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“Are you returning to London?”

asked Miss Mary, her voice calm—though, thought, not quite so steady as she might have wished.

Perhaps accompanying Darcy to Longbourn had been a mistake. He could not speak the truth to Miss Mary—yet the falsehood sat ill upon his conscience.

“No,”

replied he, endeavouring to appear at ease, and hoping she would not press the matter.

To his silent relief, she made no further inquiry. Instead, in a gentle voice, she said.

“I believe I owe you my gratitude.”

He turned to her, a faint lift of the brow betraying his surprise.

“Indeed? And for what, Miss Mary?”

“For yesterday,”

she answered.

“It was a most singular evening. I daresay the most memorable I have ever known.”

“If it is our dance for which you thank me,”

he said, with a faint smile.

“then I must entreat you to desist—I was the one honoured by your acceptance.”

“It was not merely our dance,”

she replied.

“Though that likewise is not soon to be forgotten. No, Colonel—I know it was you who prevailed upon Mr. Darcy to request me for the first set, and Mr. Bingley—Charles—for the second. And though I have no proof, I am persuaded you had a hand in the rest as well.”

At this, turned more directly towards her, a flicker of displeasure passing across his features.

“And why,”

he asked, with more sharpness than he intended.

“should you think such attentions were not due to your own merit?”

“I know you would rather I did not say it,”

she replied.

“But that Mr. Darcy should have asked me for his first dance—I cannot think it would have happened had you not urged him.”

He could not, in fairness, contradict her.

“I will not deny,”

he said at last.

“that I requested Darcy and Bingley to engage you for the first and second sets. That I freely confess. But beyond that—I assure you—they sought your company entirely of their own accord. Whatever their motives, they acted without any prompting from me.”

She met his gaze without hesitation.

“I believe you, Colonel.”

Then, after a pause, she added, her voice gentler than before.

“May I be permitted one question? Had I sat out for any one of the first six sets, would you have asked me for the seventh?”

The question—so quiet, so plainly put—unsettled him more than he cared to admit. Darcy had urged him—indeed, had very nearly entreated him—to dance with Miss Mary, regardless of how many sets she might already have danced. And had matters gone otherwise—had she been passed over for any of the first six sets, as so often had been the case—would he have sought her out?

“Yes,”

he said at last.

“I would have danced the seventh with you. I would have broken my word to do so.”

She turned her face away, that he could not read her expression. But her shoulders rose and fell, betraying a breath not quite steady.

“Thank you, Colonel,”

she said, her voice so low it scarcely carried.

“It is the most precious thing ever spoken to me.”

turned. The precious? An invitation to a country dance—little more than a measured pattern of steps across the drawing-room floor.

“Tell me, Miss Mary,”

said he.

“and forgive me if I presume upon our acquaintance—but what first led you to seek solace in sermons? I daresay your mother’s inclinations played no small part, yet I cannot but think there is something more.”

“Do you indeed wish to know?”

she asked.

“I do,”

said he.

“Unless you are strongly averse to speaking of it.”

“No,”

she replied, and without further hesitation, began.

She spoke of her childhood, and the peculiar station she had long occupied among the Bennet daughters—neither the beauty, nor the darling, nor the wit. She recalled her grandmother, a gentle soul who had passed when she was but ten. She spoke of her early confusion at her mother’s harsh words, which had once wounded her before she could fully comprehend them. She described the day of Jane’s coming out, and how it had marked for her the first of many comparisons, in which she could never hope to excel. And finally, she related the tale of Mr. Smithers, the aging clergyman who, with every good intention, had steered her toward sermons as a balm for a wounded spirit—never imagining it would become the sanctuary she would seek again and again.

“Thus,”

she concluded.

“I began to read sermons. I clung to those words—not for their elegance, but because they demanded nothing of me. They offered a kind of order, which I could find nowhere else. I do not believe Mr. Smithers ever imagined the degree of my attachment, nor how long it would endure.”

When she had finished, a silence followed—brief, but significant. At length, he spoke.

