Chapter Thirteen #2
“You must take comfort in knowing that your time here has elevated your understanding of proper society,” Collins said, directing his attention fully to Elizabeth now with that particular smugness he displayed when convinced he was being helpful.
“Lady Catherine’s condescension in noticing you, the opportunity to observe how persons of real consequence conduct themselves, these experiences will surely benefit you when you return to Hertfordshire’s more humble circles.
You will be quite the authority on fashionable manners among your neighbours! ”
Darcy felt a flash of genuine anger at the condescension dripping from Collins’s every word, at the casual dismissal of Elizabeth’s family and friends as inferior, unworthy. He opened his mouth to deliver a cutting rebuke, but stopped as recognition crashed over him with uncomfortable force.
He had said nearly identical things himself.
Perhaps not aloud, perhaps not with Collins’s particular brand of obsequious tactlessness, but in his thoughts and private conversations with Bingley, Darcy had expressed remarkably similar sentiments about the Bennet family’s inferior connexions.
Had judged them wanting in elegance and propriety.
Had catalogued their faults with the same air of superiority that now made his skin crawl when delivered by Collins.
The memory of his own words rose in his mind with damning clarity.
The mother’s ill-breeding. The younger sisters’ lack of decorum.
The father’s negligence. The unsuitable connexions to trade.
Darcy had nodded along as Caroline Bingley enumerated the objections to her brother’s marrying Jane Bennet, and added to them with his own insistence on Jane’s indifference.
Shame settled in his chest like a weight, pressing against his ribs with each breath.
How could he have been so blind, so arrogant, so convinced of his own superiority?
Elizabeth’s family might lack the polish and consequence of his own connexions, might display faults that would raise eyebrows in his usual circles, but they had raised Elizabeth herself, a daughter of remarkable intelligence and independent spirit.
Had supported her when she refused Collins’s proposal, had allowed her the freedom to reject a match that would have secured their family’s future, had valued her happiness over their own material comfort.
That, Darcy realised with sudden clarity, spoke more about their characters than any amount of fashionable manners or distinguished relations could.
Mr. Bennet might neglect his estate management and retreat into his library, but he had respected his daughter’s right to refuse a man she could not love.
Mrs. Bennet might be vulgar and managing, but she had apparently acquiesced to Elizabeth’s decision despite her own anxieties.
They had chosen their daughter’s wellbeing over their own convenience, and that choice had left Elizabeth free for Darcy himself to pursue.
He owed them a debt he had not previously acknowledged.
Their support of Elizabeth’s independence had given him the opportunity to win her regard honestly.
If they had compelled her acceptance of Collins, Elizabeth would now be married to the pompous fool currently holding forth about superior society, and Darcy would have lost any chance of securing her affection.
The realisation transformed his view of the Bennet family with startling speed.
Their faults remained, certainly, but those faults no longer seemed insurmountable obstacles.
They simply became characteristics of a family who, whatever their failings in elegance, possessed genuine love for their daughter and respect for her judgement.
That was worth more than all the fashionable polish in London.
“I am certain Elizabeth’s family will be most eager for her return,” Charlotte said, her voice cutting through both Collins’s continued observations and Darcy’s internal reflections.
She spoke with careful diplomacy. “A household of sisters must feel incomplete when one is absent for an extended period. The affection between them is quite remarkable.”
It was perfectly judged, Charlotte’s comment, acknowledging Elizabeth’s family ties while subtly rebuking Collins’s dismissal of them.
Darcy saw Elizabeth nod, though her expression remained subdued.
She had not responded to Collins’s pronouncements about Longbourn’s inferiority with her usual spirit, had simply sat quietly while the parson disparaged her home and family.
Perhaps, Darcy thought with a mixture of hope and concern, she truly did value the company at Rosings enough that thoughts of leaving had dimmed her natural vivacity.
Or perhaps Collins’s casual cruelty had wounded her more than she wished to show.
Either possibility made Darcy’s determination to secure her strengthen further.
He remained silent through the remainder of the visit, contributing only brief responses when directly addressed, his mind racing with calculations and plans.
He needed to propose, and soon, before Elizabeth departed Kent and returned to Hertfordshire.
The prospect of asking for her hand filled him with a mixture of anticipation and anxiety.
But there were practical obstacles to overcome.
He did not have his mother’s ring with him today.
The ring was important, both as symbol and tradition, something Elizabeth deserved to receive when he made his offer.
It was in his room at Rosings at that very moment; he had sent his valet to London to fetch it a week ago, had brought it with him when he came to the parsonage the night Elizabeth was unwell, but the opportunity had not presented itself and he had locked it away in his travelling-desk, telling himself he must prepare better for the right moment.
And this was not the moment anyway; they were not alone.
Could not be alone here in the parsonage with Charlotte and Collins present, and propriety demanded a chaperone for any extended private conversation.
He would need to arrange an opportunity to speak with Elizabeth without observers, somewhere they might have the privacy necessary.
The grove at Rosings, perhaps, or one of the walking paths where they might encounter each other apparently by chance.
Tomorrow, Darcy decided with sudden certainty.
He would find a way tomorrow. Would arrange matters so that he and Elizabeth might walk together without interference, would speak the words that had been building in his heart for months, would offer her his hand and his name and everything that came with them.
The resolution settled over him with the weight of inevitability, as though the decision had already been made and he was simply acknowledging what must be.
Elizabeth had indicated her regard through her expressed regret at their coming separation.
He had recognised his own prejudices about her family and resolved to overcome them.
All that remained was to formalise what already existed between them, to transform this delicate understanding into explicit promises.
Collins was still speaking, his voice rising and falling with enthusiastic observations about something Darcy had stopped listening to entirely.
Charlotte poured more tea, her expression containing the resigned grace of someone long accustomed to managing her husband’s excesses.
Elizabeth sat quietly by the window, sunlight catching reddish glints in her dark hair, her profile serene despite the melancholy she had expressed moments before.
Darcy watched her and let himself imagine, briefly, recklessly, what it would be like when she was his wife.
When he could claim the right to her company without pretence.
When her wit and intelligence would grace Pemberley’s halls, when her laughter would echo through rooms that had been too silent since his mother’s death.
When Georgiana could call her sister, and gain in confidence by following Elizabeth’s example.
When he could wake each morning knowing that Elizabeth Bennet had chosen him despite every reason she had to refuse.
Tomorrow, he thought again, the word becoming almost a prayer. Tomorrow he would ask, and she would accept, and everything that had seemed impossible mere days ago would transform into glorious certainty.
He simply had to survive the intervening hours without betraying the hope that threatened to overflow his careful composure.