally as the game itself.
She remembered too the breakfast table that morning and his abrupt question regarding paths suitable for someone in his condition.
There had been practicality in the inquiry certainly, yet also something unexpectedly vulnerable in the fact that he had asked it so directly and before everyone present, without attempting either embarrassment or concealment.
And then there had been the smiles.
Rare things with him.
She found herself remembering with uncomfortable clarity the expression which briefly altered his face whenever amusement overcame reserve quickly enough to escape before restraint returned.
Her thoughts turned then, inevitably, toward Wickham.
That was the difficulty of it.
Everything she had observed at Netherfield stood increasingly at odds with the man Wickham had described.
Yet Wickham’s account had not sounded wholly false. There had been particulars in it, confidence, even the unfairness. She had considered him at the time because charm had rendered belief easy.
Now, however, distance allowed clearer consideration.
She remembered Jane’s question from the previous night.
Why had Wickham entrusted such a history so readily to her, a woman almost entirely unknown to him?
A grievance so personal, and spoken with so little reserve.
At the time she had mistaken the openness for honesty.
Now she was no longer entirely certain the two were the same thing.
And there was Georgiana.
Darcy spoke of his sister with unmistakable warmth, nothing whatsoever resembling the cold and prideful portrait Wickham had drawn. Then there was Bingley, who was neither foolish nor unprincipled and who had maintained a close friendship with Darcy for years.
No part of the matter settled comfortably together.
Elizabeth sighed faintly and rested her head briefly against the carriage cushions.
What she knew with certainty was only this: the man she had spent several days observing did not behave like a man entirely without principle.
He behaved rather like a man carrying considerable pain behind very carefully constructed reserve and who, for reasons she still did not understand, had permitted portions of that reserve to lower in her presence.
She had told Jane she would consider asking him directly regarding Wickham.
The difficulty now lay less in the intention than in imagining how such a subject could possibly be introduced into conversation.
The carriage turned at last upon the familiar road toward Longbourn. The hedgerows appeared unchanged, the chimneys soon visible through the pale October air, and with them returned the full noise and movement of ordinary life.
Elizabeth heard her mother’s voice before the carriage had entirely stopped.
She stepped down into the cold afternoon air and told herself firmly that she would think no more of Mr. Darcy for the remainder of the day.
The resolution lasted perhaps thirty minutes.
* * *
Longbourn
“Where is Mr. Collins?” Elizabeth asked as she removed her gloves in the drawing room. “Did he ride into town with Papa?”
“Oh!” Lydia exclaimed immediately, delighted at possessing information before anyone else. “He left for Kent almost directly after breakfast yesterday. He proposed marriage to Charlotte Lucas.”
Elizabeth’s heart beat so loudly she almost heard it. “To Charlotte?”
“Yes, and she accepted him,” said Kitty, who appeared equally astonished still. “Mama has scarcely ceased speaking of it all morning.”
Mrs. Bennet, hearing herself referenced, swept immediately into the room with visible indignation.
“I declare I shall never understand Charlotte Lucas as long as I live. To think of securing Mr. Collins when everybody knew perfectly well he came here intending for one of my girls.” She turned, her finger pointing accusingly toward Elizabeth.
“Had you possessed the least bit of sense, Lizzy, Mr. Collins would have been secured for this family already.”
“Mama,” Jane said gently.
“No, Jane, I shall say it. Mr. Collins would have married exceedingly well into this family had your sister not insisted upon behaving with such astonishing stubbornness.”
“Perhaps,” said Elizabeth calmly, though somewhat faintly, “Mr. Collins has merely discovered Charlotte better suited to his tastes.”
“Oh, he said as much himself,” Lydia declared cheerfully. “At dinner the day you left for Netherfield, he implied he could not in good conscience renew his addresses to a lady whose conduct had displayed such a spirit of independence.”
Elizabeth blinked. “My conduct?”
“Yes. The walking, apparently.” Lydia grinned openly now. “He said no woman inclined to cross muddy fields on foot after being advised against it could ever recommend herself to Lady Catherine’s approval.”
Kitty dissolved immediately into laughter.
Even Mary looked momentarily startled.
Elizabeth felt, to her own surprise, an almost overwhelming relief. Not because she had ever doubted her ability to refuse him again if necessary, but because the possibility itself had vanished entirely.
“Well,” she said after a moment, removing her bonnet with composure, “I am grateful Mr. Collins has discovered the extent of my unsuitability before sacrificing himself further.”
Jane attempted unsuccessfully to conceal a smile.
Mrs. Bennet looked scandalised. “You speak as though the matter amusing! Mr. Collins is to inherit Longbourn.”
“Yes, Mama,” said Elizabeth. “Which makes it fortunate indeed that he has secured a wife capable of admiring him properly.”
That earned an audible laugh from Lydia.
Mrs. Bennet threw up her hands and declared herself entirely surrounded by unfeeling daughters before sweeping from the room in renewed distress.
Kitty and Lydia immediately descended upon Jane and Elizabeth with demands to hear every detail of their stay at Netherfield. Mary, with unusual firmness, insisted Jane ought properly to rest further before being subjected to such interrogation.
Jane, evidently grateful for the intervention, moved nearer to Elizabeth. “Are you very surprised?”
“Astonished perhaps,” Elizabeth admitted honestly. “Though not for the reasons Mama imagines.” She hesitated briefly. “Poor Charlotte.”
“Poor Charlotte?” Kitty frowned. “She has secured a husband who will inherit Longbourn.”
“Yes,” said Elizabeth quietly. “But at what cost?”
No one answered immediately.
Charlotte was sensible. Intelligent. Entirely aware of what Mr. Collins was. Elizabeth had made certain of that long before his arrival at Longbourn. Which meant Charlotte had accepted him with her eyes entirely open.
The thought settled heavily upon Elizabeth.
She could not decide whether it made the situation more understandable or infinitely sadder.
Her mind returned unwillingly then toward Netherfield.
Toward another man entirely.
Toward reserve instead of absurdity. Intelligence instead of vanity. Conversation that required no performance at all.
Elizabeth removed the thought almost immediately.
The comparison itself felt unfair.
“Lizzy?” Jane’s voice recalled her at once.
Elizabeth blinked. “I beg your pardon.”
Jane regarded her with unmistakable curiosity, though thankfully without speaking it aloud.
Elizabeth was grateful for the restraint.
Because she was becoming increasingly uncertain she understood her own thoughts well enough to explain them to anyone else.