Chapter 27
Darcy returned precisely when he said he would.
Elizabeth did not realize how tightly strung she had been until she saw him stride into the drawing room at Netherfield—travel cloak still dusted from the road, eyes searching for her before propriety demanded he greet his stepmother and sister.
The tension in Elizabeth’s body dissolved at once. Her world was once again put right.
Everything thereafter seemed to move with remarkable smoothness, at least for a time.
The license was secured. Bingley’s banns were read for the second Sunday with only a modest stir among the parishioners, though Mrs. Bennet declared afterward that she distinctly heard three women gasp during the reading.
If there were whispers in Meryton, they were largely benevolent. Two weddings in one week were novelty enough to eclipse any lingering curiosity.
Mr. Collins, however, proved less organized.
It was during the second Sunday of banns for Jane and Bingley that he experienced what he described as a most alarming revelation.
“My dear Mary,” he announced one afternoon, his brow knit in theatrical concern, “it has come to my attention that I have neglected to arrange for the reading of our banns in my own parish. An oversight of considerable magnitude.”
Mary paled slightly.
“It is required,” he continued gravely, “that they be published in both parishes.”
“Then you must attend to it at once,” Mary replied. “As we are not marrying until January, there is still time.”
The following day, however, a letter arrived for Mr. Collins from his patron.
Sir Godfrey wrote, in the most emphatic language, that Mr. Collins’s request to remain at Longbourn until his wedding in January was unacceptable.
The living required its pastor, and Christmas services could not be performed by a curate.
He was to return at once to resume his duties, and he could return again to Longbourn three days before his wedding.
Mrs. Bennet fluttered in agitation at the idea of losing a future son-in-law before the wedding breakfast could be planned, but even she dared not contradict Sir Godfrey’s authority.
Thus, with many solemn bows and assurances of unalterable devotion, Mr. Collins departed Hertfordshire.
Mary stood in the doorway watching his carriage roll away, her posture rigid with a peculiar mixture of sorrow and injured dignity.
Elizabeth, observing from the staircase, felt an unexpected pang of sympathy.
For all Mary’s severity, she had grown accustomed to Mr. Collins’s steady presence—his approving nods, his shared disapproval of perceived worldliness. Without him, she seemed suddenly unmoored.
Unfortunately, the loss did not soften her disposition.
If anything, it sharpened it.
Mary’s wedding was not to take place until after her two elder sisters. With Jane poised to become mistress of Netherfield and Elizabeth soon to preside over Pemberley, the third Bennet daughter found herself, once more, relegated in her mother’s enthusiastic comparisons.
“Of course, Mary will do very well,” Mrs. Bennet declared one evening with unintended cruelty, “but Longbourn is only two thousand a year. Very respectable, certainly—though hardly the ten thousand that Mr. Darcy has!”
Mary’s lips thinned.
From that day forward, her scowls deepened whenever the upcoming weddings were discussed. She spoke of solemn duties and the sanctity of matrimony with increasing frequency. She quoted scripture with pointed emphasis. She sighed meaningfully when Lydia laughed too loudly over bridal ribbons.
And whenever Elizabeth’s engagement was mentioned—particularly in connection with the common license—Mary’s expression took on an almost ascetic severity. Time, it seemed, had not accustomed Mary to the idea that her sister might be marrying a heretic.
Elizabeth did her utmost to ignore it.
She busied herself with fittings and modest preparations, with consultations alongside Lady Anne to determine what clothing would be needed for the more frigid temperatures of the north.
She spent afternoons with Georgiana, who played carols in anticipation of Christmas, and evenings walking with Darcy when the weather permitted.
Elizabeth allowed herself to believe that nothing could intrude upon such carefully laid happiness.
And yet—there were moments.
Moments when she would look up from her needlework and find Mary watching her with an intensity that unsettled more than it angered.
Moments when conversation would die too quickly as she drew near.
Moments when the air seemed to hum with something unspoken whenever she was in the same vicinity as her middle sister.
At dinner one night, when Mrs. Bennet began enumerating how many courses should be served at Pemberley’s table, Mary’s fork struck her plate with unnecessary force.
“Earthly splendor,” she said stiffly, “is a fleeting consolation when compared to the depravity of the heretic.”
Elizabeth bit the inside of her cheek, but she was certainly beginning to feel anxiety around the most pious Bennet sister. She told herself that nerves were natural. That weddings unsettled households. That jealousy, when it appeared, burned itself out harmlessly.
