Chapter 22 - Shadows and Speculations
Thursday, 21st November 1811
Longbourn – Drawing Room – Mr Darcy
The name struck him like a tuning fork.
Lady Catherine de Bourgh.
Darcy's gaze flicked sharply to the pompous clergyman seated across from him—Mr Collins, who, moments ago, had declared himself as her humble servant with all the self-importance of a man announcing his knighthood.
Darcy schooled his features into polite indifference, though the irony did not escape him. That he should be seated in the Bennets' drawing room—within arm's reach of Elizabeth—and be subjected to a reverent account of his aunt's virtues, delivered by a stranger who clearly did not yet know of their connection, was almost too absurd.
Mr Collins, oblivious, prattled on. "Her ladyship is the finest judge of character I have ever known. Her opinions—always correct. Her advice—immeasurably wise. I make it a point, sir, to record her instructions in a dedicated volume."
Darcy took a measured sip of tea and gave no reply.
Elizabeth, beside him, seemed caught between amusement and discomfort. Her eyes flicked from Mr Collins to Darcy with increasing curiosity. He could feel the question forming on her tongue and prayed she would not voice it.
As if to underscore the absurdity of the moment, a sudden rustle drew all eyes downward.
The small tabby cat who had been curled innocuously beneath Elizabeth's chair leapt lightly onto the tea table. Her striped head dipped with silent precision toward a forgotten piece of cake, which she snatched and bounded off with in a streak of triumphant fluff.
Mr Collins gave a noise of pure horror and half-rose from his chair, recoiling as if Pudding were some manner of wild beast. "Madam! Your—your creature is on the furniture!"
Elizabeth's shoulders trembled.
Mrs Bennet flapped her napkin. "Oh, Pudding, do get down, naughty thing! She is not usually allowed—Hill! Hill, the cat!"
"Is it—is it safe?" Mr Collins asked in a strangled voice, stepping back as Pudding darted beneath the settee with her prize.
Lydia giggled openly. "She's just a cat, Cousin. She doesn't bite—unless you're holding ham."
"She has claws," Mr Collins muttered darkly, eyeing the settee as though it might pounce.
Darcy bit the inside of his cheek.
Pudding, unrepentant, settled herself with regal satisfaction beneath the furniture, a slice of cake firmly between her paws.
Mr Collins muttered something about "disorder in the domestic sphere," while Mrs Bennet assured him they were very particular about animals indoors. Mary offered a disapproving observation about vanity in house pets.
Darcy turned slightly toward Elizabeth, who was still watching the fray with shining eyes.
"Your household seems… lively," he said.
She looked at him sidelong, the edge of a smile playing at her lips. "We like to keep our guests entertained."
Darcy found he could not disagree.
Everyone settled again, and Bingley, still lingering near the hearth with his cup in hand, glanced across the room toward Miss Bennet. "We had hoped for the end of November," he said with an easy smile, "but it seemed prudent to delay the ball just a little—so that everyone might be well enough to enjoy it fully. The second Tuesday of December is settled. I shall be in Town for a few days at the end of the month, but we'll have it as soon as I return."
"That's very thoughtful of you," said Mrs Bennet, beaming. "And how wise to allow time for Elizabeth to recover fully. She will be walking without her stick by then, I'm sure. And what a lovely occasion to celebrate her recovery!"
Mr Collins, who had been industriously stirring his tea and casting sideways glances at Elizabeth, perked up at once.
"A ball, you say?" he exclaimed. "At Netherfield?"
"Yes," said Mr Bingley, pleasantly. "We shall send out cards in a day or two."
"Such felicity!" Mr Collins beamed. "What a splendid idea—and what a great honour to be invited! Miss Elizabeth—" He turned to her with an expression of triumphant benevolence. "May I presume to request the honour of your hand for the first two dances?"
Elizabeth, caught mid-sip, lowered her teacup with an effort. "You may… if you truly wish it, Mr Collins."
