Chapter Thirty-One
The drawing room at Longbourn was unusually quiet for the morning after such a grand occasion.
Sunlight slanted in through the windows, pooling in warm gold across the rug.
A tea tray sat on the sideboard, steam curling from the spout of a freshly brewed pot, and the mingled scents of toast and late autumn hung pleasantly in the air.
Jane, still pink-cheeked and beaming from the previous night’s proposal, sat beside her father, who looked—as Elizabeth observed with amusement—altogether too smug for a man who professed to loathe society.
Kitty attempted to embroider a handkerchief but kept glancing at Jane with dreamy eyes, and even Mary, usually buried in a book at this hour, sat with folded hands and an attentive expression.
It was into this peaceful scene that Mr Collins, upright and passive as ever, entered the room. His expression bore the unmistakable marks of a man with an important task at hand.
“Mr Bennet,” he said, bowing awkwardly, “Miss Mary.”
Mr Bennet peered over the top of his spectacles, one brow raised. “Yes, cousin?”
Clearing his throat, Mr Collins gave a nervous smile. “I hope you will pardon the interruption. I… I have a matter of some personal significance to discuss.”
Jane looked at Elizabeth. Elizabeth looked at Mary. Mary sat taller, her cheeks tinged with colour.
Mr Collins turned to Mr Bennet and gave a short bow.
“Sir, you know that during my time here in Hertfordshire, I have developed a growing admiration for your daughter, Miss Mary. Her piety, sensibility, and musical talents have moved me greatly. Though I must soon return to my duties at Hunsford, I would be most honoured if I might enter into a formal courtship with her—with the goal of better acquaintance, correspondence, and, if God should bless our connection, a union in due time.”
Mary’s face was now quite red, but she met Mr Collins’s gaze steadily. “I…would not object,” she said quietly, not waiting for her father to answer. “Your conversation has been agreeable, and I admire your dedication to your vocation.”
Elizabeth, watching her sister with quiet wonder, felt an unexpected surge of pride.
Mr Bennet blinked, then leaned back in his chair with a grin. “Well, well. First Jane is engaged, and now Mary is entering into a courtship. Your dear mother would be in such raptures, I fear we would never hear the end of it.”
He looked towards Kitty, who had abandoned her embroidery entirely. “At this rate, Kitty, it shall soon be your turn. Prepare yourself—you may come out by next spring if you promise to behave as decorously as your elder sisters.”
Kitty gave a delighted squeal. “Oh! Truly, Papa?”
Lydia, seated beside her, tossed her curls. “If Kitty may come out, then so may I! I am only just younger.”
Mr Bennet fixed her with a firm stare. “You, my dear Lydia, are not yet sixteen. Even that is a bit young for a proper debut, especially for one with your penchant for mischief.”
Lydia pouted. “But Jane was sixteen—”
“Jane,” Mr Bennet said dryly, “was already wiser than I at that age. I fear your sense has yet to bloom. You may pout, but you shall remain under our roof a while longer.”
Elizabeth stifled a laugh behind her hand. Lydia slumped dramatically in her seat but made no further protest.
Mr Bennet stood and approached Mr Collins. “Sir, I am gratified by your intentions. If Mary is willing, then you have my full permission to court her. Do write to us from Hunsford—I shall look forward to your sermons in ink.”
Mr Collins beamed. “Thank you, cousin. Thank you, Miss Mary. I shall begin a letter at once. Lady Catherine always approves of respectable, sensible matches, and I daresay she will see the merit in such a connection.”
“I do not require Lady Catherine’s approval,” Mary said softly, “though I appreciate your concern.”
Elizabeth’s brows lifted in amusement, and Jane smiled gently at her sister.
“Well said,” Mr Bennet murmured to Elizabeth as he returned to his chair. “There’s steel in her spine after all. She will keep him well enough in check.”
As Mr Collins bowed to each of them again and took his leave to begin his letter, Jane leaned towards Elizabeth and whispered, “Do you think they will suit?”
Elizabeth considered it. “Oddly enough… yes. Mary has long needed someone who appreciates her seriousness, and I suspect Mr Collins has always longed to be appreciated.”
“An excellent match,” Mr Bennet agreed, sipping his tea. “I shall be very curious to read their letters. I imagine they will quote sermons at each other and debate the finer points of morality until their hands ache from writing.”
Mary gave her father a sidelong look. “I hope our correspondence will not be a subject of amusement, sir.”
