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The Bennets were engaged to dine with the Lucases; and though the occasion itself was unremarkable in design, it soon proved of considerable consequence.

Charlotte Lucas, with a patience that only Elizabeth and Mary could now understand in full, was once again the object of Mr. Collins’s earnest conversation.

Elizabeth, having witnessed this play before, found herself watching the performance with far more amusement than alarm.

She and Mary exchanged glances of mutual understanding, the latter having been, in recent days, privy to Elizabeth’s most singular confidences and insights.

Charlotte’s measured civility, her well-timed attentiveness, and her practiced nods bore all the marks of deliberate calculation—yet not without a purpose that Elizabeth had grown to appreciate.

It was, indeed, an act of service to all concerned, and Elizabeth felt it only just to thank Charlotte for her efforts.

She did so with sincere expression, though in her heart she knew her friend’s motives were not solely charitable.

But rather than begrudge her, Elizabeth silently applauded her prudence.

Charlotte, for all her practicality, was preparing to sacrifice much for security, and if her way of securing a future involved bearing Mr. Collins’s tedious conversation, Elizabeth would not interfere.

The business soon concluded itself. Mr. Collins, taking advantage of Charlotte’s gentle encouragement and a quiet moment in the Lucases’ parlour, made his offer; and Charlotte, with all composure and steadiness, accepted it.

The Lucases, upon receiving the news, were elated.

Lady Lucas was particularly pleased, foreseeing her daughter comfortably established at Hunsford Parsonage, and perhaps even rising further through the continued favour of Lady Catherine de Bourgh.

Mr. Collins, filled with self-importance, soon made his leave of absence from Longbourn and approached Mrs. Bennet to request the honour of another invitation.

His expression bore all the pomp of a man pleased with his own decision, and quite certain of his welcome.

Mrs. Bennet, though somewhat disappointed that her second daughter had rejected such a match, was already turning her thoughts towards Mary.

With equal speed and lack of delicacy, she gave her assent, hopeful that Mr. Collins might be persuaded to shift his attentions once more.

Mary, for her part, was not altogether unaware of her mother’s designs.

The past days had confirmed to her that such a match, however tempting in its security, was ill-suited to her own temperament.

She had observed Mr. Collins with a careful and analytical eye and found that her earlier misgivings were justified.

His manner, though officious, lacked the sort of humility she had once hoped to see in a clergyman.

Moreover, the very idea of a life spent offering delicate compliments to Lady Catherine de Bourgh was enough to dissuade her.

Still, Mary did not voice these thoughts aloud.

Instead, she took quiet comfort in Charlotte’s decision and was resolved to keep herself from the path her mother seemed so eager to place her upon.

Elizabeth, seeing her sister’s resolution and quiet wisdom, felt an unexpected pride.

In this altered course of events, it seemed Mary, too, would find her own way.

Charlotte came the next morning, looking altogether pleased with herself and not without a sense of anticipation in her manner, though tempered by the formality of the visit.

Elizabeth, who had been seated with a piece of needlework she was barely attending to, looked up at the sound of the door and, rising to greet her old friend, found her heart void of the pang she had once felt at this very meeting.

"Lizzy," Charlotte began at once, her voice steady but her eyes searching, "I have come to tell you something before anyone else does—indeed, before the news escapes through any other channel. Yesterday, Mr. Collins made me an offer of marriage, and I have accepted."

Elizabeth, without hesitation or visible surprise, clasped her hand warmly and replied, "Charlotte, I believe I must offer you my congratulations."

This was not what Charlotte had expected. Her brow lifted slightly, and her lips parted in brief confusion.

"Why, Lizzy," she said, with the faintest note of hesitance, "I confess I imagined another reception entirely."

Elizabeth smiled, the expression touched with a hint of wry amusement. "Indeed, I am sure you did, and you had every reason to. I can only tell you that I am very glad you have found what you sought."

Charlotte examined her for a moment, as if trying to detect some note of sarcasm or concealed injury, but Elizabeth’s features were composed, her eyes clear. She was not pretending; she meant it.

"You surprise me," Charlotte said at last, though she sat down with an easier manner. "After all, it was only a few days ago that he—well—"

"Proposed to me? Yes," Elizabeth said lightly, waving her hand. "But that event is already behind us, and I assure you, I feel no resentment for it. "

"You are generous," Charlotte said, though a flicker of doubt crossed her expression. "Most women would not be so forgiving."

Elizabeth tilted her head. "I think, Charlotte, that you know me well enough to understand that I have long ceased to be shocked by the follies of others. I knew, even before he opened his mouth to you, what he intended."

Charlotte blinked. "Did you?"

"Certainly. You are a practical woman, Charlotte. And Mr. Collins is... well, he is nothing if not persistent."

There was a silence between them then, but not of discomfort. Charlotte, still perplexed, gazed down at her gloves, turning them over in her lap.

"I thought, perhaps, you might think me mercenary."

Elizabeth paused. "I think you are realistic. Marriage, to you, has never been about love. You seek comfort, security, and society’s approval. And in Mr. Collins, you shall have all three."

Charlotte’s eyes lifted at that, and there was a trace of sadness in them, but she smiled all the same. "Then I am glad we understand one another."

"We always have," Elizabeth said softly.

Charlotte soon made her farewells and departed, and Elizabeth watched from the parlour window as her friend walked briskly down the path.

She felt no bitterness, only a faint ache—not for Charlotte’s choice, which she had long ago accepted, but for the things she herself could not yet grasp.

When Charlotte married Mr. Collins, she would go to Hunsford.

And in the spring, Elizabeth would go too.

That thought brought with it a wave of longing so acute that Elizabeth sat down heavily upon the window seat, one hand pressed to her chest.

Fitzwilliam. She had not heard from him, but neither had she expected to. He had promised not to interfere in Mr. Bingley’s affairs, and for that she was grateful, yet it meant he had gone. As before. But this time, she knew more. This time, she knew his heart had already begun to yield.

Had she damaged that fragile growth? Had her near-confession, so tender and impulsive, frightened him? Confused him?

He had looked at her like one searching for clarity and finding only more mystery. And no wonder. For how could he reconcile her knowledge with her circumstance? She had played the music of his childhood, named his sister’s preferences, offered comfort with words that could not be explained .

She pressed her fingertips to her lips and closed her eyes.

She could almost feel his presence again—the weight of his gaze, the warmth of his nearness.

She knew he dreamed of her. She could see it in his face, in the way he watched her when he thought she did not notice.

He would not give in to such feelings easily.

Pride and honour would not allow it. But he felt them nonetheless.

And then there was Colonel Fitzwilliam.

He would come in the spring. And he was, she now recalled with both fondness and anxiety, in military intelligence.

If anyone might sense the truth—or worse, discover it—it would be him.

He was clever, observant, and charmingly candid.

In her former life, he had been a trusted cousin and friend, and second only to Georgiana in her affections among Mr. Darcy’s relations.

But now, she must be cautious. She must tread carefully when he arrived.

Still, she smiled. His presence would be a comfort, she thought, and perhaps a distraction for Mr. Collins, who so loved to fawn over titled connections.

She looked around the room, quiet now, save for the ticking of the clock.

The familiar scene brought her little peace, but much reflection.

Her mother was still speaking of wedding clothes and settlements.

Her father was still smirking from behind his paper.

The world had not changed, though she had.

The future was uncertain. But she had her wits, her memories, and, God willing, the love of a man who had once declared her the only woman in the world he could ever truly admire.