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Elizabeth related to Mary the following morning all that had passed between Mr. Wickham and herself.

They sat beneath the boughs of the old cedar in the rear garden, the early sun just beginning to burn through the haze of dawn.

Mary listened in silence at first, her expression thoughtful, her fingers lightly clasped upon the cover of her closed prayer book.

"And so you see," Elizabeth concluded, with a sigh that bespoke both weariness and vexation, "he has not changed a word of it. Not one! The same tale, as I remember it, though it stung more cruelly then. Now I find myself dismayed by how very easily I once accepted it."

Mary frowned, tilting her head. "You did not reveal to him that you knew the truth?"

"No. He spun his web as eagerly as ever, and I let him do it. I did question him, lightly, and pressed upon the inconsistencies—but I dare not go too far. Not yet."

Mary nodded, and after a pause said quietly, "Then what shall you do? Shall you inform Mr. Darcy of his presence here? He would surely wish to know."

Elizabeth turned away, her gaze fixed upon the soft path that wound between the garden beds.

"He already knows. I sent word the moment I suspected—but I dared not ask for his involvement.

Not directly. If Mr. Wickham were to learn that Mr. Darcy was involved, or even catch wind that he might be, he could.

.. he might expose things better left buried.

He is vengeful when thwarted, and cunning.

My fear is what he might yet do to cast a shadow on Mr. Darcy, or his sister.

I cannot bear to see either of them wounded again on his account. "

Mary’s brow furrowed further. "Then we must act ourselves, if we are not to enlist his aid. But how are we to thwart a man so practiced in manipulation?"

"I scarcely know. I think—perhaps—we might rely on the gossip of the town."

Mary blinked. "Gossip? "

Elizabeth smiled faintly. "Yes. Sometimes, Mary, the foolishness of the multitude is a great tool for those who know how to wield it.

The right word in the right ear, perhaps what his bar tap is to the tea shop, or his tailor bill to the inn keeper, the right turn a phrase can leave a trail, if one but knows to follow it. "

Mary’s eyes lit with cautious interest. "If such things were made more widely known... his charms might lose some of their lustre."

"Precisely. And Lydia—"

Mary sighed, her fingers tightening slightly. "Lydia is a greater challenge than the man himself."

Elizabeth laughed, though there was little mirth in the sound. "Indeed. We might hang his character upon every tree in Meryton and she would still find his regimentals dashing."

"Then we must approach it from another angle," Mary said, her tone measured. "She prides herself on being admired, on gaining attentions others do not. What if she were made to understand that her fortune—or rather, lack thereof—will not entice a man such as Mr. Wickham for long?"

Elizabeth's expression grew thoughtful. "Yes... a lesson in her diminished prospects might cool her spirits. But how to deliver it? She will think us merely envious or prudish."

"Perhaps Charlotte might assist. Lydia does not view her as a sister, and Charlotte has a way of guiding people without ever making it feel like guidance."

Elizabeth nodded slowly. "It is worth the attempt. We must be subtle—no lectures, no warnings. But if she can be made to feel the pinch of reality..."

They fell into a contemplative silence, broken only by the soft rustle of leaves above.

"I do not think she will thank us," Mary said, after a time.

"Likely not," Elizabeth agreed. "But if it keeps her safe, I shall not require her gratitude."

At that moment, a voice rang out from the rear window.

"Lizzy! Mary! Mr. Bingley and his sisters have arrived. Do not dawdle in the shrubbery!"

The sisters exchanged an amused glance, rose, and with the gravity of generals preparing for battle, made their way toward the house .

Jane greeted Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst with her usual warmth, which was met with smiles and genteel affection from them both—at least toward her. Elizabeth received a nod and the barest curve of Miss Bingley's lips.

"Miss Bennet, you look remarkably well," Miss Bingley said to Jane, clasping her hand. "I do hope the air in Hertfordshire continues to agree with your complexion. As for you, Miss Eliza," she turned, her eyes scanning Elizabeth's attire, "one can always rely on rustic charm."

Elizabeth met the comment with a composed smile, unwilling to give Miss Bingley the satisfaction of provocation.