“Miss Mary, have you ever considered that your circumstances, though they may seem singular to you, are not wholly uncommon? You are not alone in being overlooked. Many are passed over—by affection, by consequence, by fortune. But not all turn to sermons for solace. Some grow bitter. Others become proud. And some—learn to dance.”

“I know it well now, though at the time I could not have understood. I was but too young. Mr. Smithers intended only to assist. He could not have guessed how far I would carry his advice—how I would make it my armour.”

She laughed softly, and turned toward her.

“Then came a man,”

she said.

“who, like herself, was lost—so desperate that he sought assistance from a tree.”

laughed in turn, though he sobered instantly, for her manner was not one of jest.

“Who could have imagined,”

she continued, her smile growing almost tender.

“that the man would be the one to show her the way?”

“I believe you exaggerate my usefulness,”

he said quietly.

“I found you alone, yes—but not adrift. You held your compass firmly in hand.”

She shook her head with slow solemnity, the gesture betraying none of her earlier mirth.

“A compass, perhaps,”

she said.

“but no destination. I had long since resolved to go nowhere at all.”

There it was—laid bare with the quiet courage of one who no longer feared to speak plainly. The words were simply spoken, but in them lived the whole story of a woman passed over—not tragically nor dramatically, but with quiet constancy; and therefore, perhaps, with even greater cruelty.

“And now, Miss Mary?”

he asked, his voice low, measured, almost hesitant.

“Do you have a destination? Have you resolved to reach it?”

“I know not, Colonel. Not as yet. But this I can promise: should the path present itself—should the place beckon to me, even faintly—I shall make every effort to follow. You are entitled to know this.”

“That is all I ask, Miss Mary,”

he said at last, his tone imbued with a certain reverence.

“I am content.”

“There is something else you ought to know,”

she said, her gaze lifting to meet his.

“Had I not been asked for any of the first six sets, and you had still come to claim the seventh—I should have refused.”

He drew in a breath, but she continued before he could speak.

“I would still have asked you to sit out that dance with me,”

she said, her voice quiet.

“Indeed, I should have been overjoyed to pass that time in your company. But I could not have accepted the dance itself. I would not be the cause of your breaking your vow. That, I think, would have brought me great sorrow.”

And in that moment, understood.

“Miss Mary,”

he said, with sudden resolve.

“there has been a change in my plans. I may travel to London after all.”

Thursday, December 10, 1811

Longbourn

Elizabeth

“Where is Colonel Fitzwilliam today?”

asked Elizabeth. Though her tone was light, her glance strayed—rather too deliberately—towards Mary, who had lingered behind under the pretence of admiring a small stand of snowdrops by the hedge.

Scarcely half an hour earlier, Mrs. Bennet had declared, before the assembled company, that Mr. Darcy and Mary were to take a turn about the garden together.

“A most suitable match of minds!”

she had said, clasping her hands in rapture.

“And he seems to favour quiet girls, Lizzy—unlike some, who never can keep their mouths shut.”

Elizabeth was then briskly instructed to remain behind.

“Two couples can chaperone one another,”

her mother had said, waving a hand as though to dismiss all objections. Thus, Jane and Mr. Bingley, followed by Mary and Mr. Darcy, walked out of the parlour, leaving Elizabeth staring into the fire. Yet no sooner had her mother’s attention wandered than Elizabeth slipped out by way of the kitchen door, her cloak in hand and a triumphant smile upon her lips.

It was high time, she knew, to gently dispel her mother’s growing conviction that Mr. Darcy’s attentions were directed toward Mary. But such corrections always came at a cost: Mrs. Bennet’s habitual outcries of injustice, bewilderment, and triumphant self-approval—and in that very order. Jane bore these episodes with angelic composure, Mary with unmoved silence. Elizabeth had never acquired the art of enduring them, unless she might escape into the open air—a relief not always at her command, particularly after sunset.

“He has gone to London,”

said Mr. Darcy, breaking her reverie.

“He had departed before I came down this morning. He left only a note, stating he should return within three days.”

“I trust he did not forget to inform his mother,”

said Elizabeth, smiling faintly.

Mr. Darcy gave a short laugh.

