Page 23

The morning after the Netherfield ball dawned with little serenity at Longbourn, for Mrs. Bennet had arisen early, her mind full of delightful schemes and marital triumphs.

She was engaged in earnest discourse with Mr. Collins over tea—discourse which, by its cadence and turn of phrase, Elizabeth recognised at once as the unfortunate prelude to a proposal.

Mr. Collins, it seemed, had not fully made up his mind.

Something about his cousin Elizabeth unsettled him—there was a peculiar way she had of looking at people, as though seeing more than she ought.

And yet, she was undeniably handsome, and he was the heir to Longbourn and a clergyman besides.

Miss Lucas was accommodating, yes, but cousin Elizabeth was a beauty, and beauty, he believed, must yield to sense when properly addressed.

By the end of his discourse, he had talked himself into resolve.

Elizabeth, not wishing to endure his decision at secondhand, slipped away and went in search of Mary.

She found her in the parlour, at the pianoforte, diligently working through a sonata with mild determination while Kitty, seated nearby, was unpicking the trim on a bonnet with more zeal than delicacy.

Elizabeth’s approach was quiet, but Mary stopped playing at once, her eyes narrowing with understanding.

"Is it time?" she asked solemnly.

Elizabeth gave a slight nod. “Mama has spoken to Mr. Collins.”

Mary sighed. “Then we are powerless. I had hoped we might forestall it. I even considered quoting Fordyce upon the virtue of solitude for young ladies.”

“You did?” Elizabeth gave a faint smile.

“I did. But our mother is immune to all sermons that do not bolster her aims.”

At that moment, Mrs. Bennet entered the room, Mr. Collins hovering behind her with all the self-importance of a man sent upon a holy errand. Her eyes swept the room and settled on Elizabeth with the triumphant air of one ushering destiny into motion .

“Kitty, Mary, dears,” she said, in tones of false sweetness, “your cousin Mr. Collins wishes to speak with your sister Elizabeth. I think it best if you find some little employment elsewhere. Mary, perhaps you might improve yourself with a chapter of Fordyce, and Kitty—go on with your bonnet.”

“I have not yet finished my practice,” Mary began, standing her ground.

“You may improve your character in another room,” Mrs. Bennet snapped.

Mary cast Elizabeth a look of helpless sympathy. “May the Lord be with you,” she murmured as she swept out, Kitty trailing behind, none the wiser.

And then, the door shut.

Elizabeth turned to face the man who, despite every effort she had made to dissuade him by glances, silences, or outright impoliteness, stood beaming with self-satisfaction.

What followed has been recorded elsewhere with exacting fidelity, and our readers—possessing both discernment and memory—need not suffer again every word of Mr. Collins’s laborious address.

Suffice it to say, the compliments were as fulsome, the reasoning as convoluted, and the self-regard as unshaken as ever.

The delay between her first protest and his persistence stretched longer than necessary, as he mistook it—as ever—for maidenly modesty.

“I assure you, sir, I am perfectly serious in my refusal,” Elizabeth said with more sharpness than before.

He smiled. “It is natural to be coy—indeed, my noble patroness, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, has often remarked—”

“I do not seek Lady Catherine’s approval. Nor do I require yours.”

“But surely your mother will not be pleased—”

“Indeed, I know she will not. Yet I cannot marry to please my mother.”

And still, he stood. And still, he protested. For it was not in Mr. Collins’s nature to relinquish an idea once seized, especially not one adorned by inheritance and the promise of consequence.

At last, Elizabeth, weary of the rehearsal of past folly, stood. “Sir, if I must be plain: I do not esteem you, I do not wish to marry you, and nothing you say will alter that. You must allow me to decline you firmly, finally, and without regret.”

He blinked. “But—”

“Good day, Mr. Collins. ”

And she curtseyed, with perfect composure.

As she opened the door, she found Mary standing just beyond it, as if waiting for a cue. Their eyes met. No words were exchanged.

But Mary did incline her head slightly, and Elizabeth, despite herself, almost laughed.

Some things, it seemed, could not be prevented. But at least they might be endured—with wit, with strength, and with the aid of sisters who saw more than they said.