"I do, Cousin, most sincerely. The first two dances are, of course, the most desirable, and I would not dream of allowing another to secure them before me."
There was a pause.
"December, you said?" Mr Collins turned back to Mr Bingley, brow furrowed. "The second Tuesday?"
"That's right," Bingley confirmed, setting down his cup. "The tenth."
Mr Collins froze, his expression faltering. "Dear me. I believe… yes, I believe I must return to Kent by the seventh. Lady Catherine expects me before the twelfth at the latest, and I must allow at least three days for the journey."
"How very unfortunate," said Mr Bennet dryly, from behind his paper. "To miss such a merry occasion."
Mr Collins, now visibly flustered, turned back to Elizabeth. "Perhaps—I might request a dance in spirit, if not in person."
Elizabeth offered a polite smile. "Of course, Mr Collins."
"I shall write to Lady Catherine," he said with renewed vigour, "and inform her how very kindly I have been received in Hertfordshire. Perhaps she will approve a more flexible departure—though I dare not presume."
Darcy, still seated beside Elizabeth, glanced at her sidelong—just enough to catch the faint tightening at the corner of her mouth as she reached for her teacup once more.
Darcy sat still, his fingers resting against the side of his teacup, though he had not sipped from it in some minutes. The conversation had turned, but he heard none of it. His thoughts remained on the scene just past.
Collins had asked Elizabeth for the first two dances.
He knew it was a commonplace request—one rooted more in ceremony than intimacy—but the sight of her forced smile and the awkward tilt of her head had stirred something uneasy in him. Not quite jealousy. No, not that. But irritation, certainly. Discomfort.
No—protectiveness, he realised. That was nearer the truth.
It had been there in the quiet way she looked down, rather than at her cousin. In the way her fingers tightened slightly on the saucer in her lap.
She did not want the offer. She had accepted it because politeness demanded it. And had Mr Collins not then discovered his inconvenient return date, Darcy suspected she would have danced with him anyway—out of duty, out of kindness.
That thought stung more than it ought.
Darcy shifted slightly in his seat. He knew Elizabeth was not his to protect. She had given him no encouragement—no claim. And yet, some part of him bristled at the notion that a woman so spirited, so perceptive, would be made to endure the attentions of a man like Collins simply because the man did not know better.
The clergyman's ignorance regarding his connection to Lady Catherine was both amusing and absurd. And yet it had offered an odd reprieve. As Collins sang her praises and declared his devotion, Darcy could not help but feel the irony sharpen in his chest. Elizabeth had glanced toward him more than once. She had to be wondering why he did not speak—why he did not contradict or affirm.
He had done neither.
Because to do so would have brought the attention of the entire room. Because even now, he was unsure whether revealing the truth would clarify anything—or make it worse.
Elizabeth's brow furrowed slightly as she stirred her tea. Not displeased, but preoccupied.
He wondered if she thought of Wickham.
The name had not been spoken aloud, but the echo of it hung in the air. Her wariness this morning, her sideways looks, her quietness. It was too soon to ask her. Too soon to explain.
But if she looked at him now—truly looked—what would she see?
Not the man she had thought him to be, he hoped. Not only that. Not just the silent, proud figure who had spoken too little and judged too quickly. Not just Lady Catherine's nephew.
He had stood beside her in the rain.
He had made certain she reached home in comfort.
And if she would let him—if she would trust him—he would do far more than that.
Darcy looked toward her now, and for a moment she looked back. Their eyes met, and something unspoken passed between them.
A flicker. A shift.
Hope, perhaps.
ooOoo
Longbourn - Drawing Room - Elizabeth
Mr Collins, however, was undeterred. "I must say, Miss Elizabeth has borne her recent convalescence with such grace and fortitude. I am sure you, sir, would agree that the resilience of the female spirit is one of the most admirable features of our sex."
