Chapter 24
Chapter Twenty-Four
The company had withdrawn to the drawing room, but the evening had not yet found its feet.
Chairs were drawn into loose formation; the fire had been stirred; Mama was speculating aloud upon the rumours that Miss Bingley had secured a stag for the feast at Netherfield.
Elizabeth meant to give the evening her best efforts.
She despised running from her own drawing room, so she chose a seat at the edge of the grouping—far enough to appear disengaged, near enough to the door that retreat would not be remarked upon.
She folded her hands and fixed her eyes on the hearthrug, counting the pattern without truly seeing it.
Mr Collins remained standing.
“If I might beg the indulgence of the family,” he said, rising halfway from his chair, “I have lately received correspondence of such distinction, such consequence, that I feel it would be remiss not to share it—particularly as it bears upon matters already, ah, familiar to us all.”
Papa rose and crossed to the sideboard with an air of casual deliberation, lifted the teapot, and poured a single cup. Elizabeth did not look at him until it was set beside her hand.
“For fortification,” he murmured. “The evening threatens the endurance of the rational.”
Elizabeth blinked. When had Papa ever poured tea for someone? She watched in awed silence as he wandered casually away.
Mr Collins cleared his throat. “The letter is, of course, from my greatly esteemed patroness, Lady Catherine de Bourgh. I have, quite naturally, taken the liberty of reading it myself, but she desired that its contents be shared and comprehended by all.”
Papa did not return to his seat. He leaned instead against the mantel, one arm braced, the other folded across his chest. His gaze rested on Mr Collins with an interest Elizabeth had not seen before—not amusement, not indulgence. True curiosity.
Mr Collins unfolded the letter. “Written in her own hand, no less.”
“'My dear Mr Collins,
I have received your recent account of the state of society in Hertfordshire and must confess myself less surprised than concerned by what you relate.
It is not unexpected that a neighbourhood unaccustomed to proper distinctions should entertain conjecture where none is required, yet I cannot approve the conditions under which such conjecture has been allowed to arise.
You will therefore oblige me by attending closely to the manner in which certain matters are spoken of, particularly where my nephew, Mr Darcy, is concerned.
His present situation is, in my view, ill-judged, and his continued residence in that quarter serves only to invite confusion, curiosity, and improper expectation.
There are places in which one may reside without consequence, and others where presence alone is sufficient to provoke misinterpretation.
Hertfordshire is, quite clearly, of the latter kind. '”
Mr Collins read with emphasis rather than fluency, pausing often to savour phrases he clearly considered exemplary. Elizabeth found herself counting breaths—not to soothe herself, but merely to remain seated.
But at the mention of Hertfordshire, something in her stomach turned outright.
She lowered her gaze to the cup, tracing the faint groove in the handle left by years of wear. The sound of Mr Collins’s voice seemed to drive inward, not upon her ears, but somewhere behind them—like standing too near a bell that still trembled long after being struck.
“'It has always been understood that responsibilities of long standing are not subject to personal inclination, nor altered by temporary associations.
They persist until acknowledged and addressed in their proper sphere, and it is neither prudent nor becoming to allow them to be discussed as though they were matters of opinion rather than position.
I should regret exceedingly any circumstance that permitted idle speculation to obscure what has been settled by inheritance and arrangement alike.
You will recall the arrangements regarding my daughter, Anne, and the necessity of proceeding with due seriousness where her interests are involved.
I must insist that nothing be said or done in Hertfordshire that might encourage false hopes or unseemly conjecture on the subject of my nephew’s marital prospects.
Silence, in such cases, is not neutrality. It is invitation.'”
When Anne de Bourgh’s name was spoken, Elizabeth’s vision dimmed at the edges—not darkness, but a soft blur, as though the room had slipped half an inch out of alignment. She took another sip of tea and found it helped less than before.
Papa stiffened, and his gaze found her. A faint narrowing of his eyes as their gazes crossed, then his expression eased, and he seemed to chuckle as he dropped his attention to the floor.
“'I trust you will understand that I rely upon your discretion, judgment, and loyalty in these matters.
It is essential that those within your influence are guided toward a proper understanding of what is—and is not—to be expected.
