Chapter Eighteen #2
Wickham inclined his head. “Ah, yes, I am indebted to you for introducing me to Mrs Morris and her excellent larder, as well as Sir William and his equally splendid cellars. I very much look forward to meeting more of Meryton’s fine residents if they are all so welcoming.”
The sound in Elizabeth’s ear did not vanish.
But it… well, it shallowed somehow. The ringing, which had tightened to something like a snapped violin string, loosened just enough that she could distinguish his words again from the noise that had been riding them.
Her head felt… less compressed. Not clear—no, not comfortable. Merely tolerable.
Mr Collins resumed at once, encouraged by the attention. “How generous of you, sir! I am certain that I, too, shall find the good neighbourhood excessively welcoming when I—”
The sound sharpened again, quick and unwelcome. Elizabeth’s jaw tightened. She turned her head slightly, as though angling away from the sun, and the pressure eased by a fraction. Enough to breathe. Enough to think.
It had to be the cold. The walk. The lingering effects of her illness. Or possibly a new ailment altogether. Perhaps Hill still had some drawing salve she could apply when she returned home.
Wickham, to his credit, listened with courteous patience, his expression easy, unstrained.
When Mr Collins paused for breath, he remarked mildly, “You must find the county quite pleasing compared to… Kent, was it? Ah, yes, I have been there a handful of times. Lovely country, but somewhat rocky soil, as I recall.”
Elizabeth lowered her hand, the better to hear Mr Wickham, when she became aware that the screaming pain in her ear had eased somewhat rapidly.
The relief was incomplete. Unreliable. It came and went with her attention, with the cadence of voices, with the way the group stood arranged upon the road. She could not have said why it improved when Wickham spoke, only that it did.
The idea was… well, it was obscenely convenient.
How clever she was to develop some sort of allergy to an odious man while the agreeable-looking ones brought relief!
Indeed, Papa would laugh rather heartily at her contrivance.
She scoffed and rolled her eyes at herself.
If only she could claim such a selective malady!
And yet, when Mr Collins spoke again, the agony crept back—only for a moment, but still… Curious.
Hooves sounded on the road behind them, and Elizabeth turned more from instinct than curiosity. Mr Bingley reined in with an audible laugh, already half out of the saddle.
“Well! This is a fortunate meeting, indeed,” he called. “We were just thinking of calling on you at Longbourn, Miss Bennet. And Miss Elizabeth, how very pleased I am to see you looking so well.”
Mr Wickham turned at once, recognition lighting his face. “Bingley?”
Bingley blinked, then broke into a broad smile. “Wickham! Upon my word—I had no notion you were anywhere near Hertfordshire.” His gaze dropped to the uniform, then lifted again, quick and incredulous. “Darcy, did you know of this?”
Mr Darcy was already dismounting, but he seemed to freeze in place as his eyes found the man in question. His jaw flickered—just once, then his boot found the ground, and he shook his head. “I did not.”
Wickham laughed lightly. “The regiment keeps its own counsel, it seems. I enlisted only two days ago. Good to see you again, old boy.”
Darcy hardly even inclined his head. But he did glance at Elizabeth, his eyes scarcely touching hers before his gaze retreated again.
Mr Collins drew himself up, his expression brightening with renewed purpose.
“Mr Bingley, you say? How exceedingly fortunate. I have had the pleasure of hearing your name spoken with the highest regard in the neighbourhood. Your hospitality at Netherfield is already quite the subject of admiration.”
Bingley laughed, a sound as easy as his dismount had been. “You are very kind, sir. I am always glad to make new acquaintances.”
“And your companion,” Mr Collins continued, turning with deliberate ceremony toward the other gentleman, “Did I hear you name him as—” He paused, eyes sharpening with a kind of anticipatory reverence.
“Mr Darcy? I trust that is… the Mr Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley in Derbyshire, son of the late George Darcy, esquire, and nephew to Lord Matlock?”
Darcy inclined his head. “I believe you have me at a disadvantage, sir.”
Mr Collins’ hands clasped together as though the word itself had completed some long-prepared sentence.
“Indeed. Indeed! How gratifying—how truly gratifying to encounter you here, sir, and under such circumstances! Why, truly, fate has smiled on me. I am Mr William Collins, at present residing with my cousins at Longbourn, and entrusted with the spiritual guidance of a most respectable parish in Kent.”
Darcy acknowledged this with a second, briefer bow.
“I need hardly say,” Mr Collins went on, warming at once, “that your name is known to me through channels of the utmost propriety. Your estate, sir—your family—your connections—” He smiled, full and confident. “My noble patroness, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, speaks of you often.”
Elizabeth felt a flicker of something like dread, though she could not have said why. She watched Darcy closely now, half-expecting him to bristle, or withdraw, or—she did not know what. Instead, he remained still, his expression composed to the point of severity.
