Page 10 of The Meddling Matlocks (Pride & Prejudice Variations)

Chapter Ten

Supper at the Philipses was lively that evening, though Elizabeth had to summon all her composure to endure Mr Collins’s persistent and awkward attentions. His voice carried across the room like an ill-tuned instrument, endlessly extolling the virtues of his esteemed patroness, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, as if he expected the guests to rise and applaud him after every sentence. Elizabeth, seated between her cousin and her aunt, found herself frequently cornered by his opinions on the proper arrangement of furniture or the moral benefits of boiled potatoes.

“Indeed, Cousin Elizabeth,” he droned, holding forth quite tiresomely about the cultivation of parsnips, “it is my firm belief that no young lady could hope to excel in domestic virtue without taking due interest in such matters. Lady Catherine herself…”

“How very enlightening, Mr Collins,” Elizabeth interrupted sweetly, though her tone carried just the faintest edge of mischief. “I shall be sure to devote myself to parsnip cultivation at the earliest opportunity.”

Her aunt concealed a laugh behind her napkin, but Mr Collins seemed wholly unaware of her jest, nodding gravely as though she had pledged herself to a life of agricultural devotion.

It was then that Mr Wickham, seated directly across from her, leaned forward with a smile so engaging it felt like a ray of sunlight piercing through the shadow of her cousin’s verbosity. “Miss Elizabeth,” Wickham said, his voice warm and conspiratorial, “surely you cannot allow yourself to be confined to such earthy topics. A mind as lively as yours must crave more diverting conversation.”

Elizabeth’s laughter came easily, and she turned her attention to him with palpable relief. “Indeed, sir, I often find myself longing for any topic that does not involve tubers.”

“Ah,” Wickham replied, his roguish smile widening, “then we are kindred spirits. Allow me the honour of rescuing you.”

For the remainder of the supper, Mr Wickham seemed determined to keep her entertained, weaving witty remarks into the flow of conversation with effortless charm. He made light observations on everything from the absurdity of fashion to the peculiarities of Hertfordshire society, each comment delivered with just enough self-awareness to make her laugh at his audacity while admiring his wit.

“Are the officers always so gallant, Mr Wickham?” Elizabeth asked, arching an eyebrow. “Or do you reserve your finest compliments for dinners such as these?”

“Only when the company inspires me,” he replied, his gaze meeting hers briefly before he added, “though I confess, it is not every day one dines with such singular intelligence and beauty.”

Elizabeth felt a pleased warmth creep to her cheeks, though she recovered quickly. “You are too kind, sir. But pray, do not let Mr Collins hear you; he may take umbrage at losing my attention.”

“Ah, Mr Collins,” Wickham said with mock gravity, glancing at her hapless cousin, who at that moment was gesturing wildly with his fork as he explained some point about the proper way to fold a napkin. “A formidable rival indeed. Tell me, Miss Bennet, does he often favour you with such ardent attentions?”

“Far too often, I fear,” Elizabeth said, unable to suppress a grin. “But I have learned to bear them with what grace I can muster.”

“Your fortitude is admirable,” Wickham said, his tone teasing.

Elizabeth could not help but laugh again, feeling a growing ease in his company. For all his charm, and it was certainly considerable, there was something about his manner that invited her wit rather than stifling it. In his presence, she felt almost as though she were fencing, each exchange of words a parry and thrust that left her energised rather than fatigued.

By the time the plates were cleared and the party began to shift towards cards and other evening diversions, Elizabeth found herself reflecting with some surprise that what had begun as a tiresome evening had transformed into something quite… pleasant.

As the tea tray was brought forth and Mrs Philips busied herself with ensuring every guest was sufficiently served, Elizabeth found herself once again in the amiable company of Mr Wickham. Their chairs had somehow, though she suspected not entirely by accident, been arranged at just the right angle to allow for a private conversation amidst the general hum of the room. There was an ease in his posture as he leaned slightly toward her, the candlelight catching the warm glint of his eyes.

