Page 40 of Strange Happenings at Longbourn (Darcy and Elizabeth Variations #11)
Chapter Twenty-Five
“Lizzy, may I speak to you?”
Mary stood in the doorway to Elizabeth’s bedchamber, her figure framed by the dim corridor light.
Her hands twisted in the folds of her apron as though she might wring the unease from her fingers.
The seriousness in her expression banished at once any thought Elizabeth had of a casual sisterly chat.
“Of course.”
Elizabeth shifted from her seat on the bed and rose, the book she had been perusing falling closed upon the counterpane.
She beckoned Mary inside with a small, encouraging smile.
The air in the chamber still held the faint warmth of the fire she had built earlier, and the flames now burned with a steady glow in the grate.
Mary shut the door behind her—quietly, as if fearing the conversation might be overheard—and they both settled into chairs before the hearth.
For a moment, the only sounds were the soft ticking of the mantel clock and the occasional pop from the logs. Mary’s gaze dropped to her lap, and Elizabeth could see her marshalling her thoughts like soldiers before a battle.
At last, Mary spoke, her tone both firm and anxious.
“I have decided that Mr. Collins and I do not suit,” she said boldly, though her fingers betrayed her by clenching more tightly.
“Mama will disapprove, especially since I was the only sister willing to entertain him as a prospective marriage partner. But I have found in the brief time since his arrival that I cannot approve of his… less than holy behaviors—his insistence that Mr. Darcy is engaged to Miss de Bourgh, for one. It is entirely against Mr. Darcy’s characteristic manner to court another while engaged elsewhere.
Mr. Collins has written to Lady Catherine many times, though I know Kitty and Lydia have intercepted the missives. ”
Elizabeth smothered a grin. Mary’s sense of propriety clearly bristled at the younger sisters’ interference, yet her words carried no true rebuke—merely disapproval born of principle.
“What will you do?” she asked instead, leaning slightly forward, intent upon her sister’s answer.
“I have already resolved to inform Mr. Collins that this tentative courtship is at an end. I shall tell him he is free to seek his own interests. Mama can have no cause for complaint. You and Jane will marry very well, and so she will have a home when Papa dies.”
Mary drew in a steadying breath, her chin lifting with resolve. “If I am to marry, I would prefer to have a man whose beliefs are more…Christian. Mr. Collins cares too much for Lady Catherine and not enough for his flock.”
Elizabeth’s smile softened into something warmer—more approving.
“That is a keen observation. I have pondered his manner and have decided our cousin has a strange mix of pomposity and sycophancy. He believes himself superior while bowing and scraping to those he feels are his betters. Have you noticed how he will defer to Papa but speaks down to us ladies? No, I do not believe that a marriage to such a man would please you. Our father raised us liberally. We are given more freedoms than most women of our station. It would be difficult to lose any of them. ”
She reached out and laid a hand on Mary’s arm, the firelight catching in the gold threads of her cuff. “Mama will be made to see reason. And I do not believe our father will force you into a marriage you do not want.”
Mary’s eyes, often clouded with her own reflections, were bright with gratitude. “Thank you, Lizzy. I am pleased I came to you for counsel.” She hesitated, her lips pressing together before a sharper, almost mischievous spark entered her gaze. “Now, if only we could solve Longbourn’s mystery.”
Elizabeth let out a quiet sound of agreement, glancing towards the shuttered window as though it might offer answers. “The mischief-maker grows bolder. Did the desecration of Papa’s portrait not feel…personal?”
“Yes, I thought so,” Mary replied, her brow furrowing. “Up until then, most of the… incidents…felt as though they were designed to inconvenience us. The spilled wine, I believe, was an accident. But the portrait? It has an air of distinct malicious intent.”
“We must be on our guard,” Elizabeth replied. The words were steady, but her mind was already turning over possible motives and opportunities. “I hope soon we might investigate the house. The culprit is surely hiding here somewhere. ”
Mary nodded slowly, as if turning over the thought in her mind. “Yes. Do you suppose the old servants’ quarters mentioned in Aunt Phillips’ story still exist? Could the offender be hiding there?”
“I have considered it. Mr. Darcy will join me in a search soon. Right now, we seek to gather more evidence.”
