Chapter 28
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Elizabeth woke to light already upon the wall.
She knew it without turning her head—the angle was wrong. Morning had advanced without her. That recognition pricked sharper than the light itself, and she lay still, displeased, as though the bed had betrayed her by keeping her too long.
She did not rise at once. She waited, gauging herself by degrees, as she had learned to do after long walks or late nights. Only then did she become aware of the pressure gathering behind her eyes, a muted insistence that pulsed when she shifted her gaze.
She drew a breath and let it out slowly. Cold air last night. Too much noise—mostly from Collins. Too little rest since the ball four days earlier. The body was entitled to its complaints.
Elizabeth pushed herself upright. The movement required her to pause—only a moment, only enough to let the room finish circling around her—before she swung her legs over the side of the bed and placed her feet upon the floor.
Dressing took longer than usual, though she could not have said why. Her fingers fumbled at the buttons, and she had to pause again at the washstand, one hand braced against the wood until the faint swimming passed.
“A trifling cold, no doubt,” she murmured, and was faintly irritated to hear how unconvincing it sounded. It would have been lovely to have a blocked nose to accompany the sentiment, but there was no such concurrence.
By the time she reached the breakfast room, she had composed herself sufficiently to pass without comment. Jane looked up, her expression brightening with relief that softened into scrutiny the moment Elizabeth took her seat. “You slept late.”
“So did you, or you would not be still breakfasting,” Elizabeth replied. “Do not attempt to make a case of it.”
Jane’s eyes widened, and she turned away.
Elizabeth managed her tea, though she found she did not want it. The warmth was too much; the steam made her head throb more insistently. She set the cup aside and reached instead for the book Papa had bought her from Meryton.
Reading helped. It always had. The lines unfurled, for a time, and the rambling nonsense unfolded as it ought. She read more slowly than usual, but with care, and by the end of the page she had nearly convinced herself that the discomfort had been exaggerated by inattention.
The house, however, felt oddly hollow.
Not quiet—there were the usual sounds of Longbourn in the morning: footsteps, the clink of dishes, Kitty’s voice somewhere upstairs—but hollow all the same, as though a door had been left open to a space that was not meant to be empty. Elizabeth frowned at the thought and turned the page.
“Mr Wickham is expected to call later,” Mama announced. “He called yesterday to inquire after you, my dear, and seemed quite disappointed to have missed you.”
Elizabeth looked up. “Did he?”
“Indeed. Most attentive. He said he hoped you were not unwell, though I cannot think why he would fret about that nonsense. I told him you were, but wool-gathering again. I hope, Lizzy, you will make yourself presentable today.”
Elizabeth shook her head and turned back to her book. The ache behind her eyes pulsed once, faint but insistent, and she pressed her fingers briefly to her temple before catching herself and lowering her hand. “I shall be glad to see him.”
The words were true enough. Wickham’s company was easy. Uncomplicated. He brought with him a sense of gaiety that she found restorative. If she was overtired, if the remnants of the ball had lingered longer than expected, an hour’s conversation would surely set her right again.
And yet, even as she settled herself more firmly into the chair, she could not shake the peculiar impression that something essential had been mislaid—not lost, precisely, but removed without notice, leaving the rest of the day to adjust around the absence.
She dismissed the thought at once.
Fatigue, and perhaps a touch of winter malaise. Nothing more.
“Lydia, do sit down this instant—Kitty, you are blocking the light,” Mama said, clapping her hands once in emphasis. “Mr Collins, pray take that chair. Yes, that one—no, not with your back to the door.”
“I am quite content to stand, Mrs Bennet,” Mr Collins replied solemnly, though he shifted anyway, aligning himself where he might be seen to advantage. “Indeed, it is most agreeable to remain active when in company. It sharpens the mind.”
“That is very true,” Mama said, beaming. “Jane, you may pour—Mary, do not hide behind the pianoforte, child.”
Elizabeth paused just inside the doorway, taking in the scene as Kitty darted toward the sofa and Lydia followed, whispering fiercely about who ought to sit nearest the window. Mary adjusted her book with deliberate care and lowered herself into a chair as though preparing for examination.
Mr Collins turned at last, his expression brightening with unmistakable satisfaction. “Ah! Miss Elizabeth. You are just in time.”
She inclined her head and crossed the room, aware as she did so of how closely the air seemed to smother—of how every sound arrived a fraction later than she expected. She dismissed the sensation at once and took the seat Jane drew out for her.