“Pray, Miss Elizabeth,” he began, his tone light but tinged with curiosity, “have you been long acquainted with Mr Darcy?”

Elizabeth blinked, momentarily startled by the unexpected turn in conversation. “Mr Darcy?” she repeated, her brow lifting. “Not long at all, I confess. He is recently come to our neighbourhood, staying at Netherfield with his friend Mr Bingley.”

“Ah, yes, Mr Bingley.” Wickham smiled faintly, though his gaze grew contemplative. “A most affable gentleman, by all accounts. A fine contrast to Mr Darcy’s more… reserved nature.”

“Reserved is one word for it,” Elizabeth murmured, a touch of mischief colouring her voice. “I might have chosen another, though I fear my observations would not be charitable.”

“Then we are of like minds on that score,” Wickham said, his smile deepening. “Though I admit, I speak with the advantage of a longer acquaintance. Indeed, there was a time when Mr Darcy and I were quite intimate, as boys, of course. I grew up at Pemberley, you see.”

“At Pemberley?” Elizabeth echoed, surprised. She studied him with renewed interest, noting the faint shadow that crossed his face even as he maintained his outward charm. “Then your connection to Mr Darcy is much closer than I could have guessed.”

“Indeed, though to hear him tell it now, you might never suspect.” Wickham’s tone turned rueful as he adjusted the cuff of his coat in what seemed a habitual motion. “My father was steward to the late Mr Darcy, a man of unparalleled generosity and kindness. He treated me almost as a second son, and I confess I looked up to him with great admiration. As for the younger Darcy, well…” He hesitated, a flicker of something unreadable passing through his expression.

“Do go on,” Elizabeth urged, her curiosity thoroughly piqued.

“Let us say that time has changed him,” Wickham said at last, his voice quiet but steady. “As boys, we were playmates, companions, and I held him in high regard. But pride, Miss Elizabeth,” here he paused, meeting her gaze with an earnestness that sent a curious shiver down her spine, “pride has a way of hardening the heart. It seems that as he grew into his fortune and position, he also grew far too aware of them. He does not care to acknowledge those he deems beneath him.”

Elizabeth tilted her head, considering this revelation. “That is a most damning portrait, sir. You must forgive my impertinence, but it leaves me wondering how such a transformation might occur.”

“Ah, Miss Elizabeth, you do me no injury by asking,” Wickham replied with a dry chuckle. “I only wish I could answer you. Perhaps it is simply the way of the world. Fortune changes hands, and with it, men’s hearts. All I know is that the Darcy I knew as a boy is not the man you see before you now.”

“How very disheartening,” Elizabeth said softly.

“Disheartening indeed,” Wickham agreed, his voice lowering slightly. “It grieves me to speak ill of any man, but I feel I must be honest with you, as I sense in you a spirit that values truth above all things.”

“Indeed, I do,” Elizabeth replied, her brow lifting in curiosity. “But what truth do you bring now, sir? Surely it cannot surpass the melancholy tale you have already shared.”

“Alas, it does,” he said with a rueful smile, shaking his head as though burdened by some great sorrow. “The late Mr Darcy, God rest his soul, was more than just my benefactor; he was a second father to me. He saw to my education, treated me as one of his own, and upon his death, he left me a living. A most generous provision to secure my future.”

“How very kind,” Elizabeth remarked, touched by the benevolence of the elder Mr Darcy. Yet Wickham’s expression darkened, and she knew the tale had yet to reach its conclusion.

“Kind indeed,” Wickham agreed gravely. “But kindness is a fleeting thing in this world. When the living became available, the young Mr Darcy saw fit to deny me what was rightfully mine. And thus, I was left to make my own way in the world, penniless and betrayed by the very family I had loved as my own.”

Elizabeth gasped, her teacup momentarily forgotten. “Surely not! How could anyone act with such cruelty, especially against one so closely tied to their family?”