Should my nephew require reminding of where his duties properly lie, I do not doubt that he will receive such guidance from the appropriate quarter without delay.
You will keep me informed of any developments that touch upon this subject, and you may assure yourself that I shall not regard neglect lightly where clarity has been so plainly afforded.
Lady C. de Bourgh'“
Mr Collins folded the letter with satisfaction. “I trust,” he said, “that my esteemed patroness’s views will be received in the spirit intended—one of clarity, propriety, and the preservation of established order.”
Silence followed. Mary appeared to be pondering the letter deeply. Kitty coughed, and Lydia snickered.
Papa regarded Mr Collins for a long moment, his head tipped slightly to one side, as though considering a specimen whose function remained uncertain. He made a small sound in his throat—not assent, not dissent. Curiosity.
“And this order,” he said at last, mildly. “You find it so very fragile?”
Mr Collins stiffened. “Not fragile, sir. Merely vulnerable to… distraction.” His gaze flicked, just once, toward Elizabeth. “Society cannot indulge every personal inclination when greater obligations are at stake. One must be vigilant, lest sentiment interfere with duty.”
The words landed like a misjudged step—too close, too deliberate, and a shiver shot down her spine.
“Well,” Papa said at last, “how very generous of Lady Catherine to concern herself so fully with affairs at such a distance. One might almost suppose she feared something might occur without her approval.”
Mr Collins blinked. “I—I assure you, sir, her ladyship’s concern is entirely appropriate—”
“Undoubtedly,” Mr Bennet agreed. “Though I confess I admire her confidence. To know so precisely where a man ought not to be, without troubling herself over where he actually is.”
“Sir!” Mr Collins shook his head with a dismissive smile.
“You misinterpret her intentions. My reasons for sharing her words are merely to… instruct my fair cousins that certain comportment may be unseemly. Why, I understand that there was some disturbance recently, requiring prolonged intimacy with the party residing at Netherfield. While such an incident certainly must reflect well on the hospitality of our neighbours, to encourage further such encounters would be…” He smiled again. “Most unwise.”
Elizabeth lifted her head.
Papa’s gaze flicked to her—briefly, carefully—then away again.
“I think,” he continued, “we have been thoroughly instructed for one evening. Mr Collins, you must be fatigued after such earnest reading. Pray allow the rest of us the comfort of digestion. And if you will all excuse me, I believe the hearth in my library is currently boasting a fire that no one is enjoying.”
Elizabeth left the drawing room without waiting for anything else to be said.
She clipped the doorframe with her shoulder and barely registered it.
Someone said her name behind her—Mama, she thought—but she did not slow to answer.
The passage seemed longer than it ought to have been.
Her stomach turned hard and fast, warning her with an urgency she did not question.
If she stopped, she would not keep her composure. She set her jaw and kept going.
She was close on Papa’s heels now, as he opened his library door. But before he went inside, he turned. “Lizzy?”
She reached for the door and fled inside with him. The door shut behind her with a force she did not moderate.
The change was immediate. The air inside the room felt different—cooler, still. The sick surge ebbed as swiftly as it had risen, leaving her shaken but upright. She stood where she was, one hand braced against the door, counting nothing at all until the worst of it passed.
Only then did she turn.
Papa stopped just short of the desk. He was watching her closely now, not smiling, not speaking.
Elizabeth crossed the room and planted her hands on the edge of his writing table. “You are going to tell me,” she said, without preface or softness, “what that letter meant.”
He regarded her for a moment longer, pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket, then tucked it back in without using it. “I had hoped,” he said mildly, “that my exit might be taken as a general dismissal rather than an invitation to interrogation.”
“You poured me tea,” Elizabeth said. “You stood between him and me. You watched me the entire time he was reading. You do not do those things without reason. So? What do you know?”
He crossed to the chair by the hearth and sat, one leg extended, hands folded loosely. “I know,” he said, “that my cousin is a fool who has an unshakable faith in other people’s opinions. I know that my daughter does not enjoy being made an audience for them.”
“That is not an answer.”
“Can a father not show a bit of concern without provoking inquiry?”