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Longbourn – Breakfast Room – Elizabeth

T he rain had finally stopped.

A pale gleam of morning sun filtered through the windows of Longbourn’s breakfast room, casting long slats of light across the floorboards.

When Elizabeth had come downstairs, she had found only her father and Jane already seated, the morning paper open and the table unusually quiet.

Mr Collins’s voice had drifted down the hall, unmistakable in its cadence - a recitation from the Book of Common Prayer, no doubt intended for Mrs Bennet’s benefit.

He joined them some ten minutes later, flushed with the solemnity of his performance and eager for refreshment. The air still smelled faintly of damp, but there was something almost hopeful in the way the day had opened.

Mr Collins took his seat with all the dignity of one who had already performed his duty for the morning.

He arranged his napkin and spoon with ceremonial precision, still flushed with the satisfaction of his reading.

If he noticed that the rest of the room had carried on quite well without him, he gave no indication.

This, he clearly believed, was the natural order of things restored.

The post arrived with little fanfare. Hill entered with a silver tray and a modest stack of letters, which she handed first to Mr Bennet.

Mr Collins, however, was not to be left out for long. “Ah!” he said, plucking an envelope from the tray with bright anticipation. “The arms are Lady Catherine’s. I know her seal.”

Mrs Bennet, halfway through a slice of toast, gave a delighted flutter. “How attentive she is to you, Mr Collins. A mark of true distinction!”

He inclined his head solemnly, then broke the seal with great care and unfolded the letter. The handwriting was unmistakable.

“No,” he said gravely. “It is a matter of some delicacy. Her ladyship has received my recent correspondence and… believes she may know the gentleman I mentioned. The Mr Darcy who resides at Netherfield.”

Elizabeth, who had only just entered the room, paused with her cup halfway to her lips.

“Mr Darcy?” she said lightly.

Lydia, who had just entered behind her, spoke before she could say more. “Of course she knows him - Mr Darcy is her nephew. Everyone knows that.”

Mr Collins blinked. “Her nephew?”

Mr Bennet lowered his paper, clearly intrigued.

Elizabeth turned, surprised. “Is he?” She sat down slowly, her expression unreadable.

Lydia rolled her eyes. “Yes. Mr Wickham said so.”

Elizabeth said nothing. The knowledge landed uncomfortably.

Mr Darcy, nephew to Lady Catherine de Bourgh - the woman Mr Collins revered, the patroness who measured status like silver.

The implications pressed inward: his manner, his reserve, his sense of entitlement.

It coloured their every encounter with fresh uncertainty.

She looked down into her tea, her thoughts unusually still. Was it pride that had held his tongue - or caution? And what did it mean, if all of this had been known to Wickham from the start?

Mr Collins stared at her.

“Well,” he said after a beat, “that… explains a good deal.”

He looked down again at the folded letter as though it might bite.

Mrs Bennet, oblivious to the shift in mood, smiled brightly. “I daresay it’s all for the best. Such connections! And you staying under the same roof!”

Mr Collins did not reply. He was calculating something - slowly, and with visible discomfort.

Elizabeth, still holding her cup, looked toward Mr Collins with faint curiosity, but said nothing.

He continued to sit very straight, his hands folded precisely in front of him, the letter now resting beside his plate like a sacred writ.

The air in the room had shifted. Mr Collins, it seemed, had much to consider - and perhaps more than one matter to reflect upon.

After breakfast, as the others dispersed, he approached Elizabeth just as she was about to leave the room.

“Cousin Elizabeth,” he said, with the stiff formality he believed conveyed both respect and importance, “may I trouble you for a moment’s conversation?”

She paused, her hand resting lightly on the door frame. “Of course, Mr Collins.”

He stepped closer, lowering his voice with the solemnity of one delivering sacred news.

“You will understand, I hope, the particular regard I have for your well-being. As your cousin and a clergyman-and one who has enjoyed the exceptional guidance of Lady Catherine de Bourgh-I feel a duty to speak plainly.”

Elizabeth’s brows lifted, but she said nothing.

Mr Collins glanced about the room, though they were quite alone. “It has come to my attention-indirectly, of course-that certain associations may lead to… misunderstandings.”

Elizabeth’s expression remained neutral. “Misunderstandings?”

“Indeed,” he said. “Particularly where there may be admiration without attachment. Or… perceived attachment. It would be remiss of me not to caution you-as a friend and relative-that social harmony depends upon clarity of intention.”

