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Longbourn – Mr Bennet’s Study – Elizabeth

E lizabeth found her father in his library, precisely where she had expected him to be-half-concealed behind a newspaper, with a cup of tea cooling on the desk beside him and an air of practised detachment from the rest of the household.

“Good morning, Papa.”

Mr Bennet looked up and offered her a dry smile. “Ah, Lizzy. Come to check that I have survived another morning amongst women and clergymen?”

She perched on the edge of his writing chair. “Merely to reassure myself that you had not barricaded the door. Or sent Hill for a horse and cart.”

“I have considered both,” he said gravely. “But Hill has turned traitor, and I am told the cat now rules the drawing room.”

Elizabeth laughed. “Pudding is enjoying her moment. ”

“She has earned it,” he said. “The only soul brave enough to put your cousin to flight.”

“I shall give her your commendations.”

He peered at her more closely then, the humour softening from his eyes. “You look better this morning. A little colour in your cheeks again.”

“I feel better,” she said truthfully. “Stiff and slow, but upright. And capable of walking further than the parlour without alarming half the household.”

“Excellent. Your mother will want you posed near the windows for every visitor who might call today.”

Elizabeth groaned. “I am tempted to limp dramatically, just to discourage matchmaking.”

“I suspect that would only increase your appeal,” said Mr Bennet. “There are some who find a fainting female irresistible. Or so your cousin would suggest.”

She rolled her eyes. “He is still afraid of the cat.”

“Wise man.”

They shared a comfortable silence. The fire crackled gently in the hearth. Outside the window, the light was pale and wintry, but the day looked fair.

“I think I shall go out for a little while,” Elizabeth said. “Just to the edge of the orchard, perhaps. I have missed the feel of fresh air.”

“Take your stick. And your shawl.”

“And Pudding?”

“I leave that to your discretion,” he said. “But be warned-if she sees a bird, you may be pulled head first into the shrubbery. Do not stay out long, it looks like it will rain soon.”

Elizabeth stood, balancing her weight carefully before reaching for the carved walking stick resting by the door.

“You will tell me,” her father said as she turned to go, “when you have sorted through whatever weighing on your mind.”

She paused. “Have I been that obvious?”

“Not at all,” he said. “But you are my Lizzy, and I know when something’s turning in that clever head of yours.”

She offered him a crooked smile. “Perhaps tomorrow.”

“I shall expect a full report.”

* * *

Longbourn - Morning Room - Mr Collins

The sky was low and grey over Longbourn, the clouds layered thick and still, as though the rain were only waiting for the proper dramatic moment.

Indoors, the parlour was unusually quiet.

Mr Collins had settled himself at the small escritoire near the window, where he had arranged his travelling inkstand, a clean sheet of paper, and a freshly trimmed quill with ceremonial precision.

He had already taken a turn about the garden that morning and, finding the air damp and unsatisfactory, declared it unsuitable for prolonged contemplation. Now he applied himself to a more worthy task: a report to the Right Honourable Lady Catherine de Bourgh .

As he wrote, he occasionally read his lines aloud in a low, reverent tone, nodding faintly with approval at the turn of a phrase.

Longbourn, Hertfordshire

Friday, November 22nd, 1811

To the Right Honourable Lady Catherine de Bourgh,

Most noble Lady,

I take up my pen with a spirit of gratitude and respect, hoping that your ladyship continues in health and strength, and that Rosings Park flourishes under your noble guardianship.

My time in Hertfordshire proceeds most favourably, and I consider it my duty-as well as my privilege-to keep your ladyship apprised of those observations and events which may be of interest to a mind so elevated and discerning.

He paused, dabbed the ink, and continued.

The Bennet family, with whom I am honoured to reside, are of pleasant manners and unpretentious disposition.

Their domestic arrangements, though lacking the grandeur and regulation of Rosings, are orderly and comfortable.

I have made particular note of Miss Elizabeth Bennet, who displays an active mind, a lively turn of conversation, and a modesty of address which I cannot help but find most engaging.

Outside, the garden was still. A faint breeze stirred the branches, and the trees stood braced beneath the heavy sky.

Mr Collins dipped his pen again.

There is also a Mr Darcy in the neighbourhood, a gentleman of respectable bearing, currently residing at Netherfield Park with Mr Bingley.