“He did, in fact. She was as perplexed as I—though, to speak plainly, she was not greatly surprised. has absented himself without explanation before—though never, I think, without a purpose.”

There was something in his tone that Elizabeth could not fail to perceive. She watched him a moment longer, noting the studied calm with which he spoke, and yet—

“You do not tell me all,”

she said gently.

“No,”

he replied, without pretence.

“I do not. It is not mine to tell.”

That, Elizabeth reflected, was very like him—principled to a fault. In this instance, it only increased her esteem.

“I see,”

she said, glancing again at Mary, who now stood with one gloved hand resting upon the low garden wall, her gaze fixed outward.

“She betrayed no uneasiness when you told her,”

Elizabeth added, after a thoughtful pause.

“No,”

replied Mr. Darcy.

“Nor did she show surprise. But I believe she is not without feeling, though she may not suffer herself to express it.”

Elizabeth nodded.

“She has grown up in a home where every sentiment, once uttered, is either too sharply examined or too quickly dismissed. It is little wonder she has learned to guard her feelings.”

Mr. Darcy made no reply; his silence, however, conveyed no indifference. Elizabeth caught his glance toward Mary—brief, yet imbued with something akin to respect—in silent accord.

“Do you think he shall return?”

she asked.

Mr. Darcy turned to her then, meeting her gaze directly.

“I do. He said he would. And is not one to promise lightly—even in a note left upon a breakfast tray.”

He smiled as he spoke, and Elizabeth allowed herself a smile in return.

Mary, who had lingered at a polite distance for some time, approached, no longer content to be invisible.

“Lizzy,”

said she.

“if I do not interrupt you both now, you will find yourselves halfway to Oakham Mount before you know it. I am not fond enough of walking to follow you that far. So either you remain where you are, or I shall put an end to this pretence of chaperonage and return to the house. Mama, after all, has already declared that the two couples may chaperone one another—though how nonsensical that may be.”

Elizabeth laughed.

“True enough. Though Mama had an entirely different pairing in mind. She will be most displeased were you to return without Mr. Darcy upon your arm.”

To her surprise, it was Mr. Darcy who intervened.

“Miss Mary,”

he said.

“you need only tell your mother that I had expressed a wish to walk as far as Oakham Mount, but that you did not feel inclined to accompany me. That would be strictly honest. There is no need to mention your sister’s name in the matter—your mother need not suspect she has wandered farther than the drawing room.”

Elizabeth gave him a sidelong look, her lips betraying a touch of amusement. Mary inclined her head with an air of martyrdom.

“Very well,”

she said, turning back in the direction of the house.

“Then I shall do as you suggest, and ask Jane and Mr. Bingley to follow after you—so that whatever remains of Mama’s sense of propriety may be preserved.”

Elizabeth watched Mary’s retreating figure, noting with some surprise how greatly her sister had altered. The quietude remained, yet it no longer seemed the quiet of discomfort or reserve.

“She has changed,”

she softly observed.

“She has,”

Mr. Darcy agreed.

“And not without cause.”

They stood for a moment, each absorbed in their own thoughts.

“I seem to recall,”

Elizabeth said at length, her eyes alight with amusement.

“a certain gentleman in the Netherfield parlour declaring, with some vehemence, that disguise of every sort was his abhorrence.”

Mr. Darcy turned to her, his expression composed, though his eyes betrayed a smile.

“He would be shocked, no doubt—deeply disappointed in my moral decline. But then,”

he added, with a glance more daring than amused.

“he had not the benefit of your example.”

“Well done, Mr. Darcy,”

said Elizabeth, folding her hands lightly before her.

“Now, you did mention a wish to walk, if I recall.”

“I did,”

said he.

“To Oakham mount, then.”

He offered his arm, and she accepted it without hesitation. They climbed at a gentle pace, speaking easily as they went. At the summit, the view opened before them, like a quilt spread neatly upon the earth.

Elizabeth lifted her gloved hand in a graceful arc.

“That, Mr. Darcy,”

she said.

“comprises the greater part of four-and-twenty houses in our neighbourhood—each furnished with no fewer than two windows, one cat, and an unshakable belief in its own superior judgement.”