“Perhaps I shall join you.” The determination in Mary’s tone made her seem older, her habitual solemnity transformed into purpose. Rising, she smoothed her skirts with an almost ceremonial gravity. “For now, I go in search of Mr. Collins. I must tell him his… attentions are no longer desired.”
Elizabeth could not help but admire the set of her sister’s shoulders, her back ramrod straight and her step deliberate as she moved towards the door.
The swish of her gown against the rug carried a note of finality, as if this decision—long brewing—had at last found its hour.
She watched Mary go, thinking that whatever else Longbourn’s walls had seen in recent weeks, they were now to witness a moment of quiet, dignified defiance.
Mr. Collins had the sense—or rather, the pride—to keep Mary’s decision from Mrs. Bennet.
Elizabeth suspected it was not consideration for Mary’s feelings that sealed his lips, but rather the unwillingness to appear rejected before the household.
Pride, she reflected, was often a subtler silencer than courtesy.
Still, the evidence of his mortification was plain enough to see.
At tea that afternoon, he positioned himself apart from the main cluster of chairs, taking refuge near the window as if the weak November light might shield him from observation.
His long legs were drawn awkwardly beneath him, knees at stiff angles, and his eyes darted periodically about the room as though searching for a safe conversational harbor.
Lacking one, he contented himself with the steady consumption of biscuit after biscuit, each vanishing into his mouth with almost mechanical precision.
Elizabeth watched over the rim of her teacup, the delicate china hiding the twitch of amusement she could not quite suppress.
The light from the window glanced off his hair, which had been plastered down with what she suspected was an over-generous application of pomade.
It glistened in heavy, precise ridges along his scalp, lending him an oddly amphibious aspect .
Mary, for her part, kept her eyes fixed on Jane, her expression calm and composed, as though nothing in the world could draw her attention away from their quiet discussion of muslin, ribbons, and the particular shade of blue silk Jane was considering for the upcoming Netherfield ball.
Every so often, a faint, resolute line would appear at the corner of Mary’s mouth—an almost imperceptible tightening that Elizabeth recognized as her sister’s way of steadying herself when tempted to moralize or scold.
“Will you accompany us to Lucas Lodge this evening?” Mrs. Bennet inquired, her tone brisk but cordial.
She had been in excellent humor all morning, no doubt owing to the prospect of another evening’s social engagement and the opportunity for her daughters to be seen and admired.
“Sir William has a wonderful soirée planned. It would be an excellent opportunity to practice dance steps, as he usually orders the rugs rolled. And though Mary is often prevailed upon to play, I am certain Elizabeth could be persuaded to take her place.”
Mr. Collins’s eyes flicked towards Mary, his lips pressing together in what Elizabeth privately deemed a parody of dignified reflection.
“I do not believe I shall be inclined to dance this evening,” he intoned, each word delivered with the weight of solemn importance.
“Instead, I shall mingle with Sir William’s guests.
They are to be my future neighbors, and I must come to know them. ”
At least he keeps silent, Elizabeth thought. If Mama discovers Mary has put him off, she will fly into a rage… or a fit of nerves. She took another sip of tea, hiding the upward curve of her mouth behind the cup’s rim.
In the corner of the room, Kitty and Lydia sat side by side with the former’s ballgown spread across their laps in a froth of fabric and ribbon.
Since Lydia’s gown had been deemed essentially new—owing to its recent destruction and complete reconstruction—the sisters had decided to turn their attentions to making over Kitty’s favorite.
Their method was both ruthless and creative.
They had dismantled two older gowns entirely, taking the overskirt from one and affixing it to the other, trimming away a row of passementerie here, adding a cluster of ribbon rosettes there.
The two bent industriously over their work, heads nearly touching, their chatter punctuated by the occasional snip of scissors or the rattle of a needle against a thimble.
Elizabeth, glancing at their progress, could not deny that the end result would be charming.
Kitty’s pale green silk, now adorned with a scalloped overskirt of white figured satin, had an elegance it had never possessed before.
If only the same energy and cooperation could be applied to household duties, she thought wryly, Longbourn would run as smoothly as any great estate.