“Ah, Miss Elizabeth,” Wickham said with a bitter smile, “pride is a powerful force, and Mr Darcy has it in abundance. It seems he cannot bear to see anyone rise who might threaten his own exalted position.”

Elizabeth felt her indignation rise on Wickham’s behalf. Whatever her own misgivings about Mr Darcy’s character, she had not imagined him capable of such injustice. “It is truly shameful,” she said heatedly. “To deny a man what was promised to him—what was earned—is conduct unbecoming of any gentleman.”

“Your sympathy does me great honour,” Wickham said softly, his gaze lingering on her with an intensity that made her heart flutter despite herself. “I confess, it eases my burden to find someone who understands the pain of such betrayal. But enough of such sombre topics! I fear I have soured the evening with my tales of woe. Let us speak of lighter things! Your opinions, for instance, which I find far more engaging than my own.”

“Do you, now?” Elizabeth asked, lifting her teacup with a faintly sceptical smile. “You may regret saying so, for my opinions are known to be both plentiful and freely given.”

“Then I am all the more eager to hear them!” Wickham replied, his grin returning in full force. “For I cannot imagine anything more agreeable than being the recipient of your candid thoughts.”

Elizabeth laughed, though her mind lingered on his earlier words. Whatever else might be said of Mr Wickham, he certainly possessed a talent for throwing one’s thoughts into delightful disarray.

Her laughter had only just subsided when Mr Wickham, leaning slightly closer so that his voice was pitched for her ears alone, resumed his narrative. His expression grew pensive, though it did not mar the charm of his features; rather, it lent him an air of tragic dignity that Elizabeth found oddly compelling.

“Miss Elizabeth,” he began, his tone low and confiding,

Before Elizabeth could reply, a loud and unmistakable voice broke into their tête-à-tête.

“Ah, there you are, Cousin Elizabeth!” Mr Collins exclaimed, appearing at her side with all the subtlety of a charging bull. His round face beamed with self-satisfaction, and his hands were clasped together as though he expected applause simply for existing.

“Mr Collins,” Elizabeth said, schooling her features into something approximating politeness, though inwardly she despaired at the interruption. “How may I assist you?”

“Assist me? Oh no, dear cousin, it is I who wish to assist you,” he declared grandly. “I could not help but notice your prolonged conversation with Mr Wickham, and I thought it prudent to remind you of the impropriety of monopolising one gentleman’s attention for too long at such a gathering. I am, of course, always happy to provide my company as an alternative.”

“How very thoughtful of you,” Elizabeth replied dryly, glancing towards Wickham, whose lips twitched in amusement. “However, I daresay Mr Wickham has not yet grown weary of my conversation, nor I of his.”

“Nevertheless,” Collins pressed on, oblivious to her tone, “a lady must be ever mindful of appearances. Lady Catherine herself often remarks…”

“Mr Collins, might I trouble you to assist with the card table?” Mrs Philips called from across the room, waving a handkerchief to gain his attention. “The legs seem most uncooperative, and none but you can wrestle them into submission, I am sure!”

“Ah, duty calls!” Mr Collins announced with a flourish, clearly gratified by the appeal to his supposed expertise. “Forgive me, Cousin Elizabeth, but I must attend to this pressing matter. We shall continue our discussion anon.”

“How fortunate for us both,” Elizabeth murmured under her breath as he bustled away, leaving her once again in Wickham’s company. She turned back to him with an apologetic smile. “Where were we, Mr Wickham?”

“Somewhere far more agreeable, I believe,” Wickham said warmly, his earlier melancholy replaced by an easy charm. “Though I must commend your patience, Miss Bennet. Few would handle such interruptions with such grace.”

“Patience,” Elizabeth said with a laugh, “is a virtue one learns quickly in my household, I assure you.” But even as she jested, her mind lingered on Wickham’s story, and the shadow it cast over her thoughts of Mr Darcy. Could the man who inspired such indignation in her truly be the same Mr Darcy she had shared those amused glances with, only days ago?

