It was some days before the return post might reach Longbourne due to the improvidence of a mire of mud, but for some reason the inclement conditions were no deterrent to the encroachment of Mr. Collins.
Mary wondered at his venturing in the rain, for in all other concerns the gentleman was a model of pedantic cleanliness and fastidiousness. She confided as much to Kitty, but the girl shrugged off the observation. Without the opportunity to enter the wider world and explore the domestic unhappiness thereout, the younger girls struggled to occupy themselves. Lydia's bright countenance had quickly grown sour, while Kitty became increasingly indifferent. While Lydia flitted from bonnet to spinet with restless haste, her sister slowly faded into a colourless shade.
Mr. Collins did, at first, provide some respite from the tedium of watching one's hair turn wildly against fashion in the static air. For the first few days, all five girls negotiated their way into corners and doorways, venturing into the servant's stairways and risking a scolding from Mrs. Hill if they were thence discovered. All this, and several squabbles, for a glimpse at the man who had broken into their feminine domain! And how ridiculous he was, and how Lydia choked on her mirth, until the third dawn dawned and they discovered his matrimonial intentions. Then their levity quickly fell; the foolish mannerisms and affected act of the gentleman became a chain which might bind them, and how loudly did those irons seems to call!
Only Jane might consider herself safe, but even her serene countenance was not soothed until overhearing her mother declare her eldest soon to be engaged.
"It is a falsehood," She told Elizabeth, "But unchristian as it may appear, I find the lie more appealing than the thought of being matched with our cousin, dear man that he is."
"Dear for the expense, and for little else!" Exclaimed that lady. "I would commit a thousand falsehoods to be spared his estimable company, and a thousand more to never hear mother speak of him more."
It may have been that her words were tempting the fates. Whatever the motivation may have been, it was her hand which Mr. Collins requested for the opening dances of the impending ball. Vicious compliment! Lizzie could no sooner refuse than she could wear boys' breeches, although she dedicated the greater part of the morning to creating excuses.
"But I must do it," She sighed, eventually abandoning the game altogether. "As much as I dread it, I anticipate my mother's reprimand if I refuse even less. Perhaps," she added, brightening, "I might sprain my ankle in the first dance."
"As our father wished on Mr. Bingley?" Jane shook her head reprovingly. "I dislike this habit of wishing harm as if it were a joke. I cannot bear to think of those whom I love being in pain."
"I shall tell father so," Elizabeth exclaimed, laughing, "But no-one else, for you may wish to repeat that to Mr. Bingley yourself!"
Jane reddened, and, on failing to regain any composure, quickly left the room. Elizabeth's gentle laughter did much to dispel the gloom of the day, and when the two sisters were reunited their shared confidence seemed to warm the very rooms.
Jane's unbidden admission softened her already glowing features, but being privy to the secret dramatically altered her sister. Elizabeth's transformation was odd, for in all respects she was the same creature she had ever been. When preparing for the ball, she took no extra pains aside from bemoaning her stained shoe roses. Yet there was an alteration. Her overlarge eyes laughed and seemed more shapely for it, and when she thought on her sister's happiness they carried a simple wistfulness which spoke of quiet elegance unlike her habitual liveliness. The sardonic thinness of her lower lip was removed; she did not smile, but her lips seemed fuller when that tension was relieved. Little could be done for the sharpness of her nose, and unlike Lydia she had not followed the habit of pinching it overnight to make it appear softer. Nothing could be done for her overlong arms and protruding elbows, either, but that was the day when she began to carry herself with a little more dignity, self-conscious and refined.
She was, Mary realised, unconsciously putting herself into Jane's role. With the admission of love had come the hope of a future which would make Miss Elizabeth the eldest of the unmarried daughters, and Lizzie was practicing her part.
Is this my sister? Mary wondered, watching her mending a bonnet in a colour quite unlike her usual preference. She makes such a study of character and we never ask her why. Is she learning how to be other people?
It was an unsettling thought, but Mary found that she could understand it. She had often wished that she could be someone other than Miss Mary Bennet. True, she generally wished that she could be Lizzie with her quick tongue, or Kitty with her quiet self-collection, but those wishes were for people complete. Elizabeth's act was not a mimicry but a new person, Lizzie-but-not-Lizzie.
The night of the Netherfield ball came about, and this time there were two undisputed beauties in the Bennet carriage. Nobody would be able to describe Elizabeth in words so unbecoming as 'tolerable'. If anyone else had noticed the subtle change in her countenance they did not remark upon it, but after two reels where her slippered feet were abused quite cruelly by her cousin, Lizzie sought sanctuary hiding in the alcove beside Mary.
"Ah, Miss Mary," For all that he began with an exclamation, there was no surprise in the cultured drawl, and before even lifting her eyes the lady knew to whom they would be directed. Mr. Darcy nodded in greeting; his shoulders did not bend at all in the mockery of a bow. Mary affected the deepest curtsey she knew how to sustain in reply.
He looked archly at her. "I see that you have your sister's trick of mockery."
"I do n...not make a ha... ha... habit of it, s...sir."
He waited patiently for her to finish, and if he was aware of the stutter he barely acknowledged it. "I believe you have received a letter from Miss Darcy."
"Georgiana?" She blurted out, appalled at the man's formality. He stiffened, and for a moment she believed that he was offended. Then, with some reflection evident in his eye, he smiled.
"Just so. I forgot that you may now claim an acquaintance with her, of all the women in this room."
"Thank you," She chewed at her lip. He had ignored the stutter, but he looked most forbidding at this childish action until she desisted. "She seems..."
What? She longed to say 'lonely' or even 'desperate', but she knew that he would dismiss the tone of the letter with quick habit. Mary swallowed and then finished weakly, "...most el...eloquent, sir."
A look of pride came about his features, and he quashed it with an upward glance at the assembled company. "I trust you have replied."
"Oh, yes sir! Straight away, but our post is with the Bromley chase, and it may be some days in this storm."
"In future you will give it to my manservant and he will ride with it," The man said it so casually, as if it were nothing to send a man riding across the country, nor to give orders to a young woman he barely knew. Mary knew not how to respond, and so she bowed instead. When she looked up he had gone.
"You are very rude," she murmured after him, and then smiled when she saw him approached by her intolerable cousin. Here was one Bennet who he would not abandon so easily, and indeed it was only when he professed a desire to take up the next promenade that the gentleman left his side. Two women dancing together was permissible in these war-torn times, but two men would be laughable. Mary knew from Elizabeth's biting observation that Darcy would not tolerate being laughed at.
Her own mirth was cut abruptly short when she saw the young lady who the distinguished gentleman led to the central floor. It was not one of his elegant friends, but a woman who held herself so confidently that she barely looked like herself. But Elizabeth it was, and she took her place with much grace. As Mary watched, her sister's lips moved, and she laughed brightly at the man's reply.
They parted, and circled one another. It did not seem that their eyes ever parted, until Elizabeth's full lips shaped the word 'Wickham'. At that Mr. Darcy finally baulked; before he could collect his thoughts his traitor eyes raced forth.
Mary froze, horrified, as his eyes sought out her own. As he held her gaze she saw such depths of emotion that she could not breathe. For a thousand heartbeats and none she was caught, drowning in the very soul of a man whose pain she could not possibly comprehend.
And then, in a single step, he tore his eyes away. The moment was gone.