Chapter Thirteen Hope Restored #2
After dinner, the ladies withdrew, and the gentlemen remained only long enough for Lady Catherine's impatience to summon them.
Mr Collins had stationed himself near the centre of the carpet with Dr Fordyce's Sermons to Young Women clasped to his chest. The book possessed the size and solemnity of a family Bible and, in Darcy's estimation, less entertainment.
Everyone arranged themselves around him with the resignation of prisoners preparing for a long sentence.
Lady Catherine occupied the largest sofa, sitting upright in spiritual readiness.
Mrs Collins settled beside Elizabeth near the fireplace.
Anne carried her embroidery to a settee, and Richard sat beside her, where he undertook the important duty of holding a skein of silk while staring at the side of her face.
Darcy chose an armchair from which he could watch Elizabeth without appearing to have selected it for that purpose.
Mr Collins opened the book and began reading. "My honoured patroness, esteemed gentlemen, and distinguished guests, I shall begin with a passage concerning the preservation of feminine modesty against the corrupting seductions of fashion."
Elizabeth's gaze slid towards Darcy, who looked down at his hands.
Mr Collins drew breath. "And thus!" he thundered, causing Anne to prick her finger and Richard to leap halfway out of his seat. "The young woman who adorns herself in excessive finery invites not admiration, but the DEVIL HIMSELF!"
His right arm shot upwards, the book raised high above his head as though he intended to strike the devil personally should the creature appear.
Lady Catherine nodded her approval.
Mr Collins lowered the volume and began pacing, warming to his performance.
A warning against brightly coloured ribbons became an indictment of moral weakness.
A paragraph concerning modest necklines acquired the force of a battlefield address.
By the time he reached the dangers of ornamental buttons, his voice had climbed to a pitch that caused the crystals on the nearest candelabra to tremble.
"The modesty of the female form must be guarded," he proclaimed, "as one would guard a fortress! An impregnable fortress of VIRTUE!"
To illustrate the strength of this fortress, Mr Collins swept his left arm in a broad defensive arc. His hand struck the candelabra.
The base rocked upon its pedestal. Six flames wavered as the arrangement tipped to the floor.
Richard moved with the instinctive speed of a soldier under fire. Unfortunately, the embroidery silk remained looped around two of his fingers. He lunged, pulled the skein taut, and dragged Anne's workbasket from the table. Wooden spools flew across the carpet in every direction.
Anne seized the back of his coat before he could pitch forward after them.
Mr Collins attempted to catch the falling candelabra, misjudged its course, and embraced the curtain instead.
Darcy reached the pedestal in two strides and caught the silver base before the flames touched the carpet, hot wax spilling onto the cuff of his coat.
For one improbable moment, the company stilled in a tableau of elegant catastrophe.
Darcy stood holding six burning candles at an awkward angle. Richard remained bent over Anne's table while she clutched his coat in one hand. Mr Collins held several feet of damask curtain against his chest. Charlotte watched a wooden spool roll beneath the sofa.
Lady Catherine rose.
"What," she demanded, "is the meaning of this?"
Mr Collins released the curtain as though it had betrayed him. "Your Ladyship, I was demonstrating the defensive strength of feminine virtue."
"You nearly set fire to the carpet."
"The enthusiasm of my delivery—"
"Stand farther from the furnishings."
"As you wish, your Ladyship."
Darcy restored the candelabra to the pedestal and extinguished the candles. Richard straightened and began gathering Anne's scattered embroidery threads, apologising to each spool as he retrieved it.
Mrs Collins rose, crossed to a nearby table, lifted a priceless porcelain vase, and relocated it to the mantelpiece beyond Mr Collins's reach. She returned to her chair without comment.
Elizabeth had pressed a handkerchief over her mouth. Her shoulders trembled, and her eyes shone with laughter she was fighting desperately to contain.
Darcy met her gaze and the last of his control abandoned him. A smile pulled at his mouth before he could restrain it.
Elizabeth's eyes widened.
Then her composure broke. No sound escaped, but her face lit with such amusement that Darcy forgot the heat of the wax on his wrist and the absurdity of the situation.
Mr Collins reclaimed his position, now safely isolated in the centre of the room.
"As I was explaining, a fortress of virtue—"
"Mr Collins, please be seated. I have no wish for further accidents," Lady Catherine, in her infinite wisdom, interrupted him.
Mr Collins resumed his reading from a seated position in a chair with no valuable objects within four feet of it.
The confusion allowed Elizabeth to cross the room unnoticed.
Darcy became aware of her beside him through the faint movement of her skirts. He turned, and the laughter still bright in her eyes softened when she saw the wax cooling upon his cuff.
"Are you well, Mr Darcy?"
The concern beneath the question quieted every other sound in the room.
"I am well." His voice emerged lower than he intended. "The coat has suffered more grievously than I have."
"I am relieved. Your coats have demonstrated considerable resilience during this visit."
"My valet may disagree."
Elizabeth lowered her gaze for a moment. When she lifted it, the amusement had not vanished, but another emotion had entered beside it, rendering her expression unguarded in a way he had never seen.
"You left before I could answer you."
Behind them, Mr Collins resumed his sermon in a subdued but still penetrating voice. Lady Catherine interrupted him twice within the first sentence to correct his emphasis.
"I told you that I required no answer," he said firmly.
"I remember."
"Then you need not place yourself under any obligation."
"I do not."
Her reply carried enough certainty to stop him.
Darcy searched her face. "Miss Elizabeth—"
"You entrusted me with matters of the greatest importance.
You confessed what was yours to confess, defended yourself against what was not, and departed before I could gather my thoughts sufficiently to form a sentence.
" A trace of her familiar challenge sharpened her voice.
"You cannot reasonably expect me to permit that to stand merely because you announced that no reply was necessary. "
"I did not wish to compel your gratitude."
"You have not."
"Nor your forgiveness."
"No."
The single word landed without cruelty. Elizabeth's fingers tightened briefly around the handkerchief she still held.
"What you told me deserves more than a silence you have chosen to interpret for yourself," she continued. "Whether you wish to hear it or not, I owe you an answer."
"You owe me nothing."
"I disagree."
"Miss Elizabeth, you need not—"
"I insist, Mr Darcy."
The words were soft, but they were also immovable. For once, Darcy did not argue. He did not decide what she intended to say or spare himself by assuming the worst.
"Very well, Miss Elizabeth. I shall find a way."
Her mouth curved, not quite into a smile, but close enough to disturb the rhythm of his heart.
"See that you do."
Mr Collins's voice swelled behind them.
"The properly instructed young woman recognises that silence is among the highest ornaments of her sex!"
Mrs Collins dropped a knitting needle.
Elizabeth glanced at her friend, then back at Darcy. The irony passed between them with such clarity that neither needed to speak.
Darcy's smile returned, and this time, Elizabeth answered it without hesitation.
The evening continued for another half-hour, although Darcy retained little of Mr Collins's conclusions regarding feminine silence.
Lady Catherine eventually dismissed the reading when the clergyman leaned too close to a porcelain shepherdess and caused her to fear for its safety.
The Hunsford party departed amid a flurry of bows, shawls, and Mr Collins's repeated apologies for his clumsiness.
Darcy retreated to his bedchamber with a buzzing energy in his veins. He could not sleep. He paced the room, replaying that single shared smile over and over in his mind. She did not hate him. She had seen his true self, she had seen the absurdity of his family, and she had smiled at him anyway.
He was just considering whether it was too late to request a glass of port when Pimms entered, carrying a small silver salver. Resting upon it was a letter sealed with a messy dollop of green wax.