Darcy did not quite glance at Elizabeth, though Elizabeth suspected he wished to. "Miss Elizabeth possesses many admirable qualities," he said carefully.
Elizabeth bit the inside of her cheek.
Bingley stood abruptly, as though sensing the need to prevent further awkwardness. "Well! I fear we must be going soon. Mr Darcy and I have quite a walk ahead of us."
Mr Collins looked stricken. "You are walking, sir? Surely I might offer to accompany you part of the way? A clergyman should always be available to provide intelligent discourse—"
"I think," Elizabeth cut in sweetly, "that Mr Darcy and Mr Bingley will find their own company sufficient, sir."
Darcy's glance flicked toward her, quick and grateful.
Mr Collins looked vaguely chastened but nodded. "Ah, of course. Yes. Yes."
Mr Darcy stood, offering a final bow to the room. "Ladies. Thank you for your hospitality."
Elizabeth rose as well, her ankle making the movement slower than usual. Mr Darcy hesitated, as if to offer his arm—but checked himself.
"Miss Elizabeth," he said quietly. "Until the ball."
Elizabeth inclined her head. "Until then."
He left with Bingley a moment later, the door closing behind them with a quiet finality.
ooOoo
Netherfield – Entranceway - Caroline
The carriage wheels crunched up the gravel sweep of Netherfield's drive as Caroline and Louisa finally returned from their morning's circuit of calls.
Caroline leaned back against the squabs with a weary sigh. "If I must smile at one more simpering neighbour or admire one more uninspired fireplace arrangement, I shall expire."
Louisa smirked, tugging off her gloves. "You've said as much after every call since Meryton."
"Well, they grow no more clever with repetition," Caroline muttered. "And the Lucases were particularly dull. All that fawning over Miss Bennet's complexion—honestly, one would think she had risen from her deathbed."
"Better her than her sister," Louisa said with a shrug. "Though I must admit, I think the neighbourhood is more intrigued by Miss Elizabeth."
Caroline straightened slightly. "Elizabeth?"
"The overturned chaise, the dramatic rescue, the storm—it has all the flavour of a novel. And she has the advantage of being the less perfect sister. People always talk more about the surprising one."
Caroline said nothing, but her lips thinned.
They alighted from the carriage and swept up the stairs. Wilson was waiting in Caroline's room, the fire freshly laid and tea already set out. She curtseyed with professional grace.
"Thank you, Wilson," Caroline said, pulling the pins from her hat. "We have been trapped in an endless parade of dull conversation and muddy walks. Do sit me down and tell me something worth hearing."
Wilson paused only a moment before offering, "I did hear something of interest from one of the housemaids this morning. Meg, ma'am. She used to help upstairs while the Miss Bennets were with us."
Caroline's brows lifted. "Go on."
"She said she was fetching hot bricks late one night, when she passed Mr Darcy's room—his proper one, not the blue room—and found the door slightly open. Miss Elizabeth was within, alone until just moments before, and Mr Darcy had only just stepped out."
There was a beat of silence.
Louisa's eyes widened slightly. "His room?"
"Yes, ma'am," Wilson said. "Miss Elizabeth had taken a turn in the night—frightened, the maid thought—and he'd gone in to see to her. Meg said she overheard one of the footmen say it was Mr Darcy who found her in the chaise and carried her back in his arms."
Caroline's breath came in quiet, clipped cadence. "And this maid is quite sure of what she saw?"
"Quite certain. She did not speak of it openly. But I gather the servants below stairs are talking amongst themselves."
Louisa gave a low whistle. "Well, that's something, isn't it?"
Caroline turned slowly toward the fire, one hand tightening around her glove. "Indeed it is."
ooOoo
Longbourn - Drawing Room - Elizabeth
The door had scarcely closed behind the gentlemen when Elizabeth exhaled.
