Page 22

“You never do. Which is why I have to guess.” Bingley sounded amused. “And since you are so very bad at lying, I must assume you think this a mistake.”

Darcy refused to reply.

Bingley let the silence hang for a few strides, then blew out a breath and shifted in his saddle.

“Well,” he said lightly, “even if it is a mistake, it is a lovely one.”

Darcy reined in at the top of the hill. The land unfolded below them in wide fields and muddy lanes, the hedgerows still clinging to their last color before winter stripped everything bare.

“It is not her,” he said finally.

“No?”

“It is the family.”

Bingley laughed. “Yes, they are rather… enthusiastic.”

“They are careless,” Darcy corrected. “No judgment, no restraint, no sense of—”

“Sense is overrated,” Bingley cut in. “She has it. That is what matters.”

Darcy looked away. He did not argue further. What would be the point? His objections were already hollow. If Bingley was going to stumble, he would do it smiling.

Darcy, on the other hand, was no longer stumbling. He had hit something closer to freefall.

They returned to the house with little more said. Bingley handed off his horse with a whistle and disappeared inside, calling something about punch and Caroline’s latest war with the florist.

Darcy handed his reins to the groom and followed more slowly.

The letters were waiting for him in his room.

He recognized the first immediately. Thick, linen-rag paper. Densely scrawled address. The dowager Countess of Matlock never wasted time with brevity.

He broke the seal and unfolded the page.

Fitzwilliam—

I will spare us both the pretenses of weather and sentiment.

I want a report. Is the countryside still as dull as advertised, or have you finally located a reason to stop brooding across every drawing room in England?

I have heard whispers—amusing ones—of a certain local family with a surprising number of daughters and an even more surprising tendency toward literacy.

If you are going to entangle yourself with a woman, do try to find one whose brain has not been replaced with ribbon samples.

Georgiana remains well. I have ordered more violets for her room, though she protests she does not need such things.

She is still reading too much. Your uncle has begun inviting a few younger gentlemen to our weekend shoots—purely social, of course.

But I do wonder how long I can dissuade him from matchmaking if you persist in letting the calendar win.

Do not wait until February to act. February has no manners.

—M.

Darcy read it twice.

He pulled out a fresh sheet of paper, dipped his pen, and wrote:

Madam,

The country is quiet. The harvest was fair.

Indeed, I have become reacquainted with Miss Elizabeth Bennet, but in addition to her, I have met several other local families.

I trust Georgiana is well. I thank you for attending to her preferences.

Kindly remember that I may still read between lines, however faint. And yours were not faint at all.

—F.

He folded it, sanded it, sealed it.

The second letter bore a familiar, spiked hand. Lady Catherine de Bourgh. Of course.

He had not opened it yet and already wished he had gone for another ride.

He broke the seal.

Nephew—

I am informed that you are still in Hertfordshire, where there can be little of importance to detain you.

I trust this excursion has served its purpose—whatever that may be—and that you will not permit country distractions to interfere longer with your obligations.

Anne has been remarkably patient. It is time you fulfilled your father's intentions and joined our two houses, as was always planned. Such a match would, as you know, satisfy every requirement of position, property, and prudence. It would also lay to rest these tiresome speculations about the will, which continue to surface in the most inappropriate circles. I have had to correct more than one misunderstanding regarding Anne’s portion.

It is unfortunate that people so easily confuse silence with deficiency.

Marriage would render such questions unnecessary.

I need hardly remind you that Rosings remains at your disposal.

You know the estate is well-ordered and its affairs sound.

Anne is still of childbearing years, though one wonders at your reluctance.

I have spared no effort in preparing her to take her rightful place beside you.

She has always shown excellent instincts when properly guided.

Do not delay further. Uncertainty breeds gossip. You know what must be done.

Lady Catherine de Bourgh

He let the page fall onto the desk.

Rosings was waiting. Anne was waiting. The trust clause was waiting.

Everyone was always waiting for him to choose the thing they had already determined he must do.

But none of them understood—or cared—that every choice had teeth.

He had no intention of marrying Anne. Not because she was sickly or dull or entirely dependent on her mother’s opinions—though all those things were true—but because the moment he married someone of Lady Catherine’s choosing, Georgiana’s future would no longer belong to her.

Lady Catherine would never say so directly. But Darcy knew.

Anne’s dowry was gone. “Invested,” Catherine had called it. Reassigned.

Spent.

What she wanted now was access to Georgiana’s.

No. The only way to keep Catherine out was to marry someone she could not control. Someone unconnected.

Someone like—

He stood.

Too dangerous to finish that thought.

He folded Lady Catherine’s letter and placed it in the drawer with the others. No reply today.

Then he stood at the window, where the light was already beginning to slant low, and tried not to wonder what color Elizabeth Bennet’s eyes might be when she was angry.

“ Y our cousin was meant to arrive this morning,” said Mr. Bennet, folding his paper and setting it aside with unnecessary ceremony. “Though I had my doubts from the beginning.”

Everyone in the room looked up from their various entertainments. “Which cousin?” Mrs. Bennet demanded, a cushion half-fluffed in her lap.