Mrs. Bennet, upon hearing of her daughter’s refusal, grew red in the face and immediately launched into a tirade of outrage and despair. Declaring Elizabeth's folly to be the ruin of the family, she stormed off in search of her husband, convinced he would bring their obstinate child to reason.

Elizabeth, who had not stirred from her place by the window, merely sighed.

She had lived this moment once before, yet it stung more keenly now.

Perhaps it was the knowledge that this time, she had returned with purpose, with intention, and still her father’s indifference wounded her more than it ought.

Mrs. Bennet’s voice could be heard ascending in volume as she burst into Mr. Bennet’s library. “You must make Lizzy marry Mr. Collins!” she cried. “You must! Tell her she shall never see a penny of your estate if she refuses him!”

Mr. Bennet raised his eyes from his book with a mild expression. “Your mother insists upon your accepting Mr. Collins, Lizzy,” he said, as Elizabeth stepped quietly into the room, having followed the sound of her name.

Elizabeth met her father’s gaze steadily, though her heart beat painfully. “I cannot, Papa. I could not make him—or myself—happy.”

Mr. Bennet looked at her a moment longer, and then set his book aside.

“Very well. An unhappy marriage is the most foolish of gambles, and I cannot see the advantage of exchanging one absurdity for another. Your mother will not thank me, but I cannot force you to wed a man you do not respect.”

Mrs. Bennet gasped. “Mr. Bennet! Do you mean to say you will let her throw away this opportunity?”

“I do,” he said, with a dry smile. “And if you force me to choose between a foolish daughter and a foolish wife, I must declare my loyalty to Lizzy. She has, at least, the better wit.”

Mrs. Bennet left in a flurry of handkerchiefs and indignation, declaring she would never speak to Elizabeth again—a promise she failed to keep by supper .

Elizabeth remained in the doorway a moment longer. “Thank you, Papa,” she said softly.

He waved her off with a flick of his hand. “Go, child. I prefer my solitude to Collins’s prose. You’ve done me a favour, whether you meant to or not.”

Later that morning, Elizabeth withdrew into the smaller parlour where Mary was seated in quiet reflection with a volume open upon her lap. At Elizabeth’s entrance, she looked up, her eyes filled with a gravity beyond her years.

"It is done," Elizabeth said simply, taking a seat beside her. "Mr. Collins has been refused, and Papa has stood firm."

Mary gave a thoughtful nod. "Mama will not forgive it quickly."

"No," Elizabeth agreed, with a wry smile. "But I find I care less than I ought. There are more pressing matters."

She lowered her voice, leaning slightly nearer. "Do you think the Netherfield party will soon depart?"

Mary’s eyes narrowed in contemplation. "It seems likely. Mr. Darcy, especially, appears ill at ease here."

Elizabeth sighed. "He needs time to think. He will wish to remove himself from observation. He gave me his word he would not interfere with Mr. Bingley, but I know not whether his sisters will observe such honour. And Mr. Bingley... he is too easily led. Even without Mr. Darcy’s force he may be too modest to contend with the united forces of Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst."

Mary frowned slightly. "Then Jane’s happiness still hangs in balance."

Elizabeth nodded slowly. "As does the peace of this town. Wickham’s influence spreads too easily among those who are least prepared for it. We must find a way to counteract it—but without exposing Georgiana Darcy, or ourselves."

Mary shut her book with quiet decision. "You mean to use the gossip mill."

"I do," Elizabeth said. "Let the shopkeepers hear of his extravagance.

Let the merchants grow cautious. Word spreads quickly when coin is in question.

If it is known that Mr. Wickham has no fortune and a prodigious appetite for spending, he shall be less attractive in the eyes of sensible men—and perhaps even a few thoughtless women. "

Mary tilted her head. "And the less sensible women? "

Elizabeth smiled faintly. " That, I fear, shall prove the greater challenge. We cannot speak of what he did—or meant to do. But perhaps if Lydia were to believe his means are lacking, she might turn her affections elsewhere."

Mary was unconvinced. "She may see it as a challenge rather than a deterrent."

Elizabeth sighed. "Yes. That is what troubles me. But we must attempt something. We cannot allow what happened before to happen again."

Mary placed a hand gently on her sister’s. "We shall do what we can."

Elizabeth squeezed it in return. "That is all I ask."