Chapter 5 #3
“Girls!” Mrs. Bennet interposed at once, though not without animation of her own.
“Balls are not matters for children to dispute over. Proper conduct must be learned before one is introduced into company. Young ladies must be prepared—accomplishments are well enough, but connections, situations, prospects—these do not arrange themselves!”
Mr. Bennet, observing the exchange with serene detachment, merely lifted his glass once more. “A most improving Christmas dinner,” he murmured, “in which everyone learns precisely what they already believed.”
William Collins smiled quietly at this, feeling himself—perhaps for the first time—less a visitor than a part of the scene itself.
Elizabeth caught Jane’s eye, both suppressing smiles at their mother’s familiar refrain.
“I believe, madam,” William replied, undaunted and with quiet gravity, “that when duty is pursued with steadiness, suitable prospects often present themselves in time.”
“Well said, sir.” Mr. Bennet regarded him with rare and open approval. “A sentiment worthy of the season.”
The conversation drifted naturally to the morning’s Christmas service, the family still warmed by the memory of carols and candlelight.
Mrs. Bennet, who had been laboring under an unsatisfied delight, could contain herself no longer.
“And we must speak of how very handsomely Mr. Collins distinguished himself in church! Such a voice—clear, reverent, and affecting. The vicar himself complimented me afterward, declaring it a credit to the parish. Lady Lucas was quite overcome too!”
William colored deeply, lowering his gaze to his plate. “If my humble efforts gave pleasure, I am truly glad.”
Mr. Bennet raised an eyebrow. “You sang without ostentation, sir—and therefore to real purpose. A rare virtue.”
“The hymn was most suitable to the season,” Mary said, nodding vigorously. “Sacred music, rendered simply, elevates the soul and invites reflection on divine goodness.”
“The congregation was remarkably attentive—more so than to many a sermon, I daresay,” Elizabeth added lightly.
Lydia leaned forward mischievously. “And some of us noticed certain young ladies listening very attentively indeed!”
Kitty dissolved into giggles, and even Jane hid a smile behind her napkin.
Mrs. Bennet beamed. “Lady Lucas declared it a performance never to be forgotten. Sir William nodded through the entire verse!”
At the mention of the Lucases, William’s expression softened unmistakably, his eyes lifting with quiet hope. “I should be honored to renew my acquaintance with Sir William and his family, should the opportunity arise.”
Mr. Bennet’s tone was dry but kind. “It will arise, Mr. Collins. Sir William is ever eager to extend civility to those who combine good sense with good conduct.”
Elizabeth observed the subtle change in William’s countenance—the fleeting warmth, the momentary abstraction—and thought, Oxford has given him learning, but something else has touched his heart today.
As the plum pudding was brought in, flames dancing blue over its crown, laughter and chatter rose anew.
Lydia teased Kitty about mistletoe, Mary offered a solemn grace over the dessert, and Mrs. Bennet, surveying her table with radiant satisfaction, thought to herself, ‘This is the merriest, most promising Christmas Longbourn has ever seen.’
***
Between Christmas and the turning of the year, time at Longbourn slipped into a gentler rhythm, as though the house itself had exhaled after the season’s exertions and settled into a reflective, almost tender ease.
The frost lingered upon the fields like a delicate veil.
Still, indoors, the sharpness of winter yielded to steady fires, to chairs drawn instinctively closer, and to the quiet, unspoken joy of company that asked nothing beyond the pleasure of being together.
William remained—not as a guest to be ceremoniously entertained, but as one quietly, almost unconsciously absorbed into the heart of the household: walking with Mr. Bennet in the crisp afternoons, listening with patient gravity to Mary’s solemn readings, bearing with good-humored indulgence Lydia’s restless high spirits and Kitty’s irrepressible giggles, and finding, whenever chance allowed, a deep and private satisfaction in Jane’s gentle kindness or Elizabeth’s quick, discerning wit.
His recitations of Latin and Greek—delivered with earnest enthusiasm rather than display—often drew laughter and warm applause, revealing a mind both disciplined and generously open, and awakening in the sisters a soft astonishment at how very dear a cousin might become, even one whose station was modest, and whose position at Oxford was that of a diligent sizar rather than a gentleman-commoner.
Letters were written and answered, books passed from hand to hand, small errands undertaken with willing cheer, and more than one evening lingered in conversation long after the candles burned low and the fire settled into glowing embers.
Mrs. Bennet, soothed by the absence of immediate alarm, spoke less urgently of prospects—though her thoughts never strayed far from them; Mr. Bennet, quietly amused and content to observe, allowed the days to unfold without interference.
Beyond the windows, the old year drew softly to its close, the shortening daylight and deepening nights seeming to invite the heart to pause, to reflect, and—however timidly—to hope.
Thus it was that New Year’s Eve arrived—not with haste or bustle, but with a subdued yet unmistakable sense of expectation, as though each soul in the house felt, in its own measure, that the turning of the year opened a quiet door to new beginnings.
So, the last evening of the year settled over Longbourn with a gentle, familiar hush, the kind that wrapped the house like a well-worn quilt on a winter night.
The parlor glowed softly in the firelight, the great Yule log—laid upon the hearth on Christmas Eve and carefully tended through the twelve days—still crackling low, its embers casting dancing shadows upon the walls adorned with faded family portraits and lingering sprigs of holly.