Elizabeth settled back into her chair, her attention once again drawn to Mr Wickham. He had leaned in ever so slightly, his expression a perfect blend of earnestness and intrigue. The flickering candlelight did him no disservice; it seemed almost conspiratorial, casting shadows that enhanced his already handsome features. He spoke with the air of someone about to share a scandalous secret, his voice dropping just enough to ensure her undivided attention.

“Miss Bennet,” he began, his tone rich with significance, “you mentioned earlier that Mr Collins is employed under the patronage of Lady Catherine de Bourgh?”

“Indeed,” Elizabeth replied lightly, though her curiosity was piqued by the sudden shift in topic. “He scarcely allows us to forget it, such are his unceasing praises of her ladyship’s condescension.”

“Ah,” Wickham said, his lips curving in what could only be described as a knowing smile. “Then you may find it interesting to know that Lady Catherine is none other than Mr Darcy’s esteemed aunt. A formidable connection, I assure you. And it is widely understood, among those privy to such matters, that Mr Darcy is engaged to Lady Catherine’s daughter, Miss Anne de Bourgh.”

“Engaged?” Elizabeth repeated, startled despite herself. She blinked, then quickly recovered, unable to hide the twitch of a smile that tugged at the corner of her lips. “Good heavens. Poor Miss Bingley will be inconsolable when she hears of this.”

“Miss Bingley?” Wickham echoed, tilting his head in interest.

“She has all but embroidered their initials upon her handkerchiefs. What a disappointment it shall be to learn that her rival is not some country nobody, but a great heiress destined to inherit Rosings itself.”

“Money does tend to marry money,” Wickham remarked, a wry edge to his otherwise genial voice. “Though I confess, I have seldom encountered a union forecasted with less romance.”

“How fortunate, then,” Elizabeth returned, a spark of mischief in her eyes, “that my romantic sensibilities are unlikely to suffer on Miss Bingley’s behalf. I dare say it will do her good to be reminded that not every prize may be won through flattery alone.”

Wickham chuckled, evidently delighted by her candour. “Miss Elizabeth, you are a rare conversationalist indeed. Few would speak so plainly on such matters.”

“Plainly?” she teased. “I thought I was being rather subtle. Shall I attempt greater discretion, or would you prefer I persist in shocking your sensibilities?”

“By all means, persist,” he replied, his gaze lingering on hers for a moment longer than propriety allowed. “I find myself quite captivated by your perspective.”

Captivated was perhaps too strong a word, but Elizabeth allowed herself the indulgence of a small, private smile nonetheless. Whatever else might be said of Mr Wickham, he certainly had a talent for making a lady feel singularly attended to.

The evening unfolded pleasantly thereafter, the two of them trading remarks that danced between playful and pointed. Elizabeth found herself forgetting, if only temporarily, the annoyances of Mr Collins, the mysteries of Mr Darcy, and even the ceaseless matchmaking schemes of her mother. In Wickham’s company, she felt at ease, flattered, amused, and entirely entertained.

As the hour grew late and the party began to thin, Elizabeth noted with some satisfaction that she had spent the better part of the evening free from Mr Collins’ oppressive attentions. Instead, she had been engaged in spirited conversation with a man whose charm was undeniable, even if his revelations invited more questions than answers. For now, however, she was content to let those questions linger, savouring instead the novelty of an evening well spent.

The morning sun streamed through the parlour window, illuminating the delicate embroidery in Jane’s lap and casting a golden sheen over her serene features. Elizabeth, perched cross-legged on the settee opposite, was less inclined towards serenity. Her needlework lay abandoned beside her, and she leaned forward with an eagerness that threatened to topple the teacups precariously balanced on the table between them.

“Jane, you will scarcely believe the tale I heard last evening,” Elizabeth began, her voice low but brimming with a conspiratorial energy. “Mr Wickham has provided me with such a portrait of Mr Darcy as one might hang in an exhibition of villainy.”