The silence that followed was oddly charged, as though the very air had yet to recover from Mr Collins's voice. Her teacup, now lukewarm, rested forgotten in her hands. Across the room, Mary began speaking solemnly about the moral temperance required in anticipation of a ball, but Elizabeth paid her no mind. Her eyes lingered instead on the chair Mr Darcy had just vacated.
He had said very little. Less than usual, even for him. And yet she felt the echo of his presence more keenly than she ought—like the warmth left in a seat long after it is empty.
What must he have thought, listening to Mr Collins rhapsodise about Lady Catherine? The man had gone on at such length, and with such mortifying sincerity, that Elizabeth had barely been able to meet Darcy's eye. Not because she feared what she might see, but because she feared he might see her—fighting not to laugh.
Or possibly scream.
And then there had been the cake incident.
A soft crunch beneath the settee reminded her.
Pudding was still there, licking the last of the stolen slice from her whiskers with the air of one who had bested an enemy in battle. Elizabeth glanced down at her and felt the corners of her mouth twitch.
"At least someone got what she wanted," she murmured.
"Did you say something, Lizzy?" Jane asked gently, folding away napkins at the side table.
Elizabeth shook her head, barely hiding her smile. "Only that Pudding has accomplished what no one else has managed all week: she has made Mr Collins entirely speechless. And possibly nervous."
"Oh dear," said Jane, covering a soft laugh with her hand. "He did flinch when she jumped."
"He leapt like a man expecting to be mauled," Elizabeth replied. "As though she were a tiger let loose upon the parlour."
"She only wanted cake," Jane said serenely.
"And dignity," Elizabeth added. "Which she maintained, I might add, far better than Mr Collins."
As if on cue, a scuffling noise came from the corridor beyond, followed by the unmistakable voice of Mr Collins politely declining to re-enter the drawing room "until the feline is safely secured." Elizabeth gave an incredulous look to Jane, who only bit her lip to suppress another laugh.
"I do not think he was raised with animals," Jane said mildly.
"I begin to suspect he was not raised with humour, either."
Jane joined her on the settee and smoothed her skirts. "It was kind of Mr Bingley to delay the ball until your ankle is healed."
"Yes," Elizabeth said slowly. "Even if he will be in Town again before it."
Jane smiled faintly. "He said it will be a brief trip. I trust he will be back in good time."
Elizabeth glanced at her sister. The calm in her tone was genuine—but so too was the effort beneath it. Ever gracious, ever composed, Jane's quiet fortitude sometimes made Elizabeth ache.
"We shall have to be dazzling in his absence," Elizabeth said, gently nudging her shoulder.
"I shall leave the dazzling to you," Jane murmured.
Elizabeth gave a snort. "If Mr Collins remains near, I shall be dazzling purely from exertion."
There was a brief lull. Then Jane said softly, "Are you thinking about Mr Darcy?"
"I am trying not to," Elizabeth replied. "But he makes it difficult."
"Because of Mr Collins?"
"No," she said. "Well—yes. That, and the way he looked at me when Collins asked for the dance. As though he saw something I had not admitted even to myself."
"And what is that?"
Elizabeth looked down. "That I did not want to say yes. But I would have, anyway. Out of duty. Out of kindness."
Jane was quiet.
"I do not think Mr Darcy much likes Mr Collins," Elizabeth added. "I cannot imagine many men do."
"He did seem rather… still," Jane said. "But not cold."
"No," Elizabeth said quietly. "Not cold."
There was another pause, longer this time. Then Jane said, "You are also thinking of Mr Wickham."
Elizabeth did not answer straight away. She watched Pudding wash one paw with fastidious attention, utterly untroubled by clergymen or colonels or confusing conversations.
"I keep turning it over," Elizabeth admitted. "Mr Wickham spoke so easily, so confidently. And yet Mr Darcy today—yes, he was reserved, but he seemed… aware. Not haughty. Not angry. Just… watchful."
Jane nodded slowly. "You said once you thought him proud. Do you still?"