The air was fragrant with wood-smoke, evergreen, and the faint sweetness of cinnamon, as though the house itself clung lovingly to the blessings of Christmas, reluctant to let them go.
A small table nearby held the remains of their evening tea—crumbs from seed cakes, half-empty cups, and a plate of sugared almonds that Lydia had raided with mischievous delight earlier, before being shooed off to bed with a muffled protest and Kitty’s sleepy giggles echoing from the stairs.
Outside, a light frost silvered the windows, muffling the world beyond, while distant church bells in Meryton began to toll faintly, as if bidding a tender farewell to the old year.
Mrs. Bennet had retired early, declaring herself quite worn out from the day’s trifling excitements—though not before calling down from the chamber that she expected “no nonsense with staying up too late”—and already dreaming aloud of the new gowns she might persuade Mr. Bennet to allow in the spring.
Mr. Bennet, after lingering just long enough to observe that “another year survived is cause enough for celebration—or at least for a quiet escape,” had withdrawn to his library with a candle and his favorite volume of Tacitus, which he intended to read for improvement.
However, he suspected it would chiefly serve for amusement.
From upstairs came the occasional creak of floorboards as the younger girls settled, a gentle reminder that the whole house turned softly with the hour.
This left Jane, Elizabeth, and William Collins in peaceful possession of the fireside.
Jane and Elizabeth sat close on the settee, their embroidery hoops abandoned in their laps, while William occupied the armchair opposite, his book of sermons closed at Jane’s gentle request. He had been reading aloud earlier—passages on contentment and divine providence that perfectly suited the reflective mood—and now joined their quieter conversation with an ease that felt almost brotherly, as though the firelight itself had woven a delicate bond among them.
The clock ticked steadily on the mantel, and after a comfortable silence, Jane spoke, her voice soft and thoughtful. “It is strange to think another year has slipped away so quietly. One cannot help wondering what the next will bring—new faces, perhaps, or changes we cannot yet imagine.”
Elizabeth, leaning her head against the cushion, smiled at her sister with fond mischief. Jane always hopes so gently, as if the world were kinder than it often proves. “I hope it brings fewer uncertainties and more resolutions. Years that end in riddles are tiresome indeed.”
William looked between them, his expression one of quiet interest, the firelight catching the earnest warmth in his eyes.
“Do you never permit yourselves, dear cousins, to form hopes for the future—beyond what is immediately known? You are now sixteen and fourteen—full of promise and grace. But how do you picture yourselves four or five years hence?”
Elizabeth’s smile faltered for a moment, a shadow of old anxiety touching her eyes. “If it were left to Mama, we should both be married long before then. The entail upon Longbourn never gives her peace.”
Jane’s hand sought her sister’s, a silent reassurance, while William leaned forward, his voice gentle yet firm. “You must not trouble yourselves about such matters tonight. Mr. Bennet is still young and in excellent health. How can we entertain somber thoughts on the threshold of a new year?”
Elizabeth felt a quiet wave of gratitude wash over her, warming her heart toward this unexpected cousin whose kindness dispelled the shadow as softly as dawn scatters night.
His tone brightened suddenly, infused with eager enthusiasm.
“Come, let us dwell on wonderful things. Tell me—what do you most desire for your future? Not now, but in five years, when you are fully grown into the remarkable ladies I already see before me.”
Jane colored faintly, her fingers smoothing the edge of her work, but she answered with her usual serenity.
“A home of my own filled with harmony and affection, rather than grandeur. A husband amiable and open-hearted, whose kindness is natural and constant—never boastful, but felt in every thoughtful action. Someone whose principles are steady, whose fortune is sufficient without ostentation, and who values quiet happiness above all society’s show. ”
Elizabeth listened with a tender smile. She describes a man who could make any house a haven.
“And you, Lizzy?” Jane asked.
Elizabeth laughed softly. “I should want a husband whose mind is as lively as his affections are deep—one who values truth above flattery, whose pride, if he has it, rests upon principle rather than vanity, and whose attachment can endure trial.”
William listened intently, his hands clasped, something tender and protective stirring within him. “Your wishes do you both great credit,” he said earnestly. “If such men exist—and I believe they must—I shall count it among my chief ambitions to see you happily bestowed.”
Jane smiled shyly; Elizabeth arched a brow. “Your favorite cousins?”
“Generously and truly,” he replied. Then, with hopeful diffidence: “And perhaps you may one day lend the same good wishes to my own hopes with Miss Lucas. I should wish to be worthy before I speak more openly.”
Jane touched his hand lightly. “Of course, we should be glad to speak well of you, William.”
“And gladly,” Elizabeth added.
The clock struck midnight then, its first chimes ringing clear and solemn through the house, joined faintly by the answering bells of Meryton, just as a sleepy voice floated down the stairs—“Did you save me any almonds?”—Lydia’s final raid upon the evening, drawing soft laughter from the three below.
Jane squeezed Elizabeth’s hand; Elizabeth returned the pressure with sisterly warmth, and William sat back, a gentle dream of future happiness lighting his countenance, a calm contentment settling over him like the fire’s dying glow.
‘Whatever comes,’ Mr. Collins thought, ‘it will not find us unprepared—or without affection to guide us.’
In that shared silence, as the embers dimmed and the old year faded into memory, there lay the promise of beginnings brighter—and hearts perhaps already touched by the first, tender stirrings of love—than any of them yet knew.