“Mr Darcy, a villain!” Jane looked up, startled, though her expression remained more puzzled than alarmed. She set aside her stitching neatly, her gentle hands folding over one another in her lap. “Whatever do you mean?”

“Only this,” Elizabeth said, straightening and fixing her sister with a look of mock gravity. “That our resident paragon of pride and hauteur is not merely disagreeable, but unjust. Unscrupulous even! It seems he has defrauded poor Mr Wickham of a living—a living, Jane, promised by the late Mr Darcy himself. Can you conceive of such perfidy?”

Jane’s brow furrowed slightly, a faint crease of incredulity marring her otherwise placid countenance. “Are you certain there has not been some misunderstanding? You know how easily people may misconstrue actions when pride or disappointment clouds their judgement.”

“Misunderstanding?” Elizabeth echoed, a spark of indignation flaring in her tone. “Mr Wickham spoke with such clarity—such sincerity! He was quite explicit in detailing the wrongs done to him. According to his account, the elder Mr Darcy held him in great affection, even intended for him to take holy orders and be provided with a comfortable living. But when the living fell vacant, the younger Mr Darcy deemed it unnecessary to honour his father’s wishes.”

“That does sound very grievous,” Jane admitted, though her scepticism lingered in the thoughtful tilt of her head. “Yet, dearest, consider this: if Mr Wickham was so wronged, would not the Matlocks have intervened? Surely Lady Matlock, or even Lord Matlock, would have ensured that Mr Wickham was given what he had been promised. They are known for their generosity and their sense of duty.”

Elizabeth opened her mouth to respond, only to find herself momentarily bereft of words. The argument was a compelling one, and worse yet, entirely consistent with what she knew of Lady Matlock’s character. That formidable lady had always seemed to her the very picture of kindness and propriety, even amidst the excesses of her aristocratic station.

“Well,” Elizabeth said at last, leaning back against the cushions and crossing her arms in a gesture of reluctant concession. “Perhaps there has been some mistake, or at least some omission in Mr Wickham’s account. It would hardly be the first time someone told a story to flatter their own position, would it?”

“Indeed not,” Jane replied gently, though her eyes softened with sympathy rather than triumph. “And you must admit, Lizzy, you know very little of Mr Wickham’s character. Charming though he may be, you met him only yesterday.”

“True,” Elizabeth agreed, though the admission came with a wry twist of her lips. “I suppose it would be wise not to place my full trust in a man simply because he has a handsome face and an engaging manner. How terribly inconvenient.”

“Not half so inconvenient as the alternative,” Jane said with a small laugh, her cheeks dimpling prettily. “Imagine if every charming gentleman were instantly believed in all things. Why, society would be in utter chaos!”

“Chaos indeed,” Elizabeth said, though her grin faded into a pensive expression as she reached for her cup of tea. The warmth of the cup seeped into her fingers, grounding her thoughts as she reflected on the previous evening. Could Mr Wickham truly have misrepresented himself? The possibility was disquieting, but not beyond belief. And yet... no, she would not think ill of him without cause. Not yet. Still, Jane’s counsel had planted a seed of doubt, one that Elizabeth, despite herself, could not entirely uproot.

The faint rattle of wheels against the gravel drive reached Elizabeth’s ears as she poured the last of the tea into Jane’s cup. She glanced towards the window, where the figure of a carriage appeared, its dark silhouette pulling up before the house in a rather grand fashion.

“Who can this be?” she said lightly, though curiosity brightened her expression. Rising from her seat, she crossed to the front parlour window and peeked through the lace curtains. A flash of golden hair and an unmistakable cheerful countenance caused her lips to curl knowingly. “Ah, Mr Bingley. And his sisters, no less.”

Jane set her cup down carefully, but not quickly enough to conceal the slight tremor in her hand. “Mr Bingley? Here?”