“Ah, yes—the very neighbourhood I contrived to offend entirely in one memorable evening?”

"Indeed, sir," she replied, her eyes sparkling with amusement. "The poor souls who remain quite puzzled as to what precisely befell them. They speak of it still, in reverent whispers, as though it were some natural disaster. A bad harvest, a spotted cow, and—of course—the gentleman from Derbyshire."

“I see. So simply standing among them in silence was sufficient to send them off like startled hens.”

"Oh, your silence alone would have been forgivable, sir. But your expression! That look of disdain! The arch of your brow, as though each person were silently weighed and found wanting."

“I had not supposed my brow so eloquent.”

“Oh, remarkably so. It conveyed a full verse—by way of sighs and scorn—on the failings of our neighbourhood. Mrs. Long, in particular, has not forgiven the sentiment you cast upon her bonnet.”

“I assure you, my attention was fixed entirely on a vexing draught at the window.”

“Yes—and you left the final note of your verse solely for the weather. A singular touch. I daresay no one has managed to slight both the lady and the climate in so few words.”

“It is no small distinction, then.”

“Indeed, sir, not at all. Were there a society for the elegant delivery of disdain, you would surely preside over it.”

Mr. Darcy turned to her then, his brow—lately so maligned—furrowing with an expression not of disdain, but of reluctant mirth, and something gentler still. When he next spoke, his voice was low, carrying a softness that betrayed his usual restraint.

“Miss Elizabeth—if I were to attempt a new expression, not of contempt, but of admiration—might I be permitted to direct it toward you?”

Elizabeth, arrested mid-breath, turned to him with a smile, part amused, part discerning.

“So long as it does not send the local livestock into a swoon, sir, I am content to endure it.”

“Then,”

said he, taking a step nearer.

“permit me to set aside my brow’s supposed eloquence in favour of plain speech.”

He paused; and in that silence, though brief, there was no unease—only a stillness full of expectation.

“Miss Elizabeth,”

he said at last.

“would you do me the very great honour of accepting my hand, my heart, and, if you can endure it, my imperfect self—for all the days to come?”

Elizabeth regarded him, one brow arching with deliberate composure.

“Well,”

she said.

“a fine speech indeed. And do you make such declarations often, or am I singularly favoured today?”

“You are, I assure you, quite singular in every respect,”

said he, the corners of his mouth twitching.

“I have never rehearsed that speech for anyone else—though if repetition will aid your understanding, I shall strive to be remarkably civil a second time.”

“Ah, I must admit,”

she said.

“that was, indeed, remarkably civil. I may require it repeated, sir—just to be sure.”

He laughed—openly and without restraint—and she felt, most inconveniently, a flutter in her chest.

“Then I shall repeat myself,”

said he.

“as often as needed. Daily, if you desire it. Hourly, if you are so cruel.”

“And the brow?”

she asked, lifting her chin with mock severity.

“It shall be corrected. Entirely reformed. I mean to teach it nothing but fondness and polite interest.”

“In that case,”

she said, her smile yielding at last.

“I believe I must consider myself engaged.”

“Thank you, my dearest Elizabeth,”

he said, his tone low and uncommonly tender.

And Elizabeth knew, with that sudden certainty which the heart admits but rarely, that she was about to be kissed—and that she desired it with a passion hitherto unknown. So overwhelmed with anticipation was she that she could scarce remain still. She was in a state most unbecoming to any rational woman.

Her heart behaved with reckless abandon—beating as if pursued by a startled hare—and her feet, in sympathy, refused all command. She shifted and adjusted her gloves, though they were already perfect; and, after some irresolution, turned about before regaining her composure.

“Elizabeth,”

he said, his voice touched with both affection and mischief.

“am I to conclude you are attempting to flee the scene of your own engagement?”

“Certainly not, sir,”

she answered, cheeks colouring.

“Though I must confess my feet seem possessed of a mind quite their own.”

“Perhaps,”

he replied with gallantry.

“they are performing a merry step. I shall not take it for refusal unless you break into a full country dance.”