“You are well?” Jane murmured.
“Perfectly,” Elizabeth said, and smiled because it was expected.
Mr Collins cleared his throat, folding his hands with intent. “I was remarking, only moments ago, upon the singular harmony of your family arrangements. One feels, upon entering this room, a most improving atmosphere.”
Lydia rolled her eyes with minimal discretion.
A stir near the door preceded the announcement, the brief murmur of a servant’s voice carrying across the room.
“Mr Wickham, Mr Denny, and Mr Saunders, madam.”
Mama rose, her expression arranging itself into cordial animation as the gentlemen were shown in. Mr Wickham entered with his companions close behind, hats in hand, his manner already attuned to the room—easy without presumption, attentive without haste.
Wickham’s gaze crossed the room and found Elizabeth’s. But he tore it away to perform the expected pleasantries. “Mrs Bennet,” he said, bowing when he was presented. “I feared we might have intruded upon an established assembly.”
“Oh, not at all, not at all! Come, Mr Wickham, Mr Denny… and you, Mr Saunders. Girls, make room, make room. Oh, Mr Collins, a little space if you please.”
Mama busied herself directing the officers toward the seating nearest the hearth, eager that they be both visible and comfortable, while Kitty and Lydia hovered close enough to require only the slightest encouragement to be included.
Mary relinquished her place at last, though not her book, and withdrew to a straighter-backed chair with visible resignation.
Mr Collins cleared his throat.
“Sir,” he began, drawing himself up with an air of conscious importance, “permit me to extend my welcome, not merely as a relation of this family, but as one entrusted with certain—ah—duties of moral regard.”
Wickham inclined his head at once. “You are very good, sir.”
“It is always a satisfaction,” Mr Collins continued, “to receive gentlemen whose conduct reflects credit upon the circles in which they move. Propriety, I need hardly say, is the foundation of all harmonious society.”
Wickham inclined his head with commendable seriousness. “I should expect nothing less, sir.” He waited for the pause that followed—polite, inevitable—and then turned.
“Miss Elizabeth,” he said, as if the rest of the room had only just resolved itself around her. “I was sorry to miss you yesterday. I am glad we did not arrive too late.”
“Only just,” she answered with a smile. “But you are so well attended that you must be forgiven.”
“I came armed,” Wickham replied, a glance toward his companions making the excuse lightly. “One never knows what claims may be made upon a gentleman in such company.”
“And most wisely so,” Mr Collins said, inserting himself with a pleased air, “Society, when rightly ordered, is both a pleasure and a responsibility.”
Elizabeth’s fingers tightened in her skirts. The throbbing pulsed—not sharply, but insistently, as though something were knocking from the inside.
Wickham inclined his head. “I shall endeavour to conduct myself with due caution, sir.”
“Quite so. Quite so.” Mr Collins smiled, encouraged. “One must always be mindful of propriety, particularly in households blessed with—” his gaze swept the room, lingering a breath too long “—so many young ladies.”
The words might well have been a physical presence. She shifted in her chair, then immediately wished she had not; the room tilted a fraction before righting itself.
“Miss Elizabeth?” Wickham said quietly, his voice pitched so that only she might hear. “You look unwell.”
“Only tired,” she replied. Too quickly. The effort of shaping the words sent another throb through her temples. She dropped her voice to a bare whisper. “I fear Mr Collins has exhausted us all with his… enthusiasm.”
Wickham smiled, but it faltered when she cleared her throat and pinched a furrow of her brow.
Lydia laughed too loudly at something Mr Denny had said. Kitty echoed her, half a sentence later. Wickham glanced between them, then back to Elizabeth.
“You are usually quicker than this,” he said, gently. “I was counting on your wit and merriment to sustain me today, Miss Elizabeth.”
She tried to answer. Something clever. Something easy.
What came instead was a blur of sound—Collins continuing, Mama murmuring approval, the officers laughing—and the sensation of heat gathering at the base of her neck.
“I beg your pardon,” she said, missing the cadence of the room entirely. She pressed her lips together and tried again. “What assistance did you require?”
Wickham’s brows drew together, but he gave a short chuckle. “Only your conversation. I was saying the weather has turned.”
“It has,” she agreed, though she could not have said how. The words twisted wrong, too flat, and she knew it even as she spoke them.