“Not at all, my dear,” he replied, softening. “I am delighted. Genuinely. You are a thoughtful, devoted young woman, and Mr Collins… well, he is quite earnest. You will balance one another.”
Elizabeth looked around the room. Jane, glowing with joy, Mary pleased and composed, Kitty full of good cheer as she assisted Tommy, her embroidery forgotten, Lydia sulking but content to be noticed, and her father—well, her father was basking in the pride of seeing his daughters begin to secure futures of their own. Her heart warmed.
She thought of Mr Darcy—his steady hand at her back last night, the press of his lips to her fingers, and the promise to meet her this morning. A soft thrill curled through her chest.
Yes, she thought. All was changing, and for once, the changes were good.
The morning air was crisp and clean after the recent rains, each breath Elizabeth took cool and bracing.
Oakham Mount stood before her like a familiar friend, its winding path kissed by sunlight that danced through the thinning branches of the trees.
The damp earth beneath her feet gave slightly with each step, no mud today would hinder her.
She reached the summit just before the hour and turned to look out over the rolling Hertfordshire fields. The sky stretched wide and endless above, a pale wash of blue streaked with soft clouds. In the quiet, the world felt suspended—held still by the promise of something meaningful.
A faint sound of hoofbeats caught her attention. She turned, heart fluttering, and there he was. Mr Darcy.
He had dismounted some distance away, and now strode towards her with that same purposeful gait she knew so well—measured, confident, and somehow made more compelling by the uncertainty in his eyes when they met hers.
“Miss Bennet,” he said, a little breathless, pausing before her. His gloved hands were tucked behind his back, as though he feared what they might do of their own volition. “I thank you for agreeing to meet me.”
“I was curious,” she replied, her voice quiet but sure. “And I suspect you have long needed to speak your mind.”
He smiled faintly, a shadow of his usual reserved expression. “Indeed.”
They walked together for a few paces, the grass brushing their boots, the wind teasing Elizabeth’s curls from beneath her bonnet.
“I wanted to speak of Mr Wickham,” Darcy said at last. His tone was controlled, but not cold. “I believe you have had... interactions with him.”
Elizabeth gave a slight nod. “We have encountered each other previously, and then he approached me during the ball. I danced with him. He seemed determined to be noticed.”
Darcy frowned, but it quickly cleared. “I feared as much. I wish to tell you more of him. Now, if I may.”
“If there is some information that would prove beneficial, I am glad to hear it,” she murmured, looking up at him.
He stopped walking and turned to face her fully. “You deserve to know. And because I have never trusted another as I trust you.”
Elizabeth felt the words settle in her chest like a weight and a balm, both. She swallowed gently. “Then tell me.”
Darcy hesitated, only briefly, and then began. His voice was low, but steady.
“My father was a man of great kindness. He was also far too trusting. George Wickham was the son of our steward and my father’s godson.
He was raised at Pemberley, educated at my father’s expense.
It was once thought he might take his father’s place as steward, but Wickham always aspired higher.
He fancied himself our equal—if not in birth, then certainly in merit. ”
He looked down for a moment, gathering himself.
“My father, ever indulgent, left him a valuable family living—a comfortable income for life—expecting he would enter the church. But Wickham had no intention of doing so. He wished for an estate. When he learned he was not to inherit an estate—that the honor had gone to my cousin Richard instead, he was enraged. The living was a poor consolation to him.”
Elizabeth’s brows furrowed. “And what did he do?”
“He wasted his youth in dissipation and vice,” Darcy said bitterly. “Then, he approached me not a year after my father’s death, claiming he had no interest in the church and wished to exchange the living for a sum of money. He was persuasive... and desperate.”
“And you agreed?”
“I did, partially to protect the people of the Kympton parish. I gave him three thousand pounds in exchange for written renunciation of the living—more than generous. He left, and I hoped never to see him again. But nearly three years later, he returned. Insolent, angry—demanding the living, as if my agreement to his request had never occurred. I refused.”
Elizabeth watched his face, the pain and weariness carved into every line. “And then?”
Darcy’s eyes darkened. “He disappeared again—until last summer. He sought out my sister, Georgiana. She was fifteen. She trusted him, as we all once did. He nearly convinced her to elope with him.”
A jolt of cold passed through Elizabeth, and she reached out to place her hand gently on his arm. “Darcy…”