She laughed despite herself, her words faltering as she endeavoured to explain.

“It is simply that I—well—have never—”

Mr. Darcy’s expression softened still more.

“Nor have I. Thus, we are equally unskilled in the art of kissing one’s future spouse upon a hill.”

“Yes, but I daresay you look the more prepared. How vexing.”

“Would you have me appear less certain? Shall I feign a trembling lip?”

“Good heavens, no! If either trembles, it must be my sole privilege.”

“Then allow me,”

he said, taking her gloved hand with gentle care.

“to meet you halfway, and kiss you so cautiously as to cause no further disturbance to your balance.”

“And the brow?”

“It shall behave.”

And with that earnest vow, he leaned in—slowly, with a quiet reverence, as though the act were to be treasured—and placed a kiss upon her lips, gentle and unassuming. It was not dramatic, nor adorned with grand gestures, but it was perfect in its hesitance, in its sincerity.

When they parted, her smile had softened to something far rarer than mere amusement.

“Well,”

she said after a pause.

“I must amend my earlier judgment. You do kiss well, despite the absence of a chaperone.”

“I thank you,”

Darcy replied with the solemnity of a man receiving due commendation.

“I shall endeavour to maintain my standards.”

“Tell me, Mr. Darcy—will you always be so solemn when you kiss me?”

“Only when the occasion demands it.”

“And should I require a second kiss—merely to confirm its worth?”

“I remain entirely at your service.”

So she kissed him this time—firmly enough to still the restlessness of her feet at last.

Mary

“Mary, whatever are you doing here? Where is Mr. Darcy?”

asked Mrs. Bennet, the instant Mary entered the parlour.

“He wished to walk to the top of Oakham Mount, Mama,”

returned Mary with feigned composure.

“I informed him I could not possibly accompany him—particularly after the exertions at the ball.”

Mrs. Bennet gave a loud sigh.

“Men! What they find so diverting in mud and steep paths, I shall never understand. Very well. Is he coming back here?”

“I know not, Mama,”

said Mary with studied indifference.

“I did not ask.”

In exchange, she received a look so sharp it might have pierced silk.

“Oh Mary, dearest girl, must I explain everything? You must inquire! A young lady who hopes for a proposal ought to express at least some slight concern for the gentleman’s whereabouts. You should have urged him to return here.”

Mary struggled to compose her features.

“I understand, Mama,”

she said, her tone even.

Just then, Kitty and Lydia—who had been occupied in the cheerful destruction of an altogether inoffensive bonnet—leapt up and ran to the window.

“There is a carriage coming!”

cried Kitty.

“It must be your uncle Gardiner! But it is only Thursday—he said Friday—”

“It is not Uncle Gardiner’s carriage,”

said Lydia.

“It is very grand. And there is a lady in it. La, Mama, I do not like the look of her at all—her nose is so far in the air, I am surprised she can see the road.”

“A lady?”

repeated Mrs. Bennet, hurrying to the window.

“Who can it be? Girls, come away from there this instant. You are not to stand gaping. Compose yourselves.”

A moment later, Mrs. Hill appeared with an air of significance.

“Lady Catherine de Bourgh, ma’am.”

“Mr. Collins’s patroness,”

whispered Lydia for her mother’s benefit—though Mary was quite certain even her father, in the study, could not have failed to hear it.

Lady Catherine entered the parlour with an air more than usually ungracious; she sat down without saying a word.

“Which of you is Miss Mary Bennet?”

she asked, with all the weight of condescension in her voice.

Mrs. Bennet and Mary both started—Mrs. Bennet in fluttering delight; Mary, in silent dread. There could be no mistaking the implication: Mr. Collins had written to Kent—perhaps even sent an express—for his patroness to arrive so soon.

“This is she, my Lady!”

cried Mrs. Bennet, scarcely able to contain herself.

“Mary! Lady Catherine has come particularly to see you!”

Lady Catherine turned her formidable gaze upon Mary with all the penetrating scrutiny of a hawk preparing to dive.

“Miss Mary, there seemed to be a prettyish kind of a little wilderness on one side of your lawn. I should be glad to take a turn in it, if you will favour me with your company,” said she.