Mary did not openly attack Darcy again—Mr. Bennet’s earlier admonition had been clear—but there was an intensity to her piety that felt less like devotion and more like resentment in disguise.
The closer the weddings drew, the more pronounced it became.
Elizabeth chose not to engage, however. I shall not allow my younger sister to rob me of the joy I feel in this moment.
But sometimes, late at night, when the house was finally still, she would wake with the inexplicable certainty that something stood just beyond the edge of their carefully arranged joy.
Waiting.
And she could not decide whether it was imagination—
or warning.
∞∞∞
Darcy had thought everything was in order with the marriage settlements.
When he first arrived back to Meryton with the completed documents, he had gone at once to Mr. Bennet’s study to present them.
The packet lay neatly tied with ribbon beneath his arm, every clause carefully prepared and copied by the solicitor.
Mr. Bennet received him with his usual languid courtesy. “Mr. Darcy. To what do I owe the pleasure? Another chess defeat in mind?”
“I have brought the marriage settlements for your review, sir.”
“Ah.”
Darcy stepped forward and placed the packet upon the desk. Mr. Bennet regarded it for a moment, untied the ribbon, and lifted the sheaf of pages.
Darcy expected him to begin reading. Instead, Mr. Bennet gave the stack a brief glance, tossed it aside onto the corner of the desk, and calmly resumed the book he had been reading.
Darcy stared. “You… you do not wish to go over them, sir?” he asked in confusion.
Mr. Bennet turned a page. “My dear Mr. Darcy, I have rarely encountered a more optimistic young man.”
“I beg your pardon?”
Mr. Bennet lowered the book just enough to peer over the top of it.
“You present me with a collection of legal documents drafted by London solicitors, and you expect me to discover some defect they themselves have overlooked?” He waved one hand vaguely toward the papers.
“It seems a prodigious waste of perfectly good ink when those same pages might have formed part of a decent novel.”
Darcy did not move.
The silence lengthened.
At last Mr. Bennet sighed, closed his book long enough to gesture toward the door, and said with mild impatience, “You may leave them. Should curiosity strike me before Christmas, I shall glance at them.”
Darcy hesitated, but Mr. Bennet had already reopened the book. Uncertain of what to do next he bowed and left the study. When he returned to the drawing room, Elizabeth looked up at once from her seat beside Georgiana.
“That was quicker than I expected,” she said lightly. “Did Papa decide to deprive me of my pin money entirely?”
Darcy did not smile, and Elizabeth’s amusement faltered as she studied his expression. “What is it, my love?”
“He did not read them.”
Elizabeth blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“He tossed them onto his desk,” Darcy continued, still faintly incredulous. “And resumed his book.”
Elizabeth sighed. “Oh, Papa.”
The words carried far more exasperation than surprise, and Darcy raised an eyebrow at her in question.
“That is precisely like him,” she said, rising.
“We can scarcely persuade him to read his letters in a timely manner—particularly if he has discovered a new author he enjoys. I once waited three weeks for him to acknowledge an invitation from my aunt because he had misplaced the letter beneath a volume of essays.”
Darcy folded his arms. “He seemed entirely content to leave the matter unresolved.”
Elizabeth smiled faintly. “Not unresolved. Merely postponed.”
“He said he may not look at them until Christmas!”
She slipped her arm lightly through his. “Do not look so alarmed, my love. I shall work upon him.”
“You are confident of success, then?” His concern lessened only slightly.
“I have lived with him for twenty years. I know his habits.” She tilted her head thoughtfully. “It will likely require persistence… and perhaps removing whatever book he currently treasures.”
Darcy exhaled slowly.
“There is still time before the wedding,” Elizabeth continued reassuringly. “More than a fortnight.”
Darcy inclined his head, though the disorder of it all still troubled his orderly mind.
The days passed.
Darcy called often. Walks were taken when the weather allowed. The settlements remained undisturbed upon Mr. Bennet’s desk.
Elizabeth assured him repeatedly that she was “working upon the matter.”
Nearly a week elapsed.
At last, during one afternoon visit, Elizabeth appeared in the doorway of the drawing room with a small look of triumph. “Papa wishes to see you in his study, my love.”
Darcy stood immediately. “At last,” he muttered under his breath.
Elizabeth laughed. “I told you persistence would prevail.”