“Mr. Collins.”

“Who?”

Elizabeth raised an eyebrow. “I thought you hated your cousin.”

“I did despise his father. But I hate a disordered will even more, and the son may as well make himself known to those whose home he means to command one day.”

There was a beat of silence—then Mrs. Bennet lurched upright.

“Today?” she cried. “You mean to say he was meant to arrive today? As in this very afternoon?”

“That was the arrangement.”

“Thomas Bennet, are you telling me a man—a strange man—was meant to walk into this house and begin circulating among my daughters like he was shopping for a melon, and you failed to mention it?”

Elizabeth frowned. “Papa—surely you are joking.”

“I am not in the habit of writing false invitations. He was to arrive by midday. I even instructed Hill to prepare the blue room.”

“You let the servants know before your own family?” Jane asked incredulously.

“I did not wish to cause a scene,” Mr. Bennet said mildly, as Mrs. Bennet made a small strangled noise that might have been the early stages of a seizure.

“A scene?” Elizabeth snapped. “You thought a surprise house guest would go unnoticed?”

“I suspected—rather strongly—that he would be delayed. And indeed, he was.”

Mr. Bennet rose and crossed to the desk, retrieving a thick letter from beneath a neglected copy of the Gazette. “It seems he has been detained by affairs of great importance—namely, his patroness.”

“What patroness?” Kitty asked, already losing interest and plucking at the hem of her gown.

Elizabeth could hardly feel more. If there were to be no guest today, why were they still talking about him?

“Lady Catherine de Bourgh.”

Elizabeth coughed. “I never heard of her.”

“Nor,” her father agreed, “had I, but Mr. Collins seemed to expect me to kiss the place where her name was printed on his letter. She seems to have experienced an upheaval of some kind. Mr. Collins, in his wisdom, has taken it upon himself to remain near her bedside. Or at her doorstep. Or perhaps her dinner table. It is not entirely clear.”

“Then why mention him at all?” asked Lydia.

“Because he has sent a letter.” Mr. Bennet’s expression twitched toward the theatrical. “Which he requests I share with the household. And I am not so cruel as to keep such brilliance to myself.”

He unfolded the letter and cleared his throat.

"My most esteemed and recently reconciled cousin—

Though we have not yet enjoyed the pleasure of each other’s company, I write with the sincerest hope that a new season of familial harmony may commence.

I had intended to arrive at Longbourn on Tuesday last, but was delayed by a most urgent request from my noble patroness, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, who desired my spiritual services in anticipation of an important domestic event.

Though she did not name the individuals involved, I have reason to believe that the forthcoming union, as well as the banns which must naturally precede it, are all of such social and moral weight that my presence was not merely welcome, but required. I hope to share more of this in person.

Having thus discharged my duties with efficiency, I write now to tender my warmest respects and to express my original intent—should it be amenable to all parties—to select a bride from among the young ladies of your household.

I am informed that there are four eligible candidates, and would consider it a mark of both prudence and affection to secure the future of Longbourn by joining our fortunes.

I await your reply with Christian anticipation, and remain—

Yours in reverence and resolve,

William Collins"

The silence afterward was a thing of rare and gleaming beauty.

Then, it shattered.

“ Four eligible candidates?” Kitty squawked. “What about Jane?”

Mrs. Bennet clapped a hand to her chest. “He must mean the younger girls, of course. Jane is clearly meant for Mr. Bingley. I call that Providential.”

Elizabeth choked on a laugh. “Mother, you do not even know what this man looks like.”

“I know he is a gentleman and that he has written a letter with his own seal. That is more than some can say.”

“Does he wear a red coat?” Lydia asked hopefully.

“No,” said Mary primly. “He wears a clergyman’s frock.”

“Is it at least a flattering one?” Kitty asked. “Can clergymen be fashionable?”

“That depends on the sermon,” murmured Elizabeth.

Mrs. Bennet sighed thoughtfully. “He might do for Lizzy, if she can stop making faces at everything.”

“Faces?” Elizabeth cried. “That letter is a face.”

“I think,” said Mary, who had not blinked since the letter’s midpoint, “that I might be willing. If he is truly a man of principles.”

“He is truly a man of something, ” Elizabeth muttered. “Possibly steam.”

“He is the heir to this house,” Mrs. Bennet said. “And if he chooses one of you, I shall consider it a blessing. Even if it is Mary.”

“Thank you, Mama,” said Mary with great dignity.

Elizabeth slumped into the nearest chair and stared at the ceiling. “He has not even met us. What if he finds none of us acceptable?”

“Nonsense, Lizzy. How could you say such a thing? My girls, not acceptable? Rubbish!” her mother chided.

Mr. Bennet folded the letter again, tucking it back into his coat with a satisfied sigh. “Well. That was invigorating.”

“You are enjoying this far too much,” Elizabeth said.

“I find joy where I can,” he replied. “And if that joy comes in the form of a pompous cousin with poor timing and worse intentions, who am I to reject the hand of Providence?”

Elizabeth rose, still shaking her head. “I do not care how few eligible candidates we have. I have no intention of marrying a man who proposes in a letter rather than at least meeting us first.”