Though his manner is reserved, I understand he has lately rendered a service of some importance to my cousin, Miss Elizabeth Bennet, having been instrumental in rescuing her from a distressing accident during a recent storm.

Such an act is, of course, commendable-though I confess I view it as my duty to remain attentive to the appearances and associations of the young ladies under my observation, lest the kindness of a gentleman be misinterpreted by those less scrupulous.

He paused again and smiled. What delicacy. What discretion.

The anticipated ball at Netherfield, now scheduled for December, is a source of great excitement here, and I look forward to attending in a spirit of temperance and good decorum.

I have already requested the first two dances from Miss Elizabeth-a preference I trust her family will not misinterpret.

Should it meet with your ladyship’s approval, I would be most grateful for leave to remain in Hertfordshire a little longer than originally proposed, in order to represent the clergy at so public an occasion, and to continue offering guidance to my young cousins.

I am, of course, ever vigilant in preserving the dignity of the cloth, and shall carry myself in all things as befits a humble servant of your ladyship’s exemplary standard.

I remain, with the greatest humility and duty,

Your Ladyship’s most obedient and faithful servant,

William Collins

He carefully folded the page, blotted the signature with a steady hand, and held the letter up to the window light, admiring its symmetry.

Beyond the glass, in the dim garden below, a flash of movement caught his eye-a bonnet, a shawl, a pair of determined steps. Miss Elizabeth, walking the paths with her usual restless energy.

Mr Collins observed her for a moment, then gave a satisfied nod to himself. It was well, he thought, to have secured the first dances before any rival could.

He did not imagine she had gone outside to escape him.

* * *

Longbourn – Longbourn’s Gardens – Elizabeth

Elizabeth stepped out into the chill morning air, the stick tapping lightly beside her with each careful stride. The garden was still damp with last night’s frost, the grass silvered, the hedges rimmed in cold light.

The world was quieter than it had been all week. And for the moment, at least, her thoughts were her own.

The garden had not changed, but something in her had.

Elizabeth stepped carefully onto the gravel path, her shawl drawn snug about her shoulders and her walking stick tapping lightly at her side.

The morning was clear and cold, the kind of brightness that felt more like absence than warmth.

Sunlight poured over the frost-laced hedges, and the grass glimmered under a veil of silver.

The world was quiet. Blissfully so. For once, the household was not in pursuit of her tea preferences, her shawl, her footrest, or her latest updates on convalescence.

Even Mr Collins had vanished for the moment, thank heaven, perhaps deep in contemplation of his breakfast or composing another tribute to Lady Catherine’s dining habits.

She breathed in deeply. Earth, cold stone, the faded sweetness of the last roses.

It had been too long since she’d had the garden to herself.

The walk was slow, cautious. Her ankle ached dully with each step, but the freedom of movement was worth it. She passed the lilac bush-bare now except for a few curled leaves-and turned toward the orchard gate. The trees stood like skeletons, stark against the pale sky.

She stopped beside one of the benches and sat carefully. Pudding, who had followed her partway from the house in mild indignation at being excluded, flopped into the grass with a grumble and began rolling in the dew.

Elizabeth smiled faintly. “That is not ladylike behaviour, madam.”

The cat paid her no mind, twitching her tail with great satisfaction.

A breeze stirred the branches. Somewhere in the distance, a magpie scolded. The rest was stillness.

Elizabeth pulled her shawl more tightly around her and let her thoughts drift- too easily toward the visit the day before. Darcy, sitting beside her. Mr Collins, absurd as ever. Her own strained composure.

And that look.

The one Darcy had given her just before he left. Quiet. Unspoken. Something like… regret? Or promise?

She did not know. And it unnerved her more than she cared to admit.

He had said nothing. And yet, in his silence, he had seen her discomfort. She was sure of it. It had been the first time she had felt, rather than guessed, that Mr Darcy truly noticed her as herself , and not merely as a Bennet daughter with muddy hems.

It was easier to dismiss him when he had been cold. Easier to believe Wickham’s account when Darcy had been proud and silent and distant.

But something had shifted. In him-or in her.

The breeze stirred again, and she tilted her face to the sky.

“I should stop thinking about him,” she murmured aloud.

Pudding sneezed, unhelpfully.