Elizabeth blinked, slowly. “Are you referring to someone in particular?”

Mr Collins coloured slightly. “No, no, of course not. Merely general advice. Though naturally, if a gentleman of fortune and noble relation were to show you attention, one must take care that such gestures are not misinterpreted by… parties of rank.”

Elizabeth tilted her head. “I see.”

He seemed unsure whether he had made his point. “Forgive me, Cousin Elizabeth. I mean only to shield you from potential impropriety. Lady Catherine has always insisted that caution is the better part of discretion.”

“I shall keep it in mind,” Elizabeth said, with a smile that held no warmth.

Mr Collins nodded, visibly relieved. “Excellent. Most prudent.”

* * *

Netherfield – Darcy’s Rooms – Darcy

The morning post had been delayed by the weather. Fletcher set the small stack of letters on Darcy’s desk with his usual quiet efficiency, offering only a murmur about the forwarding mark before retreating.

Darcy recognised the seal at once.

The wax bore the crest of Rosings Park.

He stood for a moment without touching it. There were few people whose handwriting could rouse in him both irritation and affection. Lady Catherine de Bourgh was one of them.

He broke the seal. Darcy skimmed, then slowed. The words grew more pointed.

Rosings Park, Kent

Sunday, 24th November 1811

My Dear Nephew,

I have this day received a letter from Mr Collins, whose attentiveness to his duty I need hardly praise. He informs me that a gentleman by the name of Mr Darcy has been observed in Hertfordshire, residing at a house called Netherfield Park.

I am sure you will understand why I write at once, for it is imperative that no confusion arise between yourself and any person of similar name or situation.

Should it be you (which I consider unlikely), I must caution you most earnestly against allowing your position to be misunderstood.

Mr Collins makes reference to a certain Miss Elizabeth Bennet, and it is my hope that any kindness shown to her has been merely that - kindness, and nothing more.

You will recall my oft-stated views on the necessity of prudence in one’s social associations.

As ever, I write to remind you of your obligations.

It is high time, Fitzwilliam, that your engagement to my daughter Anne should be made public.

I am fully prepared to arrange the notice for the Morning Post and await your confirmation.

You may call at Rosings at your earliest convenience to begin making arrangements for the wedding.

You know how earnestly I have your best interest at heart, and it is out of the sincerest affection that I remind you of the great honour and advantage your birth and position confer. Let no lesser attachments interfere with your duty.

I remain, as ever,

Your affectionate aunt,

Catherine de Bourgh

Darcy folded the letter carefully and set it aside. The message was clear - and utterly predictable. But coming now, in the quiet of a still morning, with Elizabeth’s face still lingering in his thoughts from Sunday - it struck more deeply than it might have.

He moved to the window. The fields beyond were pale and slick with moisture, but the sky was open for the first time in days.

He would not be ordered. Not even by family.

But he also could not ignore what this meant. Collins’s letter had named Elizabeth. And if Lady Catherine had received it - how long until the rest of the world took notice?

He exhaled slowly.

There was still time. The ball lay ahead. Georgiana was in London. If all went well-

He would write to her. Soon.

* * *

Longbourn – Garden Path – Elizabeth

The gravel was still soft underfoot, but the morning air had cleared, and the hedges glistened faintly where the sun touched the rain-wet leaves. Elizabeth walked slowly along the edge of the path, her shawl tucked tight against the chill. Her thoughts remained unsettled.

Lady Catherine de Bourgh. Mr Darcy’s aunt.

The knowledge made her stomach twist. How had he never mentioned it? Was it pride, or something else?

Laughter drifted through the hedge. Elizabeth hesitated and turned toward the sound.

Two young girls - one of the younger Lucas girls, Louisa, the other one of Mrs Long’s nieces, Miss Higgins - were seated on the bench beneath the rowan trees with Kitty. They were deep in animated conversation.

“…and one of the Netherfield maids told the butcher’s boy that she saw him go into her room!”

Elizabeth froze.

The niece’s voice was low, conspiratorial. “They say she was upset, or unwell, and he came to sit with her. In the night.”

Kitty gasped. “Meg told Samuel it was the best room in the house. That means he gave it up for her.”

The other girl giggled. “Do you think they’re secretly engaged?”

Elizabeth backed away before they could see her. Her breath caught in her throat - not from shame, but from something colder. Something harder.

So this was how it spread.