Chapter 28 #3
“—only temporary, surely—”
Her head ached—sharply. Insistently. She winced and pinched the bridge of her nose, hoping it would drive the pressure back somewhat.
The voices continued, overlapping politely, rising and falling with the passing of dishes.
Someone laughed—Kitty, perhaps. Someone else murmured assent.
Elizabeth followed none of it with any certainty.
Each sentence reached her as an isolated thing, stripped of its beginning and end, demanding effort simply to place.
She kept her gaze lowered, fixing upon the pale curve of her plate, the edge of the tablecloth, anything that did not move.
She became aware, dimly, that she had not eaten. Or had she? The question felt unimportant. The soup had been taken away; that she remembered. What followed after was uncertain.
Elizabeth caught her name once—only once—and then lost the rest to the dull roar gathering behind her temples. She answered when spoken to, or believed she did. Her replies sounded clumsy to her own ear, as though spoken through water.
Papa had gone quiet. That, at least, she noticed.
She did not look at him directly, but she felt his eyes on her all the same—the pause in his eating, the way his attention had settled, uncharacteristically fixed. He said nothing. He would not—not with company watching their every word and move.
Elizabeth straightened, then immediately regretted it. The room tilted—not enough to alarm, but enough to make her still. She folded her hands in her lap and waited for the sensation to pass, counting her breaths as though that might impose order.
The conversation moved on without her.
That was the strangest part of it. Ordinarily, she would have steered it, brightened it, found amusement even in solemnity. Tonight, it flowed around her as though she were no longer quite within its bounds.
By the time the last dish was removed, she could no longer follow a word that was said, and what little she had tasted of her food threatened to unmake her precious dignity.
She lifted her eyes at last, and across the table Papa met her gaze. Then his eyes dropped back to his wine, and he said nothing.
Elizabeth did not remember choosing the corner.
One moment she was standing, the next she had found her way to the far end of the drawing room, half-hidden by a tall screen and the shadow of the bookcase. The lamps had been moved for tea, but little of the light reached her. The quiet there was fresher, easier to bear.
Miss Bingley noticed at once.
“Well,” she said, glancing across the room as she accepted her cup, “if this is not a familiar posture. Miss Elizabeth, you are quite in the Darcy manner this evening—removed from the bustle, observing rather than engaging.”
Elizabeth’s fingers tightened around the arm of the chair.
Darcy.
The name itself seemed to draw the warmth out of her. Not pain—something worse. A sudden hollowness, as though a door had been shut somewhere deep inside her and left the space behind it unheated. She swallowed and inclined her head.
“I am only economizing my spirits,” she said. The effort it took to form the sentence surprised her. “They have been overused.”
Miss Bingley smiled as though that pleased her. “How very prudent.”
Across the room, Mama was already in motion.
“Jane—Jane, my love, come here, do not sit so near the fire. You will be flushed. Mr Bingley, if you would be so kind—yes, there, that chair is quite comfortable, I am sure. Mr Hurst, you will not mind shifting just a little. Oh, and dear Mrs Hurst, I have left you the most comfortable seat, beside me.”
Chairs were claimed. Cups rearranged. Jane was placed precisely where Mama wished her to be, her chair angled just so, Mr Bingley beside her, his expression open and faintly startled, as though he had been swept into position by a tide he did not entirely resist.
“There,” Mama said, surveying her work with satisfaction. “Now we may all be comfortable.”
Elizabeth watched Jane smile—gentle, patient, hopeful. Mr Bingley leaned closer, saying something low that made her laugh. For a moment, the sight was a balm to Elizabeth.
Then Mr Collins cleared his throat.
“I beg the indulgence of the company,” he said, rising from his chair with deliberate care. “For a moment, if you please.”
Papa lowered his cup.
Mr Collins clasped his hands before him, his expression arranged into solemn triumph.
“It is my duty, as both a man of the cloth and a near relation, to proceed with openness in matters that affect the harmony of the family.” He paused, as though to allow the weight of this principle to settle upon them all.
“Accordingly, I am happy to announce that earlier this day, I tendered an offer of marriage to one of your daughters.”
Elizabeth nearly dropped her cup, and her head immediately swivelled about the room. Who…?
Mary was sitting up a little taller than usual, a faint smile tickling the corner of her mouth.
Mr Collins moved through the room towards her, gesturing magnanimously. “I am gratified to inform you that Miss Mary Bennet has, with becoming seriousness and gratitude, consented to make me the happiest of men.”
For a moment, no one spoke.
Papa blinked. “Indeed?” he said mildly. “This is the first I have heard of it.”
Mary’s cheeks flamed, and her mouth opened faintly, only to close again. She dashed a look of reproach to Collins before smoothing it away, then folded her hands together, her lips pressed in an expression of solemn resolve.
“Oh! My dear sir, you must forgive me,” Collins protested.
“I can only plead the impetuousness of ardent love, and the necessity of preparing to receive your most—” he broke off to bow gallantly toward Mr Bingley— “excellent guests. I am afraid the usual forms were not observed; however, I flatter myself, the joy of a public announcement to the entire family at once was not without its charms, and therefore, I comforted myself in the knowledge that such a confession might bring joy to the entire family at once.”
Mama made a sound that might have been surprise or might have been calculation, then clapped her hands together.
“Oh, yes, yes, Mr Bennet shall make no protests, no protests of the kind! How wonderful! Mr Collins, this is—this is quite excellent. I always knew Mary would make an excellent partner for a clergyman. And what a comfort it will be to have her so advantageously settled!”
Papa opened his mouth. Mama spoke over him.
“Do not look so doubtful, Mr Bennet. A proposal in the morning, an acceptance by afternoon—it is perfectly efficient. We shall need to speak of gowns at once. New ones, of course. Nothing old-fashioned. And a wedding before Twelfth Night would be quite suitable.”
Mr Collins beamed. “I was confident, Mrs Bennet, that you would perceive the wisdom of the arrangement. Miss Mary’s seriousness of mind, her devotion to improvement, and her aptitude for moral influence render her an ideal partner.
” He hesitated, then added with benevolent emphasis, “And I trust her example will prove… salutary to the household at large.”
Elizabeth felt it then.
Not gradually. Not as a warning.
The pain struck behind her eyes and spread downward, sharp enough to steal her breath. Her stomach turned violently, the room tilting so that the edges of the furniture blurred and doubled. Cold sweat broke along her spine.
She gripped the arm of the chair, but it was not enough. The world narrowed to the sound of her own pulse, loud and erratic.
“Lizzy?” Jane’s voice echoed distant, alarmed.
Elizabeth stood too quickly. The movement sent a wave of nausea through her, and she swayed, her hand reaching blindly for the screen beside her.
“I beg—” The words failed her. She pressed her lips together and shook her head once, sharply, as if to refuse the entire room.
Papa was on his feet at once. “Make space,” he declared as he moved toward her. “Elizabeth is unwell.”
Mama protested, of course. “But we were just—Lizzy, do not be dramatic! Not everything must be about you, and I daresay a little envy for your sister’s good fortune—”
Elizabeth did not hear the rest. She made it only as far as the door before the strength left her legs entirely, the pain cresting at last into something she could not master.
The room dissolved into sound and shadow as she clutched the frame, her breath coming in shallow, broken pulls as her stomach violently betrayed her.
This was not a megrim. Her body knew it now.
And it would not be reasoned with.