“Indeed,” Elizabeth replied with an arch smile. “Come to pay his respects, I am sure, and perhaps to gaze at you in silent reverence, dear sister. Though I daresay Miss Bingley might have other motives for her visit.”

“Do not tease me, Lizzy,” Jane murmured, rising gracefully and smoothing her skirts, though the slight flush that coloured her cheeks betrayed her pleasure.

“Tease you? Perish the thought! Shall we go and greet them, or shall we wait until Mr Bingley bursts in uninvited, unable to bear another moment apart from you?”

“Elizabeth!” Jane gave her a reproachful look, though her eyes sparkled with amusement.

Before Elizabeth could craft another quip, the sound of the knocker echoed through the house. Moments later, the familiar and jovial voice of Mr Bingley carried through the hall, accompanied by the more clipped and precise tones of his sisters.

“Miss Bennet,” Mr Bingley exclaimed warmly as he entered, bowing low to Jane with undisguised admiration. His whole demeanour seemed brighter merely upon seeing her. “I hope we are not intruding too terribly this morning. My sisters and I wished to personally deliver an invitation to the ball next Tuesday.”

“How very kind of you,” Jane replied softly, her serene expression glowing with genuine delight. “We are most obliged to you for thinking of us.”

“Think of you? How could we not?” Mr Bingley said with such earnest enthusiasm that Elizabeth had to press her lips together to keep from laughing outright. His devotion was endearing, if not a touch transparent.

“Indeed,” added Caroline Bingley, stepping forward with a languid grace that somehow managed to be both elegant and condescending. Her sharp eyes swept over the room, lingering on the worn upholstery and slightly faded wallpaper with barely concealed disdain. “So this is Longbourn. How quaint it is! So rustic.”

“Rustic indeed,” Louisa Hurst echoed with a faintly pinched smile, her pert nose twitching as though the very air offended her sensibilities.

“How fortunate we are that you ventured all this way,” Elizabeth interjected smoothly, her tone sweet but her words edged with irony. Three miles in Mr Bingley’s carriage would not have taken even a half-hour. “Pray, do sit down. The journey must have been quite taxing.”

“Not at all,” Caroline said, waving a dismissive hand as she perched delicately on the edge of a chair, clearly unwilling to settle too comfortably. Her feathered bonnet bobbed slightly as she turned back to Jane. “We simply could not wait to ensure your attendance at the ball. It promises to be the event of the season, does it not, Charles?”

“Yes, yes, absolutely,” Mr Bingley agreed, though his gaze had drifted back to Jane with such fondness that one might think he had entirely forgotten anyone else in the room. “Miss Bennet, may I request that you will reserve me the first set, and the supper set?”

“You honour me, Mr Bingley,” Jane replied demurely, lowering her eyes but unable to suppress the small smile that curved her lips. “I should be delighted.”

“Well,” Caroline cut in, her voice taut with forced cheerfulness, “we mustn’t overstay our welcome. Come, Charles, Louisa, we should leave these lovely ladies to their morning.”

“Must we?” Mr Bingley asked helplessly, though he allowed himself to be shepherded towards the door. As he bowed once more, his eyes lingered on Jane, and Elizabeth could not resist tilting her head to catch his expression—a mixture of admiration and wistful reluctance that was almost comical in its sincerity.

“How delightful they are,” Elizabeth remarked dryly once the door had closed behind the visitors. “Particularly Miss Bingley, who seems determined to charm us all with her effusive warmth.”

“Now, Lizzy,” Jane chided gently, though her soft laugh suggested she was not entirely blind to Caroline’s affectations.

“Very well, I shall not speak ill of her again today,” Elizabeth promised with mock solemnity. “But only because I find her antics far too amusing to condemn. Well, let us find Mama and share the news of our invitation… and then we shall have to bear the renewed plaints of Lydia and Kitty, I fear.”

Even Jane grimaced at that prospect, but she set aside her needlework and rose.