“I am honoured,” he said after a moment.
Mr Collins nodded, as though this reply had confirmed something long anticipated.
“Her ladyship takes a most active interest in the preservation of proper order,” he continued.
“Indeed, she has often remarked upon the uncommon responsibility borne by certain families—those whose inheritance is not merely a matter of property, but of continuity.”
Darcy’s expression remained unchanged.
“It is a rare privilege,” Mr Collins pressed on, “to observe such a convergence of stewardship and descent. There are names, after all, which carry obligations beyond the ordinary—threads laid down long before our present arrangements, yet still… still discernible, if one knows how to look.”
Threads? What in the world could that mean? Elizabeth glanced at Jane, but her sister’s expression remained politely blank.
“One does not often see them align so clearly,” Mr Collins concluded, with utter satisfaction, “as they do in your family, sir. I am, you see, something of an authority on the matter, having done extensive studies on the family histories. Sir, I would count it the highest honour if you should desire for me to lay out the lineage and—”
“That will hardly be necessary,” Darcy cut in. “I am quite familiar with my own circumstances.”
Mr Collins faltered—only for a moment—before recovering with a deferential smile. “Of course. Of course. I merely meant—”
“I understand what you meant,” Darcy said. “I do not care to have my family or my affairs discussed.” His gaze shifted away, signalling the end of the matter.
Elizabeth glanced at Jane, who met her look with a faint crease of confusion. Lydia, for her part, had already turned her attention back to Lieutenant Denny, who appeared deeply engaged in recounting some small adventure of the previous evening.
Wickham stood a little apart, hands loosely clasped behind his back, observing the exchange with mild amusement. “Darcy is rarely tempted by ceremony,” he remarked pleasantly. “Even when it is offered with the very best intentions. Pray, do not be put out, Mr Collins.”
Darcy shot him a brief look—more acknowledgment than reproach—and Wickham’s smile deepened just slightly, as though pleased to have smoothed the exchange without drawing attention to the act.
Nothing more followed. The space between the two men felt oddly taut, as though something unspoken had been set down between them and neither wished to be the first to move it. But Mr Bingley, at least, could be relied upon for genial conversation, and Mr Denny held his end admirably well.
She lost the thread of what was being said because, all at once, her ears no longer hurt.
The change struck her so sharply that she nearly looked about her, as though something in the air had shifted without warning.
She listened again, cautiously, half-expecting the pressure to return, but the voices reached her plainly enough now, no longer forcing themselves upon her attention.
She drew a slow breath, irritation flickering at herself for having noticed at all. She must have been dwelling on it—worrying at a discomfort until it grew teeth. It would ease, naturally, the moment she stopped attending to it. There was no mystery in that.
Mr Collins brought his hands together with brisk satisfaction. “Well! This has been an encounter of the greatest interest. I shall certainly write to her ladyship at once. She will be exceedingly gratified to learn of it.”
Elizabeth let out a short, incredulous breath before she could stop herself. “I am sure Lady Catherine receives a great many letters.”
“Ah, but not of this nature,” Mr Collins replied, undeterred. “Such meetings are not mere coincidence. They signify—”
“Mr Collins,” Jane said, stepping in without raising her voice, “we were just about to continue on to Meryton.”
“Yes, yes—of course,” he agreed at once, turning on the word as though it had been his idea all along.
“I would not think of detaining these gentlemen further. Duties call us all in different directions.” He inclined his head toward Darcy and Bingley with formal approval, already gathering himself for departure.
Bingley swung back into the saddle with a cheerful wave. “We shall see you all again soon, I hope.”
Darcy lingered a moment longer. His gaze passed over Elizabeth without pause, then returned to Wickham. “If you will excuse us,” he said. He mounted his horse without further comment. Bingley followed at once, already speaking as they turned their horses back toward Netherfield.
Lieutenant Denny laughed. “Come along, Wickham. If we do not return by dinner, the colonel will have us scrubbing boots for a fortnight.”
Wickham cast one last, polite glance toward the ladies. “My apologies. Duty insists.” The two officers turned off down the road toward the barracks, their conversation already rising into laughter as they went.
Elizabeth watched them go, her attention lingering longer than she meant it to, until the curve of the street carried them out of sight.
“Well,” Lydia declared at once, “that was diverting! Officers, estates, titled ladies—what a very excellent morning.”
The little party gathered itself again without ceremony, and Mr Collins resumed his place at Elizabeth’s side as though nothing at all had intervened.
She did not register the change immediately, but when she did, it was hard to think of anything else.
They had gone no more than a dozen steps when the faint compression returned, just behind her ear. Whatever it was had returned, just as sharply as before.