And before Mary could so much as curtsy or draw breath, she found herself walking beside Lady Catherine de Bourgh into the garden, her thoughts in no little disarray.

During the ball, she had been so entirely preoccupied with fears of forfeiting her anticipated dance with the Colonel that she quite misunderstood Mr. Collins’s intent during their own set. Yet two days later, after much reflection—and her mother’s continued urgings to render herself agreeable in Mr. Darcy’s eyes—she began to suspect that Mr. Collins’s caution against unreasonable hopes had not, in fact, referred to the Colonel at all, but rather to Mr. Darcy.

And if Mr. Collins had indeed conveyed such fanciful notions to his patroness, it might well account for the great lady’s unlooked-for visit to Longbourn. But this, she knew, was mere conjecture. Her first object, therefore, must be to ascertain what had prompted Lady Catherine’s arrival.

She had not long to wait. No sooner had they entered the copse than the lady began:

“You can be at no loss, Miss Mary, to understand the reason of my journey hither. Your own heart, your own conscience, must tell you why I come.”

The tone was lofty, censorious—scarcely removed from insult. Yet Mary, though trembling within, was not naturally inclined to rebellion. Respect was her habit, even when civility strained under the weight of pompousness.

“I am afraid you are mistaken, madam,”

she said, her voice soft and composed.

“I should be grateful if your ladyship would be so good as to inform me of the purpose of this—honour.”

Something in Mary’s manner—a mingling of humility and calm—appeared to unsettle Lady Catherine, for her haughtiness seemed to abate for a moment.

“Miss Mary,”

replied her Ladyship.

“you ought to know that I am not to be trifled with. But however insincere you may choose to be, you shall not find me so. My character has ever been celebrated for its sincerity and frankness; and in a cause of such moment as this, I shall certainly not depart from it. A report of a most alarming nature reached me two days ago. I was told, that not only your sister was on the point of being most advantageously married, but that you would, in all likelihood, be soon afterwards united to my nephew. Though I know it must be a scandalous falsehood, I instantly resolved on setting off for this place, that I might make my sentiments known to you.”

It was a lengthy speech, delivered without the least interruption, and yet it left Mary no better informed. She was no nearer discerning which nephew—Mr. Darcy or the Colonel—Lady Catherine imagined herself to be protecting.

“Your ladyship,”

said Mary gently.

“if you will pardon me, I remain uncertain as to your meaning.”

Again, Lady Catherine looked momentarily discomposed—as though the object of her rebuke had failed to position herself properly to receive it.

“I told you, Miss Mary,”

she said with icy severity.

“do not trifle with me.”

She surveyed Mary from head to foot with the air of one accustomed to finding fault.

“I am quite at a loss to understand Mr. Collins’s remarks concerning the beauty of his cousins,”

she said.

“You are, without question, plain.”

In earlier years, such an insult might have driven Mary to the comfort of pious quotations or mournful pianoforte etudes. But the Colonel had instilled in her a dignity not lightly displaced. She was not yet vain enough to crave praise, nor disposed to submit meekly to cruelty.

She chose silence; some remarks, she judged, served only to degrade the speaker.

Lady Catherine, evidently vexed by the quiet, pressed on:

“Miss Mary Bennet—has my nephew, Darcy, made you an offer of marriage?”

Mary suppressed a sigh; so it was Mr. Darcy, after all.

“No, your ladyship,”

she answered without hesitation.

Lady Catherine looked at her narrowly, as though searching for some hidden meaning.

“And will you give me your word never to enter into such an engagement?”

Mary folded her hands, drew in a breath as though preparing for a sermon’s prelude, and said with absolute sincerity.

“I will. I shall never be engaged to Mr. Darcy.”

Lady Catherine blinked, and her mouth fell open slightly, as though robbed of a speech she had spent two days composing.

“I told you before, Miss Mary,”

she repeated, her voice now losing some of its earlier sharpness.

“do not trifle with me.”

“You did, my Lady,”

said Mary with a small, polite nod.

“Twice, in fact.”