Lydia and Kitty’s tragic response to the news was as nothing compared to what Elizabeth had to bear from Mr Collins, however, who immediately began to pontificate about how as a clergyman, he did not think a ball among esteemed company to have any evil tendency, and therefore he should have no scruples about attending and indeed, dancing the first two dances with his fair cousin Elizabeth.

Elizabeth blinked, momentarily stunned by his audacity, but she could think of no way to refuse, even though she had begun to think hopefully of perhaps dancing with the handsome Mr Wickham.

“Lady Catherine herself would approve most heartily, I assure you,” Mr Collins said with a pompous little chuckle. “I trust you will wear something suitably elegant for the occasion. Perhaps in green! It would complement your complexion most admirably.”

“How thoughtful of you to advise me,” Elizabeth said, trying not to fume but immediately determining never again to wear green in her cousin’s presence. “I shall endeavour to meet your expectations, though I fear nothing I wear will match the splendour of your company.”

“Ah, you are too kind, Cousin Elizabeth,” Mr Collins replied, puffing up like a proud peacock. Elizabeth exchanged a glance with Jane, whose lips twitched in suppressed laughter. If nothing else, the ball promised to provide ample amusement.

Elizabeth turned to see Mary sitting stiffly at the edge of the parlour, her hands folded tightly in her lap and her lips pressed into a thin, resolute line. Her gaze was fixed on the fading embers of the fire, but even from across the room, Elizabeth could discern the glimmer of disappointment in her sister’s eyes. Mary’s usual stoicism seemed to falter under the weight of Mr Collins’ pointed disregard.

“Poor Mary,” Elizabeth murmured to herself, her heart twisting with sympathy. It was not often that Mary expressed any desire for attention, but the momentary flicker of hope on her face when Mr Collins had first entered the room—only to be extinguished by his immediate focus on Elizabeth—had not escaped her notice.

Determined to act, Elizabeth crossed the room to her mother. Mrs Bennet was perched near the window, fanning herself furiously with one hand while clutching a lace handkerchief in the other, no doubt still recovering from the excitement of Mr Bingley’s visit.

“Dearest Mama,” Elizabeth began, lowering her voice to ensure their conversation would not carry to unwelcome ears. She cast a quick glance towards Mr Collins, who was currently admiring the embroidery on one of the cushions with all the rapture of a man examining a priceless artefact. “Might I trouble you for a word?”

“Whatever is it now, Lizzy?” Mrs Bennet sighed dramatically, though she lowered her fan and leaned closer, curiosity sparking in her eyes. “If this is about Mr Collins securing your first two dances, you mustn’t complain. A fine match like him does not come along every day, and I shall not have you imperilling your prospects with one of your impertinent remarks.”

“On the contrary, Mama, I assure you I am entirely resigned to my fate,” Elizabeth replied, her tone so sweetly earnest that Mrs Bennet narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “But I could not help noticing how... disappointed Mary appeared just now. Did you speak to him, after our last conversation, to advise him where his attentions might be better received?”

For all her faults, Mrs Bennet was not entirely blind to Mary’s plight, or indeed to the advantage of settling any of her daughters, provided the opportunity arose.

“I did not, considering that he seemed to have some interest in her,” she said at last, her voice tinged with reluctance. “I suppose it would not do any harm to give him a little push and see whether he might take a liking to Mary after all. But mind you, Lizzy, if this does not work, you shall not escape him so easily!”

“Of course, Mama,” Elizabeth replied, her lips curving into a small, victorious smile. “I leave the matter entirely in your capable hands.”

Mrs Bennet preened at the compliment, her earlier doubts seemingly forgotten. As she rose from her seat and made her way towards Mr Collins with a purposeful air, Elizabeth allowed herself a moment of quiet satisfaction. Whatever followed, she had at least done her part to spare Mary further heartache—and, perhaps selfishly, to lessen her own torment at the upcoming ball.