"We come bearing invitations," Mr. Bingley interjected cheerfully, holding out a small embossed card. "The ball at Netherfield is fixed for Tuesday. We hoped to deliver it in person."

Mrs. Bennet, who had hastened from the drawing room, exclaimed with unrestrained delight. "Oh, how very obliging of you, Mr. Bingley! I always said you were the kindest of men. A ball! Just what this neighbourhood needed."

Miss Bingley’s smile tightened as she took a cautious step away from Mrs. Bennet's exuberance. She offered a perfunctory compliment on the roses blooming near the doorway and excused herself and her sister with such rapidity that even Mr. Bingley blinked in surprise.

"My sisters are quite fatigued from calling elsewhere," he explained apologetically. "But I hope we shall see you all on Tuesday. Miss Bennet, I am most particularly looking forward to your opinion on the new music we’ve secured."

With that, the visitors took their leave. Mrs. Bennet could hardly contain herself.

"Did you see, Lizzy? An invitation from Mr. Bingley himself! Not a card from the housekeeper—oh no, not for my Jane!"

Jane smiled softly, her eyes lingering on the place Mr. Bingley had stood. "It will be a lovely evening."

"Yes," Elizabeth murmured, though her thoughts were far from the flowers and ribbons that already occupied her mother’s imagination.

Her heart turned to Pemberley, to the man whose suspicions she might yet dispel.

Would he come? Would he dance with her still, or was trust too far undone?

If only she could end the Wickham matter before then, yet the rain would prevent it.

Even if she did, convince him it was not by Mr. Wickham she knew these things, how could she explain her knowledge?

How could she justify her insight without endangering all ?

Three days of rain were forecasted. She would use them wisely.

Later that evening, as Lydia and Kitty giggled over the prospect of dancing with Mr. Wickham, Elizabeth tried once more to temper their expectations.

"You know," she said with a touch of dryness, "a lieutenant’s salary is scarcely more than our pin money. Twenty-five pounds a year above it, perhaps, and from that he must feed and lodge himself."

"Dancing isn’t marrying, Lizzy," Lydia declared, tossing her head. "Besides, he dances divinely."

"And he has such handsome boots," Kitty added.

"It matters not," Mrs. Bennet interjected. "Let them enjoy themselves, Lizzy. You must not spoil the evening with such solemn talk."

"Speaking of dancing," said Mr. Collins, rising slightly in his chair and turning toward Elizabeth with what he believed was gracious solemnity, "I have taken the liberty of securing your hand for the first two dances at the Netherfield ball."

Elizabeth sighed inwardly. She had entertained the faintest hope that by offering him no particular encouragement—and indeed, by adopting a manner more curt than her usual civility allowed—she might have spared herself this very outcome.

She had barely addressed him since his arrival, and when she had, it was with the driest and most perfunctory of remarks.

Yet none of her efforts had so much as grazed the surface of his oblivious determination.

As he awaited her reply with a simpering smile, she found herself wondering, for the first time, whether Mr. Collins might not, in some secret twist of fate, be more her mother’s relation than her father’s. It would account for much.

Mr. Bennet, from the other end of the table, smirked behind his teacup.

His eyes met Elizabeth’s briefly, full of that wry amusement he so often found in watching others entangle themselves.

But instead of being buoyed by his mirth, Elizabeth felt a flicker of resentment stir in her chest. It angered her, though she could scarcely say why, that he should take such pleasure in what she now found increasingly insupportable.

Nevertheless, she inclined her head in acceptance. “As you wish, sir.” Her voice was quiet, clipped, yet Mr. Collins heard only consent, and beamed.

Elizabeth rose from the table, her mind already racing ahead—through the upcoming ball, through Wickham and the schemes he might weave, and most of all through the tangled path to Fitzwilliam Darcy, whose regard she had once earned, and whose trust now stood on a trembling edge .

How she longed to clear it all away—the lies, the suspicion, the shadows of things not yet come to pass. But for the moment, there was nothing to be done but endure Mr. Collins, and the slow, deliberate waltz of pretense that society demanded.