Elizabeth thought for a long moment. "No," she said at last. "Not like I did."
She leaned back against the settee and closed her eyes for a moment, feeling the ache in her ankle and the weight of uncertainty pressing against her ribs.
"I wish," she said, "that I did not care so much what he thought of me."
Jane gave her hand a gentle squeeze. "But you do?"
Elizabeth opened her eyes. "I think I always have. Even when I thought I didn't."
Pudding purred softly between them, curling once more into a contented loaf.
And Elizabeth, watching the flames dance low in the hearth, found herself wondering not whether Mr Darcy would attend the ball—but what she might say to him when he did.
ooOoo
Netherfield – Returning from Longbourn - Mr Darcy
The sun was sinking low by the time they turned off the lane toward Netherfield. The last light burnished the bare hedgerows with a soft, wintry glow, and Bingley's boots crunched cheerfully along the gravel beside him.
"Well," Bingley said, hands clasped behind his back, "that was pleasant, was it not?"
Darcy made a non-committal sound.
"Truly," Bingley continued, "I always enjoy a call at Longbourn. The Bennets are very warm, and it does one good to be so kindly received. And I was relieved to see Miss Bennet so well—she looked more herself today."
"She did," Darcy said, meaning it.
"And Miss Elizabeth," Bingley added, glancing sideways. "She seemed a little tired, perhaps, but she was in fine spirits. Did you notice how quickly she put her cousin in his place when he leapt away from that cat?"
Darcy gave a faint smile. "It would be difficult not to notice."
Bingley laughed. "Poor fellow. I do believe he thought the animal might attack him."
Darcy did not answer. His mind was still caught on the way Elizabeth's shoulders had stiffened when Collins made his presumptuous request—and the way she had accepted it anyway, because politeness required it.
"She handled it well," Bingley said. "With a great deal of grace. I confess I would have been hard pressed not to laugh."
"She is… very capable," Darcy said quietly.
Bingley glanced at him again. "You're rather quiet."
"I am often quiet."
"Quieter than usual, then."
They walked in silence for several strides. A crow lifted from a tree ahead and vanished into the reddening sky.
"Do you know," Bingley said presently, "I think Miss Bennet was not at all displeased that the ball is delayed."
Darcy turned to him, brow raised.
"It will give her time," Bingley said. "To prepare. To recover from all the worry she's had lately. Not just about her sister, but—everything." He flushed slightly. "I suppose I gave her cause."
Darcy said nothing, but his gaze softened.
"I shall only be in Town for a few days," Bingley continued. "But it will give her time to breathe. And when I return, I hope—well, I hope we may both enjoy the ball without reservation."
Darcy gave a small nod. "I hope so too."
Bingley smiled, content, and turned his gaze forward. "And what of you, Darcy? You did not seem displeased with the visit. Even Miss Lydia was not quite as shrill as usual."
Darcy hesitated. "It was a pleasant visit."
"But?"
He did not answer immediately. The sound of their steps filled the pause, mingling with the rustle of wind in the dry hedges.
"Do you ever find," Darcy said at last, "that there are things you would say, if the moment were only slightly different? But it passes, and the words are lost—and you wonder whether silence was a kindness, or a mistake."
Bingley looked at him curiously. "I cannot say I often feel that way."
"No," Darcy said quietly. "I suppose you wouldn't."
They reached the gates of Netherfield just as the last of the daylight faded behind the trees.
Darcy looked up at the house—warm, bright, and still. The walk had done nothing to quiet his thoughts.
He had said nothing to Elizabeth.
Nothing of his aunt.
Nothing of what he felt, or feared she felt.
Nothing of the way he had watched her hand tremble as she set her cup down after Collins's offer.
Something troubled her. He could not name it. But he had felt it, like a note gone slightly sharp in the middle of a familiar tune.
Too soon, he told himself. Too uncertain.
But it would not always be so.
He followed Bingley up the steps, and into the house.