Lady Catherine opened her mouth again—no doubt to reiterate a sentiment already spent—but found herself, most uncharacteristically, at a loss for words.

Mary, for her part, met the silence with mild interest, no longer trembling.

“Well!”

said Lady Catherine at last, as though the word alone might repair the shambles of her errand.

“That is—as it should be. I am glad to hear it. Your easy agreement, though unexpected, is of course entirely natural—yes, quite proper. I daresay you are not so misguided as I had feared.”

If that could be called a compliment, it was the sort only Lady Catherine de Bourgh could deliver. Mary, deeming it not the sort of remark that merited gratitude, remained silent.

Lady Catherine, as ever, was quite untroubled by the absence of a reply.

“Well, there is no harm done. So long as you have sense enough to keep your word.”

“I do,”

said Mary.

Lady Catherine gave a stiff nod, then added, with unnecessary emphasis.

“For Darcy is betrothed to my daughter.”

Mary’s heart gave a sudden start. Betrothed?

In recent days, Mary had come to feel a certain respect and admiration for Mr. Darcy. In fact, she had begun to anticipate the day when she might call him brother. She was not yet ready to believe that a gentleman such as he would court one lady while betrothed to another.

“Did you just say Mr. Darcy is betrothed, my Lady?”

she asked.

“Indeed, Miss Mary,”

replied Lady Catherine, puffing up with self-satisfaction.

“From their infancy, Darcy and Anne have been intended for one another. It was the favourite wish of his mother—and of mine.”

Mary could scarce credit it. Were such arrangements truly made in polite society? Was Mr. Darcy aware of it? Did he approve of it? Did Lizzy know?

A hundred questions surged to her lips, but she held them back. To ask too much would be to betray too much. Lady Catherine must not suspect that another woman held Mr. Darcy’s affections.

“I must say, Miss Mary,”

said Lady Catherine, folding her gloves with undue attention.

“you are not at all what I expected.”

“I have often thought the same,”

said Mary.

“About myself.”

Another silence settled between them. Then—perhaps in defiance of her better judgement, or contrary to every rule ever set forth in the conduct-books of genteel society—Lady Catherine emitted the faintest, briefest huff of sound, one that might, under more generous interpretation, have been taken for a laugh. Even she appeared somewhat taken aback by it.

“Well,”

she said crisply.

“That will suffice. I trust this matter is concluded.”

“I believe it is,”

said Mary.

“Then let us return,”

she said.

“I have no desire to catch cold in a copse.”

With that, she turned on her heel, and Mary followed.

At the entrance to the house, they found Mrs. Bennet already stationed there, flushed with expectation, her cap bobbing in a frenzy. She rose at once, clasping her hands in barely suppressed eagerness.

“Your ladyship! I do hope your walk was agreeable?”

she chirped, glancing anxiously from Mary to the great lady, as if expecting a verdict—or at the very least, a compliment.

Lady Catherine paused—just long enough for Mrs. Bennet to nearly curtsy again—before bestowing a most unexpected favour.

“Miss Mary,”

she said, turning with a regal nod toward the daughter in question.

“has shown herself to be quite—sensible.”

Mrs. Bennet gasped in delight.

“She possesses, I think, a moderate understanding of propriety. Not brilliance, certainly, but a kind of… firmness. And she listens—an increasingly rare trait in young women of her situation. Yes, I find she listens.”

Mary, her features composed as always, made no reply. She did not need to—this was a compliment she neither sought nor cared to claim.

Her mother, however, could not contain herself.

“Oh! Your ladyship is too kind! We are so honoured—so flattered! Mary, did you hear that? Lady Catherine finds you sensible! Of course, she always was the quietest of the girls—not the prettiest, no, but always very neat and quite bookish.”

Lady Catherine gave a faint clearing of her throat, enough to silence Mrs. Bennet as though struck by a sword.

“That will do, Mrs. Bennet,”

she said, her tone imperious once more.

“I am gratified that my visit has been… efficient. I shall take my leave of you. Good day.”

With that, Lady Catherine turned, her skirts swirling with the elegance of a grand finale, and made her way toward the carriage, never once glancing back.